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Driving OutRoad Kill Luminous as an unclouded mile, asphalt stretches out in August an endless gurney in a state-of-the-art morgue where ghosts congregate, swap endings. Lonesome as fire must be, unable to hold anything close for long but itself, this highway sings lullabies to sleepy drivers, hums dirges you can hear if you roll down your window as you streak by what lies disemboweled and shimmery under tires you under-inflated at Leonard's Last Chance Garage. Your bed will hold you tonight or some bed, and you'll wake up in a hot sweat still dreaming the open road labyrinthine as endless hunger, your need for the radio, loud and mindless, invisible as guilt. |
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