I was hanging with a ****** who was trying to write a story
hands twitching like radio antennas tuned to the static of God.
Ashes in his coffee, bourbon in his IV,
saying, “The truth is somewhere between the lines and the lightning.”

Going for a full drive 7.
Odometer broken. Sanity optional. Helmet? What helmet?

I’m going for a lovely drive
through miles of dirt, darkness, and fire
where the road hums jazz in Morse code
and the sky is bleeding neon messages only the doomed can read.
Keep going! There is no edge only the myth of stopping!
Keep edging every inch!
Keep leaning off of every fringe!
We are ******* trapeze artists in a hurricane!

DRIVE! DRIVE! DRIVE!
Till the end!
TILL THE END!
Past time's broken jaw!
Through the rotted teeth of every NO you ever swallowed!

To the unforcertain limits
to the edge you can’t see because you’re already mid-air screaming:
“WHAT IF?!”
WHAT IF THE EDGE NEVER EXISTED?!
Drive off that cliff like it owes you money!
Like the world dares you not to!

We will never wonder
we will hijack the wonder, duct-tape it to the hood, and ride it blindfolded through the apocalypse!
We will always plunder
Plunder the sacred! Plunder the cursed!
Plunder the voices whispering through the vents!
Burn the rulebook and snort the ashes!

And when its burned and brutalized pages break open
it screams in colors you can't pronounce,
hues invented by dying stars,
dripping down the windshield like melted hieroglyphs.
We saw purple that tasted like regret
yellow that sobbed like your mother’s last voicemail.
Nothing was safe.
Every shade was a prophecy.

Deep in the mines of insanity, imagination, and creativity
where reality unzips itself and asks,
“You sure you wanna see what’s under this?”
I strive to live fully alive!
Spitfire soul, chrome tongue,
skull cracked open like a sunroof to the void,
yelling poems at the moon
while the tires scream hallelujah
and the headlights blink Morse code into the mouth of madness.