The toll booth gate won’t go up. Red dirt. Bright white LED lights expose hail pockmarks in my hood. Highway. Can’t tell if there’s something wrong with my car or it’s something in the road. A repetitive ‘fwip – fwip – fwip.’ Headlights cone out. I’ve got plenty of time. I’m lost under an ocean of time. Breathing slowly but steadily below the surface. Breathing softly but deeply on a long straw whose other end is inches above the waterline, catching mist off the waves.
Alt77: Hot Rod Stigmata
There’s something campy and demented about William Steffey’s Hot Rod Stigmata that reminds me of the Butthole Surfers if they could stand still for enough