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A Mail Train, Mojave Desert, and a Pocket Full of Water

 

Splitting the desert land as we thunder westward uncontrollably into the sunset.
Gradual low grades are spat out like pebbles.
The floor is smooth and fluent, the slack is tight and soft.
This pig train has not a destination,
but a non stop endeavor of rocketing us over the next pass.
Thirst has long since passed, and our lips turned dry begin to crack.
Thoughts of dehydration were left countless miles ago.
Nothing can intercept our desires to fucking rampage over
these humps appointed as mountains.

Cayon is now gone, like a forgotten dream.
Refueled with fresh breaths of diesel exhaust.
Re-sparked by the spotlights of the gum shoes.
No one, Fucking No One can take this evening of
lightning fast thirty six inch steel wheels,
turned red by attempts to turn back.
The brakes are now forever gone.
All that is left is the coast towards that burning orange glow,
now half descended.