Vol. 7

distant constricted arteries


—even still, the shoe polish sky’s chicken and beneath it we are racing towards abandoned storefronts. Pop promise from blister pack. The foil backing is a silver thumbprint, is a sentence fragment, is a mission accomplished, is the remainder left on a passenger seat. Rumbling gulp. Dry swallows. You are not a choking victim. There is powder on your fingers. Licked clean it still burns like rubber. The windshield has a hairline fracture—an X-ray vain: ripe-for-rupture stroke victim. F.A.S.T. You are not a choking victim. The road ends where our tires begin. The clutch tastes like Tylenol and ash. Who would’ve thought unclicking a seatbelt would sound so much like a cassette being ejected into the heart of a Dear John letter? There was this song by Bob Dylan who looked so much like your uncle—

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