Flying down a highway the
consistency of worn out chewing
gum in '68 Chevy step side. the
cab is an oven, I feel the heat
crawling though my mesh back
and on down my neck,
the sun is fixed on me, no clouds ever to hide behind.
Windows down, the only ac
Is the wing vents squared to my
face, speed doesn't cool the air
but it sure makes this bucket rattle,
it may be old, but it stays true to the line I point.
If the engine lasts to night fall
I just might make it out of this goddamn desert.
I'm going someplace that water isn't
a memory of an empty arroyo,
gonna baptize my self with salt water
and learn a new sadness
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