AT THE WHEEL

Thumbs it's all in the thumbs when ensuring that thoughts slip out the back behind the eyes on the road.  That's what it is, the road.  The cheeseburger is long absorbed and a second's image issues its grease on the page and not all of the first has been absorbed as some sharp pains dart about abdominal walls spackling with vengeful slaps.  Just wanted just wanted without too much trouble this car slowing down probably due to and there they are some pickup that eclipses the Sun.  They don't melt in a solar flare where subsequent cheeseburgers erupt with the memory of a barbecue annihilated by the persuasive detour of a black pickup sinking into the searing arms thousands of miles long engulfing into the burning ocean screaming with strings those strings of death and crying out too late as it was too late as it was those strings that drowned her voice those strings and their sinking hopelessness that drowned her voice as well as her long dark hair briefly ever so briefly was aflame almost extinguished the strings until those strings all those strings as it was sawing her and severing and drowning and screaming with strings those strings of death and crying out too late as it was too late as it was those strings that drowned her voice as it was too late only then the desire to shatter the windshield and dive after as it was too late for cries as it was only death and all those strings playing the music of the consuming Sun in all its thousands of miles of blazing arms reduced to a caliginous spot where there is not even a burned or charred testimony to her silent face or even a corner just a dying star backing away from the cold below.  Through windows they have their mouths twisting folding and can sense the tightening skin drawing this wheel to turn and force them into the bottom of a wash as their metal box makes pathetic attempts to turn to escape and tumbles as mouths open in terror open to receive glass for their ridiculous throats slashing their exclamations their threats rising desperate arms are caught and snapped in many places glass showers into the abyss of their voice buried their voice buried the voice underneath the coda the exposition the overture what expressions what hollowness at the wheel where thumbs it's all in the thumbs when ensuring that thoughts slip out the back behind the eyes on the road.  That's what it is, the road.  That's what it is thumbs it's all in the thumbs gripping the book at the wheel opened to the girl whose age is reduced and punctuated with a dull circle to spare her the death to still come later playing ball with the dog that ignores her and lays down in the corner no silent face of her not even a corner just a dying star backing away from the cold below.  Spare her nothing everything reduced in age to spare her the death to still come later as she ignores as she runs away to circle around the shrinking dull circle toward the next death as they orbit about her in succession playing ball with the dog ignoring her she spilling the game of cards she runs off to play house with rooms filled with strings playing death to her voice as she sinks below the solar waves these thumbs these foolish eyes miss her disappearance underneath and cannot grip her silent face or even a corner only an indistinct spot removing itself from the cold below.




- Max Stoltenberg