Polish up a turd and call it a silk purse;
It ain’t a crime to die but killing yourself is.

The road goes on forever,
And the whiskey will burn your soul…


We were travelers down the road; 56 miles into the journey from some random point in a place; we took the road at high speed, never looking back at mom waving us on.

We were heading west, out to that place where travelers go to lost themselves in one whore towns; tourist traps with ruined faded fake tepees out in the front with huge signs reading ‘Fire water’ and ‘Dreams smashed’.

It was me; Captain of this ship; a car we bought together from the junk yard; engine ran that’s all that matter.

There driving was Peesley; nobody knew his real name but we had known him since grade school; wise beyond his years but numbed down by drinking rotgut whiskey he got from somewhere down south.



Navigating was Hawk; again not his real name but who cared at this time; mile markers rolling by; a fresh jug of some wine we bought at a store back at mile 63.

We picked up Hawk’s girl friend from some pot hole town.

She had brought the weed.

Mary was some girl Hawk had picked up on his last journey; stopping to fill up the car; suspicious town folks eyeing the long haired hippy rolling in from the east.

Mary screwed him that night; he had that way with women, men, and even small sheep.

We crashed for the night; off the road, hiding in the weeds, under a large tree whose branches covered us, Mary and Hawk screwed in the car’s back seat while Peesley and I sat out under the tree; passing a bottle between us and stare up into the stars.

“Do you wonder if anyone is out there?” he asked to no one in particular.

“I don’t know man, I just don’t know!”

We fell asleep; a coyote howling in the dark; Mary moans escaping from the confides of the car, lulling us to sleep; to wake another day; to keep on traveling down the road once more…

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