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The Darkest Zing
By Christopher J. Bradley
3/7/01 5:28:13 PM

The swim in deep asphalt at the crack of night
Cleared the throb from my temples a bit
I still had a grape soda left.
So I carefully opened the twisting bottlecap
On the lean glass bottle and took randomly paced swigs.

Fortunately
The bottle fit neatly into my car's cupholder
So I could cruise with both hands for the most part
The signs indicated I was headed South
There was no sun as a guiding force.

So I floated adrift with the big wheelers
And the dashers sped past
All of those black and grey spy hunter sports cars
Slicking oil at ninety miles an hour
Hopping open gaps from nothing.

Then suddenly I was with them again
I had caught up with them all
They were a caravan for my protection
And there were video puzzles on the backs of the trucks
Silver fractalized bouncing balls iridescently gleamed.

Then it looked like a map flashed my retina
On the square sheet of steel
Of the next eighteen circled machine
And I flinched and drove right
Almost flinging through the path of a roadster.

They were teaching me to move at high velocity
Steering me this way and that
Guiding me down a never ending path
Of green and yellow caution signs
It was my own Daytona that I would never have.

It was as if Police didn't exist on that road
It had been sanctioned Holy
For the Zealots that were leading me to be briefed
And I thought back to the "Nissan/Comic Book" Escapade
And when I saw the squares I was there.

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