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jim rolls down the desert window and lets the cool night air blow back his hair where he is about a hundred miles from the utah border and the
lights of next town along with his asphalt headlight glow are besides the
alien shine of the moon the only lights and the lights of the town he
approaches are feeble feeble background static to his headlights and

the moon and he switches off the lights and walks about fifty feet in
front of the pontiac and dreams of what this primitively primordial vista was like a billion years ago listen listen listen listen a yawning maw of
ceaseless ineffability an infinite and eternal transcendent vision a

purified transmogrification in which whatever spiritual enchantment was
permanently transitioned for some kind of inexorable inextricability and as he stood there yes yes quaffing some self pity brooding in his

underlying existential miasma of his ugly and shardy divorce the pentimento of broken dishes and screaming repercussions he thought
of the clearchannelled presence of his higher power and how he has to
fight the pyrrhic struggle not to get high nightly about the same time
very night when the light is lowest and he hears a roy orbison song say only the lonely on the firebird radio god is a concept by which we

measure our pain this just seemed some cool shit that lennon put out when jim was in high school now those words admixed with the fucking
divorce shit from her lawyer seems like the fucking rosetta stone for

christ sakes and he wants to be part of something bigger better bigger
bigger than all this he wants to be the sand swirling hallucinatorily and incantationally around his boots kicked up by the whipped wind the

coyote howls mas he imagines life without gas stations without cell phones without toxic assets some utopian vacuum where jim is a rock
of ages impenetrable wise like kung fu a coyote like the coyote who
outfoxes the roadrunner in some bizarro world where the roadrunner always gets fucked