i didn't see anybody the whole ride home. the whole 3,000 miles of it, just about 7 exits. not one car, no taillights. it wasn't until i stopped at the bank that i jumped out to make a deposit of the tin cans i'd turned into robots that i left the door open to blast the techno out into open spaces. when i get back in i settle back into the reclinable but unreclined cockpit to unwind and readjust (but still not recline) and a man with brass knuckles and no degree knocks on my window. he tells me to drive, right after he calls me a mother fucker. unlocking the doors, i let him in on the other side, and i ask him why he didn't just take the car and fly solo. "i can't. i'm illiterate, he says." his knuckles mouth the words five times, and they all look like the c3p0 version of his dali-self. i dropped him off at the blood bath as three cars drove into dead churches in reverse.
my lover's antiquated. nigga, she don't even exist.