on the road with jack mckillop

Some words that flowed staring through the windows of a red van in Iowa.

What if we drove this far again? Would our tires withstand the uneven balance and burning blisters of the road? Would the treacherous thunder storms make us shiver and shake in place until piss ran down our legs? If I spent this extra dollar for piece of mind will I find that it sailed across the world back into my pocket with room to stretch its legs? I've travelled this road twice once summer with the mindset of men on their last leg, with thoughts of skin racing through their foreheads, with the greasy slip strings that rattle and hum under their eyelids. Chasing the ghost into the dark. Skincrawlers that leave their mark stretching beast and bone under the roof of a TA truckstop, keeping their ties to the family at its side. Wheels wobbling to put air inside. What once was a simple task has multiplied its force, stretched its grasp until it forged a new scent, a new color, a new scene, chasing the bus in a van to boise. I'll tie my waist tighter to fit my new old jeans, to grasp the frame of the new sleeker me. It's my dream. Right in front of me. With a silhouetted mustache driving me, with flute toting philosophers questioning me, analyzing everything. My moms and dads are far beyond me, in a constant search that seems never-ending, eating home cooked meals on a pit stop for my brother, counting the days until I return, to a place I call home no further.

End of summer party? Let's talk.

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