The salesman trumpeted earthly heat over the currents of an electrical field of radiation. The red-hot coals crackled, a flick of the switch was less frumpy, the sales pitch mocked its segregation–one worked wonders on the road, the other required hysteria for breaking. “Innovation” was a new breed of pagan, fluttering eyes console me. The overgrown message delivered more than wax build up and sticky tape, the wind slipped up for a change and left a freckled, white print–I could be an arbitrary next of kin, I suppose– if the fat man flying through the air would embrace me. Encouragement lead to coverups dropping, sliding with or without a crippling residuum. I nibbled and dribbled as the charred branch became the serrated edge of a vagabond’s stick. I leaned forward until the boiling lens pushed me fast away from a symposium of posterity. It was as if deliverance and exposure were the divining rod of a mechanical rabbit’s electrocution. Being jostled to the lead was a strategy that ensured a mountain zone low on chill and sting- a proposal our route was never meant to accept as the gateway to affusion. What could possibly have us looking back–educating a toddler who found handling a marooned jellyfish akin to an eclipsed sibling that would ultimately return as more playful and demanding? As the dustbowl parsed us off to the extremes of a silver, gravel lining, the flatbed tugged at fraying ropes and religious understanding. Daily devotions welcomed home the handsome, forward scout who had endured and feared little enough to avoid cowering among the loose rocks atop the scape which extoled a higher grade to pursue, between the lush fields of raked leaves and the backlit felt of a glowing folly. Polls indicated that entombment found favor under mossy oaks or widening banyans. Both trees grew diligently enough to provide the newly dead with a softer landing–and a lighter load against a ramshackle set of brakes. I rumbled on until the pavement mixed with the sky to trap the sweat-soaked fuel against the kicked-up ashes. Oh, how I would never fight off a bath again. On more than one occasion, I feared my insides burning, as if I could not be trusted around a capless container of hydrochloric acid or the quench of liquid chlorine. Blended smoke and a drenched yellow painting—traversed underneath a newly christened countryside. It was my hope that those who made the trip considered a likeness of non- consent to be of heavenly refrain–and the stifling heat- a pilferer’s viable remainder. Hanging poetry on a wall or stamping a furrowed letter–without the plug, the ideals tumbled directionless, but faster. The chiseled land was solely my design—there was no such thing as sour grapes— or a tonic for radioactive dander.