I paid the guy what I could. I disc jockey’d and failed safe a return. I couldn’t hear the sound of the headlamps drowning in the fog. If there was a bridge back there, it was set fire to and made example of long ago. The photographs lie like television church sermons and are being consequently destroyed. The trees—so what. A lot—and really nothing. I can still hear smoke rising like a faux 45 of someone else’s Vietnam; a water ring soundtrack to a cannibal syntax sex-mix mantra. I put tourniquets on the sound waves but nothing stops the static. I can parody on my own time; I miss the ballast truck waltzes. Everything looks unfamiliar in the rear view. It’s a silver nail, and I hang myself on it in return.