Track like I'm going off some roller coaster ride that was not predetermined or predestined to careen off the track and into the air, launched into the stars, past Walt Disney World fireworks in some improvised Isaac Newton avant-garde performance symphony where we all scream to our deaths, a triangle around our spiral and into a big, giant vat of popcorn unbuttered. Track marks on the runner's arms. In his daydream he has won the match, the race. But the drug just blanket-erases reality and time so that he begins to live in a perpetual fantasy that becomes less colorful and more and more lackluster as he comes to. The gutter is not the park. His new Adidas are paper-thin now. Hard to tell their original color due to their dirt and disarray. One is missing laces entirely. And the only sweat that pours itself forth is from withdrawal. Runner's track, acrobatic limbs flailing, flying trapeze of life; My friend's made me do it. Hopeless and helpless stuck in muck eradiated, eradicated. Forest cleared, dungeons howl as wind whips through precious metals and shiver, because that one day could be you - Reincarnated as some lifeless rock. No mouth or eyes or ears. Just dumb stone. Brimstone blonde bombshell moves and sways and waits. She's in the drop-top convertible. She is tying her red and white Keds on the dashboard. There is a doorbell ring in a distant vision, reminiscent of home and how we loved to be there. Young Blood Satterwaite. Band on the hubcap, recalling the '50s. Record storm store smash. Arrivederci. Science sickle, grim reaper of Biology saying, "Pay up" as recessive genes shout to be heard. Am I on the right track? Am I going off it? Gongs ring out in orchestra rehearsals inappropriately as the roller coaster rolls off the music and onto the floor. Now there are whole notes everywhere and we must pick them up and put them back on the page. Splattered with the subdivision of the melismas of the Hallelujah chorus. Signed, sealed, delivered, and Handel'd. Tracked tracker as in GPS location. Stunt double switcheroo, some English dictionary absurdity, some Devil's speak at the shortness of the slang. Misunderstood by a generation that now only knows below-ground scenarios. Scared of rhythms that might make their pulse jump a little faster. I am science cloaked in the night, make its way through paths of truth and certainty. I pray and tread on the threads of cobblestones and old Boston streets, passing through many a-drunk ghost. 

Author: Roe

she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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