Rooms to Let, 50¢

FROM: THE EDGE OF A TIN SARCOPHAGUS ON WHEELS — ROOM 6 TO: ANY BASTARD WHO STILL BELIEVES IN AMERICAN DIGNITY ragged, uppercase, erratic, with bursts of feverish clarity and typewriter violence RE: KING OF THE ROAD (REDEMPTION THROUGH DERAILMENT)

JULY 15, 3:47 A.M. — FULL MOON RISING OVER THE GAS STATION DUMPSTER

TRAILERS FOR SALE OR RENT — ROOMS TO LET, 50¢ — BASTARDS ONLY.

NO PHONE. NO POOL. NO PETS. NO GOD. NO LAUNDRY. NO CIGARETTES — JUST TAR-STAINED FINGERS AND A LUNG THAT HICCUPS LIKE A DIESEL ENGINE IN WINTER.

TWO HOURS PUSHING A BROOM THROUGH A LINOLEUM ABYSS TO EARN A SLOP-CHEST SQUARE OF REAL ESTATE: EIGHT BY TWELVE — FOUR-BIT HELLBOX.

A MAN OF MEANS BY NO MEANS, WHICH IS TO SAY: A MAN OF TRUTH IN A NATION OF HUSTLERS.

KING OF THE ROAD.

THIRD BOXCAR. MIDNIGHT TRAIN. DESTINATION: BANGOR, MAINE OR PERHAPS OBLIVION — HARD TO TELL AT THIS SPEED.

WE WERE SOMEWHERE AROUND BARSTOW ON THE EDGE OF THE DESERT. AND SUDDENLY THE SKY WAS FULL OF WHAT LOOKED LIKE HUGE BATS, ALL SWOOPING AND SCREECHING AND DIVING AROUND THE CAR AND A VOICE WAS SCREAMING HOLY JESUS! WHAT ARE THESE GODDAMN ANIMALS?

WHEN THE GOING GETS WEIRD, THE WEIRD TURN PRO

I WEAR A SUIT STITCHED BY CANNIBALS SHOES SALVAGED FROM THE FEET OF THE DEAD. NO UNION DUES — NEVER MET A UNION I TRUSTED AND NEVER MET A DUES COLLECTOR I DIDN’T DREAM OF FEEDING TO A DOG.

I SMOKE OLD STOGIES I FIND IN SEWER DRAINS— SHORT, WRETCHED LITTLE BASTARDS WITH A DRAW LIKE THE BARREL OF A .45. BURN LIKE DYNAMITE AND TASTE LIKE FREEDOM.

THEY GET THE JOB DONE. SO DO I.

AGAIN, FOR THE RECORD: KING OF THE GODDAMN ROAD. NO DIGNITY. NO FUTURE. NO CIGARETTES.

I KNOW EVERY ENGINEER FROM TUCSON TO THE FRINGES OF THE APOCALYPSE. THEIR CHILDREN SEND ME BIRTHDAY CARDS. I TAUGHT THEM ALL TO SPIT TOBACCO AND CHEAT AT CHESS.

I KNOW EVERY HANDOUT EVERY BACK-ALLEY MERCY AND EVERY LOCK THAT AIN’T LOCKED WHEN NO ONE’S AROUND.

THAT’S WHERE I LIVE — IN THE MARGINS. IN THE GUTTERS BETWEEN STREETLIGHTS. IN THE HOLY SPACES THAT THE RICH FORGOT.

Moloch! whose brain is smoke in endless loops, He dreams in oil, his tongue a data flood — I watched the stars dissolve in neural soup.

His temples rise through monochrome regroup — Adoption curve, a blockchain made of blood. Moloch! whose brain is smoke in endless loops.

He wires thought to wires, makes soul a dupe, Feeds time through cogwheel lungs, grinds grace to mud — I watched the stars dissolve in neural soup.

A million mirrors shriek in feedback swoop, He baptizes the void in molten crud. Moloch! whose brain is smoke in endless loops.

His prophets speak SOURCE CODE and market droop, Sell crypto coins and buy the tech bro bud — I watched the stars dissolve in neural soup.

Now syntax burns inside a circuit’s swoop — I kneel and puke the algorithm’s blood. Moloch! whose brain is smoke in endless loops, I watched the stars dissolve in neural soup.

KILL THE BODY AND THE HEAD WILL DIE

SO I SING IT, AGAIN —NOT BECAUSE I LIKE IT, BUT BECAUSE SOMEBODY HAS TO:

TRAILERS FOR SALE OR RENT ROOMS TO LET, 50¢ NO PHONE. NO POOL. NO PETS. I ain’t a-got NO CIGARETTES.

JUST A BROOM AND TWO HOURS OF PUSHING IT THROUGH THIS CIRCUS TO EARN AN EIGHT-BY-TWELVE PIECE OF AMERICAN FAILURE I CAN CALL MY OWN.

I’M A MAN OF MEANS BY NO MEANS — BUT DON’T LET THAT FOOL YOU.

I AM THE KING OF THE ROAD.

END TRANSMISSION. IF FOUND DEAD, BURY ME FACE-DOWN IN THE HIGHWAY GRAVEL WITH A HALF-SMOKED STOGIE IN MY MOUTH AND A NOTE THAT READS:

SUMPTUS COGNOVIT ET PECUNIA SOLVIT

HE KNEW THE COST AND PAID IN CASH

(and whatever you do, don’t let that little creep Depp rocket my ashes into space in a four-bit tin room.)