Where is Dirt Bike Town.

It’s downriver. Through the high grass fields. Far, unbroken. Dark currents of the universe. Homo sapiens’ Volatiles On Shrooms. When they say volatiles On Shrooms, you can show up in motel room number #13, the Franciscan, Grants, New Mexico. Route 66. Big refrigerator rigs would pull into the parking lot across the street at Uhaul. Truckers wanted shrooms because shrooms allows you to see things just a few minutes before the thing occurs. The ramifications for currencies were mammoth. Let’s pretend people like to gamble.  You know exactly what the roulette wheel is going to do. Casinos frown at this kind of shit. We left the casinos and found the Federal Reserve Bond Market. It was on the Internet. There really are groovey girls from 1963 who need drinks and they’re thirsty. They emerge from the woodwork in Swim Suits designed by Tommy Lee. They all had the same bobby little haircuts and boots. 1963 had no reason to live. Smack dead center middle of the town, a bike garage. And just down the street at Mister Bikes, Mister Bike kept blinking on and off and on and off for eternity. Mister Bike was as old as the fall of Rome. From the roof of the Franciscan, you could look down right into the windows of the Econolodge. Everyone at the Econolodge seemed to be modeling in the windows. Route #66 takes you out on a run. It takes you. You do not take it. Your job was to take fifty cases of Johnny Walker Black off of a dock, and load it into a horse trailer. Quid Pro Quo. Since when did it all become equal. You are always around the track. You have figured out which horses have which drugs. The horse jocks would fuck you in the hay. My camera bag was loaded with the pipes we used to break legs with. The whole thing was color-coded. Where is Dirt Bike Town. It’s downriver. It’s singing when you take the laundry from the line at sunset. Through the high grass fields. Far, unbroken. Dark currents of the universe.