My rooms were above the Dodge. In Dodge. In a dry and dreamtime land of whiteboys and trucks and those boys really do believe the earth was made just for them. What white boys know of life sits alone itself in Chinatown, strange. Just outside of town, a huge pit with a bottom no one could see down there because there was no light, no photons, no reciprocity. We didn’t even know what it was. All we knew is that a dozen cars were always parked around the edges, the cars filled to juices strong, pouring forth a rock and roll what dread beast is this, he murmurs, plays the piano at home with malice, and all the malcontents, deviants, and speed freaks on the same bus that has traveled from displacement to displacement, now it is the displacement itself that with its long absences, and memory becomes a hundred weight of gravitas. The salt adventures’ ghost had arrived locked inside an empty bottle someone threw from the windows of a car and it flew as if it were a crow down into the abyss of Dirt Bike Town. A crow flying to the other side of the planet with its weary bones of fallow and seas in seas.