In scene 7 the script calls for me to be sitting
in a red SUV at the curb of nowhere. The anthropoid
in the passenger's seat is dressed in a halter top
& open-toe sandals. I wear turtle soup. Neither of
us have speaking parts. There's a replica of a dragon
on the dashboard on loan from a petting zoo. It's
suppose to stand for good luck but has never learned
the knack of fire breathing. Here's where the cell
phone of sexual joy rings & rings but neither of us
answer. Movie-goers have to assume the caller has the
wrong number. And that mutate with albino eyes in the
back seat is no help either. He only tells me to drive
pass a set of stoplights & buildings with their backs
torn away or propped up by imagination. The guardrail
at a train-crossing flashes red. There's much more to
life but we have to rub it first. Later, exhaust fumes
put us in touch with sentiment & if we fold our arms
90 seconds, the guardrails might become daddy-longlegs
or rusted towers spouting oil. But by then, a hillside
has already been bulldozed or lined in fur.