Eight-Month Script
Y’all’re fine ass. Y’all got dark in the pill-bottle-orange sun that had broke through and got y’all open and made life see-through.
Y’all see the road through ill smoke signals but are too faded to drive, but y’all’re already there anyway. Smirks stuck to y’all’s lips, thoughts slowed to a syrup drip; they were barely talking to y’all.
Had to look close to be sure they were moving.
Paused.
Purple Valley
I drive you south,
and you say, “keep going.”
I am your Barre-belly boy.
I drive you until they stop us
at the bottom of the Valley,
where people die to breathe the air.
“too far. we’re too far gone,” you whimper.
But how can you tell,
when everything is Purple?
