Where the Ice Runs Hot

Slow flames under the blacktop, simmer-ghost rise from the sloughing road. Rubber scorches its skin shedding blackened snakes. It's a hot day, creeping turtles fill pot-holes with their hot-plate shells. The highway drums along to the churr of cricket songs, along the way, either out or in, dead-eyed samurai rage-on at the speed of silence. A fly in a warm margarita brain-waves a thought of heaven, then drowns in a wet question mark. Sneakers, crocs or Jesus sandals? Whichever way we walk the town will be further away then we thought, and the heat-hacked pigeons will light the way like Tiki torches. I guy reads about Maui and its hills of ash. A place where ice runs hot. Dry tears run up into his eyes.