By: Karl Wiggins
My big black Pete rolled through the night like 500 horses. Chrome sweat glinting in the desert moonlight, silver streaked and smoking stacks, chicken lights blazing; hammer down and east bound.
Sitting atop the 500 horses in the custom air ride seat I rode the waves of the highway with America keeping a beat. I never really understood the lyrics to the song; a horse with no name; but rolling across the desert in the orange glow of the dash board lights, I had never felt as alone as America sang; “and in the desert, no one can remember your name, because there ain’t no one to give you no fame.” I merged with the lyrics and crashed into understanding.
I was sucked into a hole of oneness with the stars, cars and jack rabbits that were hijacked by my headlights. The desert and its many beating hearts all poured together and I was one with the universe as the band sang “It felt good to be out of the rain” and the 500 horses and my universal ass rolled on, in the fast lane.
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