Take my rod and go poke up the speed. In Slav Defense, or any other Defense for that matter, pawn can’t move backwards. Nor forwards, through sludge or iron. The board properly gunged up by the spillways of a nutrient loaded milkshake mudslide. Side bets are placed on which one will be first to bite the dust: tire, wheel, or hubcap. Carts of decanters are wheeled out. The decanters house a variety of syrups, of slow pours and treacherous tropical storms. Stuck in a rum rut — banana cream, coconut cream, irish cream — oreo crumble, bacon bits, flower mushrooms. Tire tread needs a floss. For a proper tread floss, I will have to get on my hands and knees, and hope the tire isn’t at RPM high enough to rub my fingers down to nubs. If the whole nasal passage hadn’t been singed from all this burning rubber or noxious nutrient loaded syrups and milkshakes, I’d be able to smell whether it’s spinning or not. Low visibility. I can’t see anything, through the downpour and flung mud, or through my bugged up windshield-lenses. I am past having to check the weather channel for weather advisories. I am in it. In for it.
• Major Petrus: https://soundcloud.com/petrus-major
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