Tribe

    They can't wait to let the sky get so dark that it hints at light, so dark it feels like you're always just about to fall into something deep and cavernous and see the neanderthal drawings on the wall.  They're nomads tracking tires into the street light praries of Americas's same-as-it-ever-was two lane towns.  They're on both sides of double yellow lines because the signs says both lead to somewhere.  They're decidedly nowhere bound, but there isn't any nowhere in sight; just a headlight chorus of desperate reaffirmation of life through close encounters with death and beer and a gas pedel eucharist.  They dare the sun to come up and flash light on their bare assed, dogs behind, revelry just so they can scream war cries to let their enemy know they're still alive.  They're buzzing ears and morning bed hair mohawks lurching into school the next day in red eye convoys full of the most tired life alive in this dead old town.  They're drums in the distance: foerever fading everlasting echos of the thunder on all of our horizens.