I put my thumb out once—
or maybe it was always there,
hinged to the horizon like a question
that refused to close.
Cars passed. Or thoughts.
Headlights smeared into veins across the sky,
and every engine sounded like my name
said incorrectly.
I got in eventually—
I think I did.
The seatbelt tightened like a memory
I couldn’t prove belonged to me.
The driver never turned their head.
Their face was all rearview mirror,
and in it I kept arriving,
over and over, from places I hadn’t left.
We drove through towns that folded
like wet paper maps,
gas stations flickering between decades,
signs blinking words I almost understood.
I asked where we were going—
or maybe I asked when—
and the radio answered in a language
made of sirens and laughter slowed too far down.
Time didn’t pass.
It pooled.
It gathered in the footwell
around my shoes,
warm and humming.
At some point I got out—
I must have—
because I remember the road again,
longer now, and breathing.
My thumb was still out.
Or someone else’s was,
attached to an arm that moved
a second too late.
Every car that stopped
was the same one.
Every driver
almost turned to me.
I think I’ve been picked up.
I think I’m still waiting.
The sky keeps blinking,
like it’s trying to remember
what color it’s supposed to be.
Apr 5
Apr 5, 2026 at 1:17 PM UTC
I put my thumb out once—
or maybe it was always there,
hinged to the horizon like a question
that refused to close.
Cars passed. Or thoughts.
Headlights smeared into veins across the sky,
and every engine sounded like my name
said incorrectly.
I got in eventually—
I think I did.
The seatbelt tightened like a memory
I couldn’t prove belonged to me.
The driver never turned their head.
Their face was all rearview mirror,
and in it I kept arriving,
over and over, from places I hadn’t left.
We drove through towns that folded
like wet paper maps,
gas stations flickering between decades,
signs blinking words I almost understood.
I asked where we were going—
or maybe I asked when—
and the radio answered in a language
made of sirens and laughter slowed too far down.
Time didn’t pass.
It pooled.
It gathered in the footwell
around my shoes,
warm and humming.
At some point I got out—
I must have—
because I remember the road again,
longer now, and breathing.
My thumb was still out.
Or someone else’s was,
attached to an arm that moved
a second too late.
Every car that stopped
was the same one.
Every driver
almost turned to me.
I think I’ve been picked up.
I think I’m still waiting.
The sky keeps blinking,
like it’s trying to remember
what color it’s supposed to be.
I think this one speaks for itself as far as my mind was at the time
Wrote this in my notebook during a gnarly *** storm. Somewhere in West Texas in 2014
I met a few hippies and they gave me some paper lunch. This is one of two I wrote that evening