These are pastures

The pedal is to the metal what the dust is to the devil;
Or,
You can't put your lead foot down and get the lead out of your mouth, too;
(Just Desert)

The long tailpipe of history simultaneously points
backwards and around the bend
History’s here nor there: head on, but always in
the blindspot before it comes to pass
Entering the race is involuntary, and emissions
are the returns of the whirlwind

Seeing history revolve around you sets blinkered sights
vis-à-vis particulate matter
Every lap drives closer to home a hard bargain: pull a fast
one or get taken for a ride
A race-winner is a driver who steps on a throttle as
runners-up struggle to guzzle dust

Records indicate that necessity drives the hindmost to
intake exhaust redistributed downtrack
Eating the dust pecks of others is the sole course for
those with no driver’s seat at the table
Passengers, who are believers in a better place, buckle
up, praying for a clean-plate getaway
As such, acceleration for its own sake is the order of
every day on the drive-thru menu

Staying ahead requires perpetually running the internal
combustion engine hotter
To the holders of the keys to the company car go the
spoils, which are the former
Until it’s run into the ground, the vehicle is a silver-spoon-
led-foot-to-mouth present
Relaying an upper-victory-lap limit is akin to bringing
dust to the desert and heresy

Everywhere, cities built on dust are driven by dromedary
committees desertifying the world
Small as motes are the hopes for camels to float all boats;
still diatoms in the dust repasture

🚘