Stuck in Lodi Again

Lodi, California, the asphalt melting, just like fondue, chasing the iguana away on it’s short peg legs. Hopping like in “hop-scotch,” avoiding the hot spots of the asphalt’s lava of warm cheese in a fondue pot, stuck in Lodi, again, on a Harley, waiting for the twilight to catch up. Feeling the hunger monger of my mind yearning for blood with a cracker on a lonely highway six miles out. Needing love and a tourniquet to hold back my lusting proclivities for the joy of the feminine flesh and not the usual mannequins of department stores, Their plastic is not good for the fangs seeking soft skin.

The asphalt’s bubbling now, popping black oil pearls that burst against my boots—each one a miniature universe collapsing under heat and indifference. Mama perched behind me on the bike, gnawing on Aspergum, in my ear, screaming in halitosis, like a hepped-up banshee on “crack.” Papa riding sidecar, hyperventilating in a used bag of Wonder bread and whispering prayers to the Virgin Mary—patron saint of bad decisions and worse road trips. Ten thousand praying mantises clinging to our clothes, their tiny green hands raised in communal benediction.

The iguana’s tail snapped off mid-hop—just fucking disintegrated—as the road gulped it whole. Something about that spasm of vanishing lizard made my stomach knot tighter than a teenager’s first love letter. The Harley growled beneath us, a steel panther sweating grease and bad vibes. Twilight’s fingers stretched across the sky like a junkie reaching for the last vein, painting everything in piss-yellow and regret. Stuck in Lodi, again.