Driving North On I-5

Driving north on I-5, I took the spiritual bypass around Portland, and there she was, the holy mountain. Because I was woke I called her by her native and true name, Tahoma. And because I was so exquisitely embodied I perceived her, not as a mountain, but a dark brown breast gushing milk-streams through hydro-electric teats. I picked up a hitchhiker named Virgil and asked him to guide me through the ninth circle of the inferno. He didn't get it. I think he was offended.

"Don't be holier than thou," I said.

"More traumatized than thou," he said.

“Same difference," I replied.

He said, "I murdered my little sister with marmalade and ants."

I said, "Yeah? Well, while I was still a fetus I got the naked Father tattooed on my belly button."

"I’m not as perfect as I was yesterday," he said.

"That's progress," I admitted.

He replied, "A vegan with lamb chop fantasies!"

I said, "Love is not a feeling or a deed."

He said, "We circle azure emptiness like farted clouds."

"Love is subatomic energy,” I continued, “released when separateness dissolves."

"Are all your stories in the past?" he asked.

"I am more grounded than a frog in a pot of high-rise condominiums."

"Your forty story penis cannot scrape the sky."

So I screeched on the breaks at a walk-in Urgent Care, operated by the pharmaceutical state, and let him out so he could drink vaccine tequila through his astral blue mask, which was the impeccable countenance of his serenity, and the doppelganger of a darker fear.

The last thing I heard was his screaming, "This iPhone doesn't recognize my face!"