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65 Velo City

Looking back on desolate I-80 (now named for Celk Toothpaste but K Tate was having none of that), he could see halogen holograms of Dick O.

Some floated away swirling in the Iowan breezes, others untethered limb split skull shatter circularlated limbs, K Tate found a seat lump.

Box of Little Demon toothpicks. Slapped one between teeth, DNA spit slobber the same as K Dad, let SlamScene Investigations sort it out.

Dick O multiplied, small like cloudlint. He hated Iowa, the damn holograms were miles back, flat earth theory in effect, Ludditean cities.

Pulled into Velo City, pop. 1, just him. Iowa went bankrupt in 2006, farmersflee Nebraska, famous by Bruce Springsteen Sr., MIA since 2009.

Gateway to the Wild West, some arch in Kearney, Neb. K Tate knew it because K Dad knew it, drove under it, pissed beside it, weak bladder.

Now Nebraska superseded Califoregon in population, ever since the Pacific Surges made like Manhattan submerged high tide low tide full moon.

Wordsong on the high plains. Map it out, K Tate Lewis without Clark, the Monster thinking is this what DocDad Frankenstein created? Sand.

Nebraska scrub. Submerged caverns held thousands in voluntary internment. Building a better underworld. K Dad, were your novels for real?

A country he had passed amassed and mired tired with liars and babycryers on all things dire. Ohio: the three C's cut through the state.

Cleveland to Columbus to Cincinatti, a wall of sees made him think of his eye--could it slide into the box of toothpicks?--damned in W.Ohio.

Bikers patrolled borders, let K Tate through, Sonny-Boy Wilson read daddio's work, liked the one about that guy, waved him byebye. Cred.

Steel refineries were crematoriums after the Tri-State pandemic last summer, K Tate laughed maybe he was a pre-plague guy. With street cred.

Thanks to K Dad and maybe crazy Uncle O. Chicago shattered teeth of rotted grey on a missing upper lip, like Bum Wrestling on SlamChannel 4.

Zigging down to cornfieldland, look, honey, Lincoln Wept Here. Guy named Johnny Teet in Streator let him nap on a billboard, take in rays.

Bottle cap capitol of the country, whatever bottles were. Good enough for SlamCola, evidently. Mickey Milkshake gripped one, bottle cap seen

maybe it was a juicevessel steroidanals in plastic with plastic sipstraws battle for sanitation K Tate thought Dad shoulda wrote about US.

Not OS, outer space, not other realities, kept on track to see the country implode (he once dreamt of a fuzzy yellow parakeet kasmoosh).

Now it was the Overtone Legion that spurted data to the stars, images of Karin Offal and Nameless Mantell screwing on a Titan launch pad.

A DVD-VDV burned with croonscomplete sadeyedsinatra and mitchumcalypso each hologram sending out memorystreams flawed by Dick O dilution.

If he closed his eyes out here in Velo City twilight, he could imagine the turbines overtimed sizzling and popping like microwave hot dogs.

North too cold, Nebraska zombified farmers seen from the bluffs, way way south tropical Katriniana. Dad I'm you should have warned me.


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