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I Stomp the Tip of my Old Cowboy Boot

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I stomp the tip of my old cowboy boot
against the accelerator
flying away from city lights

My pristine Volkswagen beetle convertable
--shining blue as the flame's heart--
eats the ground with its tires
as techno booms through me, a second pulse

Our hair blows out behind us, alive
--no pony tails to constrain it.
Oversized sunglasses perch on our noses
as we blast

though the burning mountains
though the Las Vegas desert
to nowhere in particular





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