on the weekend I hear people racing out on the highway

I keep telling myself they have ordinary lives

that they live and work in boxes

but i can see the flames from the tailpipes light up the sky

i can hear those V8 engines revving high

pushing the needle far to the right

smoke and purple gas illuminate the night

emanating liquor and a checkered past

the smell of burning rubber by the underpass

we all leave a trail of black smoke everywhere we go

spinning our tires, lost in the afterglow

driving backwards down the wrong road

flying past the stars

flash like the lights of oncoming cars

galactic atom smashers

the back to the cave party crashers

dancing in a dust of plastic and metal

two hands clasped, white like our bones

high five as we nose dive

in the sweetest ride we’ve ever known

its time let go of the star wheel

its time to travel by feel

out on the promenade

life is just a drive through

I tell myself the star racers will die in boxes too