Here in this land of cannabis a place of pernicious habits, ingrained independence and laughing rabbits,
down at the bottom of any ravine, skeletons of Porsches are frequently seen, skewered and severed by boulders and trees, engine cracked open in an oil-smeared frieze.
No wrecker can seize and hope to drag out, a piece or a part worth a dime from these Evel Knievel pantomimes, when Michelins skidded at a hundred and nine and a Cayman flipped out, in a soaring dive, off a mountain slope, with boulders supplied, shiny and sharp, honed by spring slides, to chew and swallow the ride and its driver, a stiff who’s still shifting his Cayman, while drifting, spinning out, like a drone, over stunning views, all of which spell a warning to you; consider the road you want to attack if you feel invincible, turn around, go back.
Weed in your brain won’t make you a driver, guide you like a deer through these majestic trees, nor will it help you to fly like a bird. The best you can hope for, is with practiced ease, you’ll be lovingly interred by friends in the crypt of this theater absurd.