don’t quit.  the spit covering your words are worth more than any professor’s truck.

i can drive that truck blindfolded through an ocean of spit.  a planet of spit.  drive it with my feet.  pick it up and carry it on my dislocated face for years.  drinking only spit through the muffler, that i have converted to a rusty flexible straw.  put it in the glove box when i’m not thirsty.  i’ll hang pine tree air fresheners on every flagpole.  my fingers are keys that fit every ignition.  sometimes i turn the truck off just to start it up again.  that mellow roar of a 1000 lemons starting up after the drive-in werewolf soap opera.