Ford Commercial

Harlem, 1918. Four suit clad black men in a fancy Ford sedan, sobbing, guns lodged in their wings, the wheels wobbling toward revenge for when Eddie Murphy shot someone's brother. Now the cars occur like tanks on the road as they show up behind him to return— the eternal return. But he escapes. Like the sky. Dimmed to radiance.  He's innocent. Like I and I. Like the car. Shiny noir machine innocence. Like the courage to pretend. Fall asleep watching a movie. Wake up in the movie. Having seen it all. Ford the flooded stream. Don't cry. Drive and ride. Blood is everything. In the bible and the whole planetary scene. Detroit what! Queue the molasses acting jazz as we roll up as the sunrise.