The Taste

by Mitchell Griffin
Collage by Zoe Hermsen

Facedown on a highway we lick the asphalt to see if it’s still sweet. Horns blaring are not particularly concerning. We want the taste. We search for the perfect taste at every turn. We crave it.

Roads that traverse the states and municipalities littered across the nation have a liminal taste, one that is fleeting and surreal, like high speeds and high hopes. Junk food fills our mouths on these roads and feels like sugary supersaturation and the decay of our general health the same way these roadways crumble in front of us.

Gravel roads. This taste is bitter. Not like coffee or losing the war or getting told you look like that one ugly kid you knew once upon a time. It lingers. They bring a sensation of lingering, inescapable filth. All times are the Dust Bowl, a fishbowl coated in a layer of dust only able to be cleansed of the dust by dust itself. The search pushes on.

Yet,

dead ends taste like our intuition being clobbered by a royally red stop sign. They should always lead somewhere else. Which they do, except for when they do not. We exist in limbo until we are abruptly forced to turn around and find tastes of brand new. No, not new. Not yet. First we have to retrace our steps and taste it once again, this time duller than before.

Alleys are the roads that are not quite roads. They have the taste of illegal art and sometimes of putrid urine and garbage. The taste, to our disdain, is unforgettable. Our hunger grows.

Roads named after men who were rotten people have a certain tinge to tongue. It tastes like being forced to revere what you hate, forced into an awareness of history in a manner we did not ask for even when every other part of society already whispers it to us at the top of its lungs. That which has been devoured by the eternal worm still remains fresh after centuries. Meadow Lane and Jefferson Street are not the same...

Brick roads are history. They taste like preservatives that have kept everything in place. At least this time, we are more aware than normal that our tongues are feeling something aged multitudes beyond us.

Yet, we are not satisfied.

Cracked roads are the always reliable taste of construction, the kind outpaced by the mighty sloth. Potholes and fading paint and dirty orange cones and automatic lights that cue our decisions for us because Rules are Important in the Society we opted to exist in. The jolting and skull-rattling remind us that smooth sailing is for the seas.

Imaginary roads, the ones that take us everywhere and nowhere at once made from rubber, steel, and string have the sweetest taste. On these, we take strolls atop Dali’s elephants on our way to greet Gaia and atone for the state of our home. The only ends are at the holographic corners of the multiverse. This is the taste we crave. We remain here until the sweet turns sour and we must find stable tastes