My dad shot himself in his car. When I was 22.
Now my brain bursts with anxious black throngs
of swirling bees.It’s a mistake to re-
late death to the days I’ve stepped in shit and
why I’m late to work. I know this. But when
asked about my day at 8 I confess I cursed at
cars that crossed the street. I can’t choose what
was said. Or committed to memory. Matches
live in flammable houses.
I want to leave. For my lunch breaks are too
short to go far. And I don’t think I de-
serve this afternoon ticket. Burned orange
envelope snug beneath the right wiper blade.
There’s so much space around me that
it’s haunting. Whole curbs can fit a car. But this
one’s not free.
As I drive I decide I’ll say I’m too tired for tomorrow.
Maybe pick a plane to Spain where people take
siestas. I’m not made to wait at every staggered stop-
light down this winding street. When I’m in the air.
But if I break out onto the highway I’ll have
to read those stupid signs with rhymes about my right
to guns. And then the radio will fire off reports of
penguins who suffer mass starvation.The heater’s
cranked too high.
I should slow down. I should not park on the shoulder.
Nor commit crimes against myself. I would be towed.
Instead I’ll stop for food when the sensation of matter
rests in my mouth. I’ll sit in my own car. Bite into my
own burger. Take a sip from my soda even if the sugar
rots my teeth. I’ll forget about sound.The world will be
a silent disco where people dance and callousness crunches
in the craw—these small pains of being a person nestled
next to pickle.And if I see someone who looks like him
it won’t fuck me up.
I’ll thank the Great Clown who so mercifully navigates
my needs. Because I’ve learned the null spaces are things
themselves. Even on good days ice waters down our drinks. We
all share the cold in common. These roads are mere net-
works like river canals—organic nervous system maps of
a mother’s womb. The hot sun nourishes like
fresh Chicken McNuggets.