Jalopy

When learning how to meditate it is a common tool
to imagine
yourself
being on the side of a busy road, a freeway say,
watching the cars zoom by,
noticing the varying speeds
and taking in
the flow.

The automobiles are commuting thoughts
in this scenario,
unremembered by make, model and color
unless focused upon
in passing.

Being stuck on the shoulder
more than once myself,
some savior often pulls over
to offer help

it is fair to assume I simply ran out of gas,
it seems reasonable to conclude
I do not have reliable transportation,
and it is purely logical to reason
I have somewhere
to Be-

as if I could use a lift.

I try not to use the hazard lights.





Photograph by Alan Levine, 'Roadside Susans' taken 7/17 in Public Domain. 

Transmission in Transition

Freeway roars more than ever,

not because it is a Monday.

With August time is pushed against A/C windows,

glaring about where blind spots signal danger.

Only congestion is quiet.

The speedway whines under the weight of grey.

The police siren screams in haste haphazardly,

with authority, a cymbal, on its path of pursuit

in order to keep mobilized migrations

inside the lines.

The fog rolls by, pushing through and cutting off

the idle sun.

A red-shifting light through diesel smoke

imposed speed limits as a dare,

to supersede a sense of departure,

with one eye

fastened to looking back,

The other I

travels light. 

Painting by Joseph Stella, 'Battle of Lights, Coney Island' (1913) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Traffic at the Top of Privledge

It seems to be moving
                                   along quicker now.
I am not switching-indecisiveness
                                   is dangerous.
It's slow enough to look
                                   out the windows
and get a sense of where you are
and all that is out there.

Not where you are going,
                                   but passing through, some seem stalled-
but you're no expert.

That one exit is always jammed
                                   and the line continues to grow-
no matter what time.
They creep, and honk; impatient to arrive.
It does not make it faster
                                        and they act as if already too late
to gather any remaining free gifts, you keep what you reap
(and much more).

It will be nearly over when they arrive.

Everyone who invites themselves knows it
                                                                     is all in their honor.

The new King and Queen of Entitlement will be crowned!
Dunces of Deservitude!

I've never been invited, or dropped in on one of these
                                                                     formal functions
where some super special ones are showered with interest,
and accrue an air of finality and justice in their grandiloquence.

You have passed them.
They are driving their Destinies, exiting
into Karma town, talking on their iWant and
counting all the righteous people ahead of them.





Image by Marjory Collins, Traffic Jam 1943 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.