The 405

Freeway traffic and these great gray clouds rolling overhead.
Brake lights repeating for miles like an endless stream of blood droplets.
Where do they end? Where does it end?

I feel trapped in this deadly cage.

Passing by a neon cross,
and an SUV with the Stars and Stripes on its bumper.
Driving down low next to it in my Civic
through the dry hills and under the alabaster Getty Center
I experience a truly American epiphany:
the confusing feeling of being
both the bottom and top of the food chain
at the same time.

A helicopter flies over Wilshire.
A ghetto bird.
I’d open the sunroof if I had one.
My cell phone buzzes in my pocket. I fear the future.
I don’t answer it.

An opening.
I take it.
Signal to change lanes, find the current,
fall into the stream.
I start passing sports cars.
I’m starting to feel good about the world again.

Then a tow truck speeds by on my right going 85 or more.
The driver has a mouth full of chew and a Budweiser hat.
Godspeed I wave. You asshole.
Where does it get you? What good does it do you?

Anger trickles up my sleve.

Or me?

I’d make a lousy specimen.
I’m no corpse or cadaver.
Shoot me from a cannon like Hunter S. Thompson.

Send me to the moon.

When I’m outta here; I’m outta here.
So long and thanks for all the fish.

The 10 freeway approaches.
Or rather,
I approach it.
Cars start to back up and I slow down,
come to a halt.
I’m almost thankful.
I scratch my head and realize that it’s still there.

And realize…

the speed of life
is ill suited for
the 405.