No More Pileups in LA

Let’s say you were in car accident once.

Not the kind that requires a new assemblage of limbs but one that resulted in your mouth being wired together for a time,

The kind that leaves its mark long after the scars are a nostalgic strand of ornaments.

The kind that leaves your driving and navigating ever cautious from there on out.

You drive slower to parties. Slower to work. Even slower to events you’re already late to.

You ease care at red lights where a right turn is valid. You park blocks and blocks away so as to avoid that Tetris move of a parallel parking job.

You refrain from catching the light before you get stuck in the moment.

Those left turns, those confident reverses out of driveways, all proceed with bureaucratic care.

You’re ever watchful of being blindsided another time, constantly reliving the duress of that fragmented moment of steel clenching steel and wires cutting into the scene.

You can still taste where the flesh met teeth and a clenched tongue

There’s a craving though. A guilty lust for the salt, the corn syrup undyed backflipping on your palate when the metal violated your sense of objective fearlessness.

But then you forget.

A routine is re-instated that overtakes the caution in movements.

Confidence is rehabilitated and steers seamless merging from the east to the west-side.

Warning signs flash in argon ahead. You ignore the weather reports on the radio.

The near swerving miss where your brakes slip stall all progress.

In an instance, in a flash, the nerve of a thousand crash test videos are projected on your windshield.

A traffic jam with broken bodies, motorcycles and bloodied tracks is played out in a 9 minute sequence ahead of you.

Your automobile with its cheap CIA funded drone capabilities putters anti-freeze and refuses to sprout its helicopter blades

The craving for the raspy taste of steel against your jaw makes a comeback.

You begin to wonder if you aren’t that much unlike those crazed fetishists in Toronto restaging their pain for pleasure.

You wonder if in the re-enactment of a James Dean death scene the possibility of searing into the past to kill your ancestors is possible.

You’re replaying it, calling casting sessions for the film and stage adaptations for it.

You’re examining  the wreckage down below looking for a specific piece, hoping the nervous NSA intern was taking notes for you to refer to.

You remain trapped in an embargo of this post-human pileup for a time that even Tom Cruise would consider infinite.

The off-ramps and side streets are compromised.

No more detours.

Forward is through.

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