Asleep at the Wheel

I used to sleep in my car. In reserved lot space 341. Where claustrophobia becomes the new standard speed of your heart and breath. Amazing what we get used to. The-unprepared-for’s. A lot of things make us claustrophobic, don’t they? Sometimes at night I would wake up surrounded by doors as if they were cement, in a getaway as if it were glue to the gravel. You find yourself opening up the back door before you know why you are, just to look at ground outside. With four wheels floating you enough above human made rock that it doesn’t seem true unless you touch it. To feel stale air like you’d expect to feel cold drops on a boat. But maybe I’d have been more claustrophobic under the hands I was shadowing from. Head hung upside down to look at a home with rubber foundation like it’s the same as standing up. I could see my life getting strained together of breath on windows and the filth that builds up around the ankles and neck.
Hold your gaze to freckled earth and become to the world like the mud you track. And at night drink constellations through orange light pollution, the only thing that speaks louder than crepuscular birds. (Every. Fucking. Day.)
And then you stay in half-lidded melancholy and pallor from expected ill. And there’s the 12 kinds of hiding. Embarrassment – safety – law.
It’s the loneliest, easiest breathing and the most choking lack of security. And everything is sticky. Your clothes your sheets to your skin. Your mind to your lingering staleness. Was it worth it was it worth it was it worth it? And you say yes and you say yes now.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s