Lustrous puddles skimming with Siren’s sonar swayed tires skidding over
Bellflower Boulevard like wayward jellyfish stuck in seaweed: winding,
uncertain, wishy-washy retrograde turns—hand over hand, as if furiously
milking rainclouds that languish for the fiery touch, of a simple palm, on
a cold shoulder. Don’t slam on them. Pump the breaks, said in Driver’s Ed.
But high school never taught the precautions to take when you grow older.
When the world’s a haphazard highway of green lights—neglecting yellow,
ignoring red. Fender benders are easy fixes. But rubber-necking sedans gawk
to guess the weight of life carried on a stretcher, a procession of perversion
and pity. Windshield wipers wax lucid laughs. Winking blinkers oblivious to
duress. Airbags brace the blow of too-slow brake lights illuminating the soggy
city. Slick streets in So Cal simmer like flash flood. But motorists are the real
sinners. They’re out for blood.
(originally published at Media Virus Magazine)