Driving south on the 110
The moon is full
Jets come in
over the San Gabriel Mountains
like embers
from the dying Station Fire

My car feels like skin,
like something essential,
that I was born in
I weave in and out of traffic moving very fast
‘cause I can drive like a motherfucker

I drive toward the beach
While the republic gasps
and rattles with death
This wheezy bastard,
hanging on with metastasizing cancers
clutching our throats with its cold, bony fingers
it must die and the sooner the better

So, let’s allow the bowels to release,
and the bladder to empty
Let’s end it with a punch line
and call it redemption
there is still life
beyond this convention

driving back on the 405,
taking the long way home
traffic is light
and I feel giddy
going too fast
through the elegant, gray veins of our city
I turn on the FM radio like an old guy
Bruce says something about ripping this holy night
As I tear through the membranes
between the city and its dreams

My car becomes something else the faster I go
magic and potent
it is driven by yearning
and the light of the moon
And now Bruce says the poets out here
just stand back and let it all be
And wind up wounded,
not even dead

But I smile to myself doing 90
Because we don’t wind up wounded
We start that way
Even on a beautiful night in LA
Where the poets will never stand back
And let it all be