The vehicle is still running (a poem)

Tuesday, July 22, 2025

A Singular Crystal: Assembled from Clamp, Collapse, and the Cold

The new,
the every other—

when I see them,
my brain explodes
with possibilities—

but a mirror
makes me lie flat,
play dead.

But I know,
I’m me,
dummy.

I’m in the lot
outside the tree nursery.

I love plants.

We’re so aggressive—
we eat,
chew,
grind up,
snort and smoke
all that chlorophyll,

those metabolizers
of the sun and water.

Earth-true,
reach for the sky,
dancing in the wind—

another day.

Vault and arches,
the slice,
the market,
the plant shop,
the bedded lot—

all those cars sleeping,
shoppers inside,

the brick and mortar,
making capitalism
go go,
super grow,
and make us all merrier—
us owners,
anyways.

Animal clinics,
and massage,
Enterprise,
and a hair salon—
that’s all we got.

Cross the street—
opens up more potential:

a Walgreens,
an urgent care,
and an overpriced
breakfast joint.

They suck at their features, too,
but somehow
they still keep on.

Location, location, location—
this tired story.

I used to think
the rich were cool.

I don’t blame,
or resent—
but the configuration
is highly suspect.

Keep giving people dumb pills
and raise the prices,
slow
over the next ten years,
till it’s too late.

Frog narratives,
from a boiling pot,
on a cheap appliance.

Shut down the press.

They can have their buildings—
but no floors.

Remove those.

Whining,
that voice—
a strange emote.

The feeling of lost,
spiral weight,
drop,
into the deep cold.

That depth,
that sea creature,
luminescence—

I fall for it
every time.

That wave of cold,
at each stage,

adjusting
to the pressure,

sinking
deeper.

The sunlight is tired,
refracted—
so much water
between us.

I need that air,
but I’m still
fascinated,
gazing
at this glowing thingy.

The depth
just makes it work—
the contrast,
the vacuum—
impossible to deny.

Gotta reach out.

Goodbye.

I’ll try again.

Constant—
the press,
the vice.

My hand
inside the clamp,
and its handle turns,

tightening
the frame.

Arms are tingling,
weakness—
can’t hold them up.

Hands cracked,
daggers
in the end of each knuckle,
needles
on the tips of each finger.

And I’m typing,
hoping I can’t keep up—

I don’t want
to give in,
and disappear.

I want to communicate—
not just with anyone.

Apparently,
the world
is the smallest
I’m willing to call.

But I can’t even
get my own kids
to listen.

All the posts,
the invitation to reply—

the overwhelmed.

Keep bumping people,
but no one is here.

Enough of a sorrow—
I’ll look out,
like I used to,

when the masses
and its opiates
preoccupied my time.

I’ll report
and witness—

stand and say:

this is what I saw,
and this is how it felt.

Does anyone know?
Anyone receiving
my transmission?

I’m in a 2014 Wrangler Unlimited—
the best car
is the one you own.

What a fool.

Just faded,
pecking on black glass,
the vehicle running.

I digress—
need to head back home,

pretend to be okay,
walk the dog,
drink a tea,

and go back
to staring out
the window.

It’ll work out—
this mad circus,
this burning theater.

And the performance continues,
despite
flames.