Death rides shotgun
Death rides shotgun with me. She likes to fiddle with my vintage knobs full blast. She won’t give up my right view spectacular from the driver’s seat. Not even me, not even for a kid or lamb would stop her riding me to bones. She offers anatomy lessons on where to cut or blow the rubber heading toward the horizon backseat emptier than before. At least it’s quieter than before now I’ve answered all of God’s questions for me. I will let death take a turn and burn rubber when children & mothers are cleared from the emerging path.
But, I’m at the mercy of her presence orbiting the sun & seat even while we go dark again. Even when I try to forget your speed, you had me set on cruise control. While I try to cut this brief trip shorter, she stretches my vanity in a timeline a child could decipher. Seeing my demise in slow-mo I became a coward plunging through an artery only nicked by fearful desire. See the flow in the rearview mirroring shrinking sanity to a blip.
Stomach is bubbling from last night’s dance along the edge with hard kombucha when my sun sets. Woke up this morning like mourning night before ridden hard. Distractions have lost their newness. They are tired and worn into my seat. Months to turn into a string of chrysalis blameless for their grotesqueness. A decent driver of my stock emotions, I am mastering the art of death riding shotgun from here on out.
Even Spotify couldn’t peel her ass off the vinyl. Tiger-striped, she’ll lunge at her prey. Let some fresh air in, death reeks. Perhaps Mary will take me to the razor’s edge ever Jane & Blue. When death rides shotgun, you are the captivated doe before her voluptuous headlights. Death has become like familiar furniture to me found secure even at the bottom of the ocean where electricity swims by ever so often.
If I take hands off the wheel, the vehicle will submerge there quicker than my crooked ways. I’m ground down going off-road thinking I still have control of the best parts of me. Fate or will make the tracks go up or down, most leading nowhere, but usually end up at death’s door. Does it matter who has control of the wheel when the destination is set the same for all of us?
Automobiles with flats can’t embrace the road. Who put tacks in rear tires? Who deflated the arms rolling along on asphalt? It was death & I still engaged with canned lines trailing off-road blind-sighted by each other’s crusade. Who’s watching & filming Thelma & Luis?
For a night or two, I will let you make me a noose clanking with the soup cans & crusted baked beans going off road for good. A bumpy ride for a good cause. Tossed cans tell no tales nor whine.