The Physics of Driving II

Unknown Love in Los Angeles

Perhaps we fashion untruths daily,
our memories become remarks at a funeral—
never mentioning the bad particulars
to honor our idealism.

The most beautiful woman that I can remember
I saw slantwise from the window of a speeding car.
In this glimpse, her body stretched into vectors,
curved hips melding into curved freeway,

breath rhythm lengthening into skyline pulse,
laugh crinkles clouding into dancing city lights.
It was over quickly, but for me
these memories are the most spacious.

You see, I never met her.
In a city always moving love is trackless—
without paths leading in or footprint remainders.
Just pray for rest. Pray for more
than the screech marks of smoldered rubber.

If you see me on the freeway, wave.
I will be the man that drives while
rubbing a disposable razor along my chin—
again and again even though
there is no more hair.

Writing Again...

Since turning in my thesis over a month ago, I haven't written much of anything. (The poem below being the one exception.) I thought maybe I was tired of it, but really I think I was just burned out. I realized today that I have an intense desire to write again. As a writer, I want to capture the perfect story. It's kind of an impossible quest that contains many bumper-to-bumper moments, U-turns and flaming crashes off of cliffs. I'm off to the library to read Looking Backward: From 2000 to 1887, by Edward Bellamy for inspiration. After Uncle Tom's Cabin and Ben-Hur, this was one of the most popular books of the late 19th century in America. It's a socialist Utopian novel, which interests me for several reasons, which in the interests of my story, I won't reveal, other than to say that it takes a very different view of socialism than, say, The Brother's Karamazov.

The Physics of Driving 1 (A Poem)

A two-faced habit. I steal
glances at passing drivers on the freeway.
In blurry haste everyone is striking.
With twinges of relativity
everyone on the freeway is someone.

Just last week I saw Einstein,
driving home after a nice dinner at JPL
in rush hour on the 605 freeway—
fingers sifting dunes of electric hair.

Energy equals mass times the speed of light squared.
The world always moves, if however slowly.
Energy equals cars moving within a square.
Energy equals movement coalescing in a square.
The square is a city. The city is Los Angeles.

He has calculated how to weave through traffic
without touching anything.
A half-wide car fits between the lanes
of space and time.

This mask of self-importance
is forever needing a place to go.
Clutching my steering wheel
never changing lanes.

Drive faster.
If you reach the speed of light
everyone will want to know your name.
You just won't recognize yourself anymore.