On those days that I long to be an automobile, I walk the shoulders of freeways, lycra streamlining my torso, avoiding loose gravel and potholes. I am honing my mileage-to-the-gallon edges. I am output made transcendent by European effeciency. I am noise-friendly rolling, sans thunder.

Pimp this ride. Pimp this heart, pimp the soul of the defective man that cowers here with the ineffective gauges and the broken instruments - rocking and mumbling; rattling and humming; kissing the clumsy jagged absurdist maps of reality that have never resembled the territory.

On those days that I long to be an automobile, I am practising not being judged for the things that I am not. I am not a sliver of smooth quartz in the wild indigene hand. I am not a Warhol nude. A cave‘s gaping silence. Lower altitude. Bluegrass.

On those days that I long to be an automobile I am luring squints towards my shadowy form. I am striving not to be the moon. That dream is hung higher, and crescent shaped, and none of the light I cast has ever been my own.