More than Running

Had I dented it enough, the front drivers side door socked in by the back fender
of an old Toyota 4x4 flatbed truck Chinoteague Virginia USA in a drug store
parking lot off main street, left screws some other shit snapping around on
sharp turns sudden stops overall it was holding together, even so each time
I open the damn thing I expect it to hit the curb face down, haven't alerted insurance
yet what's the claim window I don't know as soon as possible means a lot of things
none of them vaguer than how I see it, this is the kind of thing you wonder out loud to
yourself when you're coming down and every thought centers itself in the world of
now that you'd been shitting on or purposely forgetting up to the point where your
brain is taking it upon itself to reinsert you into the humanity machine, this had more to
do than running the engine hoping the transmission wouldn't fail, as I've had experience
with only used cars in my life, the kind that meltdown or overheat at the drop of a dime
or quick stop sign stop, all this in my head beside visions robot conveyor belts and
garbage compactors for human skin, what takes precedent is dreams, too all mixed
and unrelated, laugh to yourself a forgotten thought and the car is still there in its
three-dimensional glory, so that you're forced to consider how much was your fault
after all and will you just get your god damn shit togther and fucking handle it already
what the fuck.

That's okay as long as I am lost

It was cold this afternoon
when little orange cat greeted me
by running over lawns he'd
annexed as his own, past sinking bushes
reminded of the sinking roads of my memory--
I think of dying everyday or if I'm swirling in
my own aged mind at the end of my
life, seeing illusions I can't break out of,
listing back and forth between consciousness
and unreality, untethered.

Am I living in the past
dreaming of you?

I fear I am.