Here I repost and hope that other people are inspired to write me their city or town, deep, rich or soul-less.
From LA to the outskirts of Portland
Things used to be done and then forgotten. Now, the moss sticks to my hands. I used to grip the steering wheel living a trucker's life with no countryside in between. The sound barriers and bad Orange County freeway art is all that I can remember. I used to detour by way of the beach, where there were 59 stoplights. I'd go there if I ever wanted to get away from it all and slow down.
I used to grip the steering wheel, but now I have a mossy tree branch in my hands. Comfort grip: spongy give, then solid underneath. What am I driving? What kind of machine is this? I'm flying ten feet in the air and a sparrow chirps up at me from down on the grass with the mossy soil beneath. The smell clung on my hands from the wet afternoon to well after I tucked my children into bed. Touching their forehead and holding their round cheeks with green humus, sweet bark, earth perfume on my blistered hands.
Things used to be done and then forgotten. I wash and green water splatters in the basin. Everything grows moss here. The clamour of voices once fleeting is muffled in the rotting leaves. High heels and wingtips are cast aside in an autumnal pile in exchange for muddy feet. We once clicked and clopped, shodden like domesticated animals on the cement. I'm hanging from tree branches and my feet now swing above the ground.
