Member-only story
Autopilot
There is a door to
the darkness, you get used to it.
You get used to everything:
the warm humid summer air
the roads always under
permanent construction, never finished
Like what life is about?
I sit on the bridge above I-59
imagine the comings and goings of
metal canisters moving at the velocity
of snails; rush hour traffic
A joke — rushing at the pace of crawling
The sky is still bright and the stars
have yet to glow
Everything not yet smeared in inky black
These people down there — what are
the states of their inner selves?
Bright or fading like a coming night?
Each vessel is yet to be automated
but who says the driver isn’t automated
— moving through the mechanical
motions of life (a spiritual void; a darkness of its own)
commute, work, commute, eat, relax,
sleep, repeat –
