​Carmen Ghia
Black hardtop
Stick shift 
I learned stick on the fly 
Flew off the road into the forest 
Fucking stick 
Radio blasting whether I’m alone or with a barfly 
Hollywood streets are dark at closing time
Not like New York
Must be real late 
After work I stay to throw back a few with some die hard
The restaurant’s dark 
I’m lit
I scream with the radio ‘What I like About You’ 
Check the real view mirror to see if my make up is running
Fucking mascara 
Always leaves extra black shit around my eyes
Smearing my forefinger under my lid takes care of that
My vision gets sketchy
Might have poked myself 
I’m driving down some street 
Where am I 
The world goes blurry 
Like crossing my eyes to get a laugh
It’s that toy that flashes photos in binoculars with a click 
Click
Parked cars appear closer
Click
Parked cars go away 
Click
White line on my side of the road 
Click
White line vanishes
​Click
Now as far as I hear death treats everyone alike
Death doesn’t care if I’m young or old
Pretty or plain
Girl or boy
I mean we all have a candle lit just for us 
when it burns down 
Click 
I’m driving in the wrong direction down a one way street
Click 
I don’t remember how I found my way home 
Click
Death doesn’t care if I write poems 
​Click
I wake up in a strangers bed
Click
Hand on my ass
Click 
I tell stories I can’t remember 
Click
I walk home without my coat
Click
I throw up on my boyfriends bed 
Click
I fall down and stay
Click
Click
Click 
Death doesn’t care if I’m rich or poor
Religious or heathen
Straight or bi
Head pounding
Tummy hurts
I’m still high
Room spinning
Regrets surface
Deals made
I’m a piece of shit
Death doesn’t take to pleading 
Death doesn’t see my soul
Death doesn’t care at all 
I’ve wanted to die
To be taken from misery
Death isn't very smart
I didn’t die 
Some people are too mean to die
Is that me 
Some are too tricky
Is that me
Others are too stupid
Is that me
Click 

It’s happening again. The rooms have become too small. We hold our breath as we walk by. We spiral down holes where we land mad and resentful and afraid. Human activity can be regenerative, and our productive capacities can be transformed  We can stop this. We can reach for each other, and hold dropped leashes in our hands. We can do this. Together, population, fertility rates, mortality rates. We can stop this, industrial output, food production, resources. We can reach for each other, pollution, social conflict, disease.   

It’s happening again. The rooms are filled with regrets. We hold our breath as we walk by. We spiral down holes of righteousness and wrongs and too late. We know it’s not easy, and poses transition challenges, but a sustainable, and inclusive future, is still possible. We can stop this but it’ll take more than half of us. It’ll take more than hope. It’ll take all of us. Changing, our societal priorities, needs to expand, right now. It’ll take all of us. But we're so very small. It’ll take all of us. Let's be brave. Let's willing to take a risk. Let's be willing to fight. We are one. 

It’s happening again. The rooms are littered with dust and mirrors. We hold our breath as we walk by. We spiral down holes, impotent of responding, to global challenges. 
We’re not looking at each other. We’re looking at our own reflection. We’re making footprints waiting for someone else to clean up. Counting steps. Brushing away hairs. Smiling into our teacups. We think school will help. We think a job will help. We think a spouse will help. We think a new place to live will help.We think a baby will help. We think love love love will help. 

It’s happening again. The rooms are filled with bodies. We hold our breath as we walk by. We spiral down holes that have no exit when we choose not to act. The odds are on a knife’s edge. The development, and deployment, of vaccines, at unprecedented rates, demonstrates that we are capable. Arms spread out. Waiting to be crucified. Expecting it really. Who has the hammer? The nails? The guts? The stone un thrown? Who has the chisel? The wood? The space? Who will cover the body? Burn the cloths? Dig the hole? Who who who will help? 
 
It’s happening again. The rooms are overflowing puddles. We hold our breath as we walk by. We spiral down holes wrapped like a present bouncing around in a box. Scratching at the corners to find a way out. Knowing deep down that the only way is through. Squinting our eyes. Hiding under a cocktail. Lying to our friends. How excessive must the temperatures go? When will the water levels be too high? Where will we throw our garbage? Who’s funeral will it be enough? How much do we want to live? And who do we live for? And do we even understand what that means?