When you live in the megalopolis called Los Angeles, driving is more than a means of transportation. It is a connection to a network of cultures fueled by people seeking their best lives. 

The cities, towns, and neighborhoods are portals to everyday cultures where surprises await around every corner. From the ocean to the mountains to the valleys, we snake through freeways and streets, searching for secrets and truths, seeking the prize of wisdom in plain sight.

Through them all, I am constantly reminded that they are merely red-carpeted entrances to adventures beyond, in a land that has captured my imagination and enthusiasm.

For nearly forty-two years, I have motored through this megalopolis on motorcycles and four-wheel vehicles of one type or another, over sun-drenched vistas, rain-soaked, flooded roads, hills slipping from their foundations, mountain paths that defy gravity, and potholed streets too poor to be called modern conveniences.

During twenty of those years, I hit the road every day in a mad rush to beat the always-present traffic on my way to Hollywood and a career of my dreams, the one you spend your youth envying. You were told it was not for a young man from the South Bronx projects.

It was a fast-lane journey, too fast, too whipped around, but that speed came at a price.

That was then. This is now.

In this moment, I have learned to be content with a more casual flow through the megalopolis we call Los Angeles. 

one arm 
cocked against the driver’s side window

laid-back 
to signal

it’s okay 

i’m cool
i got this

the other arm relaxed

a finger 
             barely touching the steering wheel
             it’s all cruise control baby

chillin’
shooting down the 405

Cool Driving.

not like the bad old days
when it was slow crawling 15, 25, 
if i’m lucky, miles per hour

both hands tensed 

grabbing the steering wheel in a headlock
 fingers turning purple
teeth clenched inside my jaw

crawling north in a time bomb 
powered by the best japanese minds

up the 405 
the 10 to labrea 
over wilshire 
landing in hollyweird

jazz sing-along on the radio 
while anonymous phone screamers
 scream into talk radio

lamenting an america that never existed

this is the real america 

past gardena, compton, south central, pico-union

stay in your lane
do not turn your head

is that a gun in your hand,
or are you just happy to see me? 

shoot across four lanes
searching for exits and shortcuts 

anything to still the boredom 
of sneaking over thirty miles 
of concrete 
and asphalt
and steel 
and painted lines

no one is going anywhere

a long line of machine-carrying robots 
(like me)
 who dance 
(like me) 
the same dance

there was once a thrill 
to driving a car
take you anywhere you want 
or need

 fantasized freedom 
wrapped in metal 
and 
engineering wonder

before road rage
and 
rush hours 
and 
hov lanes
and 
clogged arteries
that will drop a heart attack on me 
while i gobble breakfast in one hand 
and 
185-degree coffee in the other 
and 
the steering wheel
is wedged between my knees.

that was then

cool driving now

no jAZZ 	
no talk radio	
no rush

just the feel of power 
under and around me

laid-back

one arm cocked 
     against the driver’s side window

to signal

it’s okay
i’m cool	
i got this

the other arm relaxed

a finger 
             barely touching the steering wheel
             it’s all cruise control baby
 
chillin’ 
and 
i'm shooting down the 405 

Cool Driving.