taking an uber to my grave

Originally published by Bottlecap Press in Live Action Capitalism

immediately i'm greeted with the blaring

transnationalism of the obviously dominican

driver rambling away into his iphone

held up close to his ear or signals

boldly sent through bluetooth speakers,

either way stereotypically talking

to a cousin. he uses the phrase "esa vaina"

& my american ass has heard my tios mutter it

before. as with most spanish, i know feelings not exactitudes.

his language doesn't catch. google maps

says "dobla a la derecha" & my right arm

dematerializes. u-turn & i can no longer use

my nose. all smells turn to itches & every hole

is emitting fumes. he's only here with me for

the 10 dollars he'll only see 2 of. he doesn't need

to notice the dying. i don't mind. i bet

he's been driving all day & we are not friends.

speeding down a narrow street, i keep my legs

inside the vehicle as long as i still have them.

as a ghost passenger i google "vaina."

the internet says it means "thing"

or the exponentially whiter "thingamabob."

i text my mother and ask. she would know & she knows

me. mediated by the screen, she responds to

my last dying text with, "it's vulgar, don't say that,"

so i don't say that. he was never speaking to me.

he'll get 5 stars despite the volume of the global

positioning system & the surcharge & the surge tonight

& the ad that convinced him to start to drive.

if i lived in a blue place by the ocean, or if i lived

near palms and used my fingers for touch, or if i had a linguistic use for a vulgar thingamabob,

i would imagine it's something like "that shit."

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Cover Photo Credit: Ava Emilione