Budding with excitement and seemingly pointless fear,
but I held a new life in my hands shown through a *** of all my savings.
My eyes dart wildly in awe of all the different cars,
big ones, small ones, new ones, and foreign ones.
Everyone smiled at us - the dealers and the other buyers who walked out with
shiny, new vessels as if it were nothing.
Nobody knew this was our fifth dealership, even we pretended to lose count
maybe this time we’ll leave with something.
I know they can see how badly I yearn for a car of my very own
that I can say is mine,
that I worked for it,
that I can watch age through the years.

Passes not by a day, that many an e-mail
unsolicited for would not stray--
from only Christ knows where--into
my SPAM folder. Some do sail
there to have a prurient stay,
bringing along many a memento
in an argosy of raunchy piquant pictures.

Some convey commerce, insurance or banking
messages; some the cargo of relationship
carry; while another an ad of ******
bears, still another talks about dealership.

Yet stood out Twain. Two diverse
SPAM e-mails have been berthing,
with goatish gaits and sharkish smirks,
in that folder unrelenting and unswerving.

One SPAM e-mail reads: "Why wait--have
an affair with a cheating wife today."

Sweetest SPAM!

Gorging myself on this fetish
fare free of charge. Kittenish
jades, serve me thy dainties of
dalliance enough!

To rock and roll, rolling in the hay,
making merry heaves, does ever crave
this rebellious flesh--yet, this randy
SPAM e-mail's offer offsets much the mind:

"A cheating wife" desiring to find--
for reasons amourous--a dandy,
a sort of cad.

Wondering muse: "A cheating wife"?
What a magic life!

Another SPAM e-mail says its own thus: "View
my pics. Lonely married women--
view **** pics." Indeed and true,
they grip with a serious sudden
poke the soul, like pangs the heart,
those three momentous, wrecking,
wretched words: "lonely married women."

Though content spicy and Libidinous;
yet maddening.
Secret meals seemingly are delicious,
but have a fiery taste.

Where--on Earth, in Mars, or in Hell
are they? Here, in this world they dwell.

Thought marriage is a blessed haven--
a heaven of unfeigned love and lasting bliss.

How could one be married and yet
be alone in life--lonely, who has
crossed over singlehood's borders,
nor is she a widow for bereavement?

A husband did his queen abandon
for a fresh-fangled pawn,
flying away with that new
dove--frittering his fortune away,
as she chirps love in lust songs anew
into his donkey's ears; flattery
displayed, a groovy
guise--

playing ducks and drakes with his riches

until his substance ship sank, like Titanic,
colliding with an iceberg of folly
in the deep of adultery:

making a muck of his wealth.

The flirtatious dollybird no sooner
flitted, then flew abroad at last,
leaving him to drown in the murky
waters of his wreck.


Returned the prodigal man to his hearth
in a sad pickle, with one shirt, one
jean,
and a pair of snickers, to the ever
gracious ***** of his loving Missis--
like a sinner contrite to Jesus.


Whilst a sudden grass widow, his wife
did not covet the companionship,
comforts and copulation
of another flagship--

but was committed to her
vows
to that fun-tossed lugger--
despite the billowy waves,

praying he'd come to his harbour.


The women howbeit in my SPAM folder--
those "cheating wives and lonely married
women", are like Lady Portiphar
pining and yearning for Joseph.

Unread.
Unreplied.

Digging through the pile, always looking for a match
Some thing to stop the pain, some kind of fix or patch
She knows not what she needs, but searches nonetheless
She knows not what's her goal, she does not reassess
Why’s she searching in a junk-yard, when no dealerships are closed?
Why’s she searching for the parts with which others have disposed?

She often finds a fix, or finds some thing to use
No logic when she looks, why search when you can choose
The only parts that fit, only work for a while
The only parts that fit, are at the bottom of the pile
Why’s she searching in a junk-yard, when no dealerships are closed?
Why’s she searching for the parts with which others have disposed?

The dealerships still open, her heart it still does bleed
When will she stop this search, they'll sell her what she needs
Money's not the issue, for everything is free
Money's not the issue, I'm sure she would agree
Why’s she searching in a junk-yard, when no dealerships are closed?
Why’s she searching for the parts with which others have disposed?

Now she starts to panic, the salvaged parts were cheap
Knows not what to do so she falls over to weep
She realizes now, the junk yard parts all break
She realizes now, she's made a huge mistake
Why’s she searching in a junk-yard, when no dealerships are closed?
Why’s she searching for the parts with which others have disposed?

Thinking clearly now, she knows where she must go
The pains already stopped, her face is all aglow  
She knows what she must do, the junk yard she must leave
She knows what she must do, and what she can achieve
Now she's shopping in the dealership, where everything is free
Now she's shopping in the dealership, the dealership is me.

( while taking a tour through those poems readers are requested to keep in their hands,  a feather from the pea-****’s tail )

Volga - 1

there might have been some provocation
on the part of the  rat’s bible  

it is not known when and how
every piece of sleep that spatters  
from the oesophagus of the dip-swimming  
has stick to the c-sharp
of the newly-purchased tooth-brush

the air within the wish-bicycle
figures nothing less

how much is it necessary now
to ****** the blue-hue  with the study
that can be saved by the depression of the Ganges-basin
to develop the snap-shot of the garland-exchange with the
antiseptic cream

would you think it for some moments
my lord
the lord of the market

before sending any secret e-mail
to the cyclone
residing in the room
behind the stair-case
let the Volga be read once more
with all its clothes
and hair-styles

Volga - 2

the winter of the water-canon
oxidised by the fireflies
wants to touch every bamboo-flute
of this soil, it seems

as if it plays
in the body of every cauliflower
the total memorising-skill
of  the blue and yellow pyramid

and if some lines of changes
in the planet be added
the birth-day of the bolster
that goes to the sea
may learn with a lesser effort
the pollen-efficiency of the nail-marked walls

how much should I scold the squirrels
who don’t want to swim
in the still-water of the black-board  

Volga – 3

the green-circuit of the fried-almonds
that was submerged
in the open-hair of the afternoon
the whole-night workshop
has taught
the thumb-impression is to be put
how far below it

if the autobiographies are planted
into the drawer of nature
the solubility of the river-reed
gets it done too late at night

all the plus-signs around
from their etiquettes
come down  

so many foot-notes
caused by the season-changes

so before planting life
to the address of the wall-lamps
it seems the cotton-flower
written by the oceans
began yawning

Volga – 4

to the homoeopathy phial
standing on the traffic-island
why it appears
within her womb
the number of germinated nights
stolen without a kiss
is too little

is then it true
if all the chanting of Harinam
can’t be withdrawn from the alcohol
the body-odour of the running tamarisk-shrub  
will enter into the circuit-house

and that devouring of the parchment
brings to the feelings of the non-veg ant-hills
the let’s-go-cure
gathering in the sauce-island

Volga - 5

coming to this ironed canal-side
every auto-rickshaw  
wants to know and let other know
the mystery
behind  the rice-rain
from the cirrus                                                

the shame in the eyes of the seal containing signs
supplies the whole-sale dealership
of the civil disobedience movement
to the locality

the role of the hammer also
wakes up early in the morning
to put under its own tongue
an antacid

is it possible that the spits
used in the observatory
be made a little more fast-moving

manuscript of the basement of a well

the biography of the pond-heron will be scripted
even-then the productivity of the merry-go-round
wouldn’t be uttered for a moment
no sir, such has never been expected

in the liquefied banana-blossoms
too many hot breads resulted from the season-change
continues to bat  vehemently  
and climbs to the peak of heart-throbbing runs

they in a group will go to the
aqua anetha of the mole hill
to organise a folk-song

to understand this
no arbitration of the cactus is required

notwithstanding
it is heard that the thread was pulled
by the violin of  the wife of the moon-god
from behind the screen

here in the eye-front
is the basement of the morning-well

on its one page lies the faulty  crow-caws
and on another some sun-shines
swinging on the hanger
after some pages in recurring …the chicken-pox … the boot-polish …

within the two covers of the dance-drama
also comes the creepers and herbs
grown around the melting point
of the arm-chair
whose legs are broken

if each pore on the skin of the river-lily
becomes so much known
then in the background of this low land

let us have one game more

In the morning the mist arises
but some will say it is
yesterday's hubris.
I dont have an attic
to wayleigh communications
or require windows
to twitch gingham curtains
so the deep chill
void remains.

A debutante passed by my uncut grass
but she was no better served,
a dream interview with ******* Club
turned sour, this time of year.
At least she hasn't endless dealership openings
or humoured the word "exhilarating" in interviews
when inventing a rich Stepfather.
Like me there be few visitors.
Thirty  stubborn years will pass
but at least she know the meaning.
The pride of the morning.

Exchanging or replacing an old automobile
can be an intensely emotional experience for anyone
I still have the license plate screws from the first car my mom sold
although I didn’t care at all when my dad sold his car first
I remember crying at the dealership when they took my mom’s Toyota
I don’t even remember my dad telling us he got a new Ford
backseat on the left, behind the driver, was my designated spot, still is

I kept them in an empty Hubba Bubba OUCH! Gum tin, the screws
sometimes I’d open it up just to hold them
and wonder why I’d cared so much about that car

Namesake factories
throats built for
circumstance
going to be involved
character
dealt upon a crap hand
dealership
fighting a feasibly sliced
stack of chance
allotted with time
and pollution
that's why I love
simple
perfect
even for sensitive skins

Is there anything as special
As a sister's love?
They are right there with you
When push comes to shove!

They fight for you
Have light for you
To show you that they care
They grow with you
And sow with you
The mem'rys you both share

Sometimes they may not agree
Sometimes even fight
But that's because they want the best
And they know what's right!

It's my sister's birthday
And I want her to see
She is near and she is dear
In my memory

So here is a story
I remember from her past
It tells of her character

She's a fighter to the last!

~~<♡>~~

When my sister was still going to the University of Arizona here in Tucson, she had a motorcycle. Which had a proclivity for breaking down. Well, it was getting on toward summer. And the bike broke down many miles from where her mechanic was located. She had no money to get it towed. So my hundred and twenty pound sister pushed that heavy motorcycle all the way to the dealership! The mechanic was agog!
He couldn't believe she had lugged that motorcycle all that way! He told her, "Honey, you have some *****!"

This is the way my sister is. Beautiful, brilliant, and brave!

I am very proud of her, and I'm honored to be her sister!

♡ Catherine

Wondering what that feeling is that is so intriguing ,
Why haven't I felt this way before,
His big brown eyes that smile when he looked at me,
Just as I noticed him walking through the dealership door,
I'm frozen in time and memorized by his hands holding the key,
the key that's opening doors and breaking down walls to my soul
To-day isn't about automobiles it's about my heart, it's about me.
I'm mesmerized by his body and spirit,  knowing I must concentrate by his practical goal.
I can feel my heart pounding  thinking as if he could hear it.
As I look to him to give my presentation, loss for words as my body takes it's part
Again and again I'm searching for words, thinking , feeling like a idiot,
walls going up all around me, fears of the past surrounds me, shutting down my heart.
He's the one, never felt like this before, my heart and body is taking on a new feeling,
Part of me wants to turn to run and the other part of me wants him to take me in his arm.
I'm trying to concentrate why he's here, Can't he see it's about me and not the dealing.
He's a mechanical engineer from the cities and I'm just a women that has lived in the county on the farm.
Two worlds so different but yet so much the same, I want to get to know him, this is no game.
I can't breath, Fear stops people from moving forward if they don't take that chance
Standing so close to him and looking in his eyes watching his mouth as he speaks, listening to his manly voice.
Just turn and run, your not his type I tell my self, Every excuse except having courage to stay in the dance.

black coffee
6 a.m.
old garages
tomato sandwiches
toy planes still in the plastic

Margaritaville on casette tape
Sunday's are car dealership days
tabasco sauce on every dish
two-bite pinchers when we were kids  
every boy's name is Mitch

I
kept saying “I’m just glad no one got hurt,” last night when
I crushed a car driving a semi.
Just about to sleep
on the road by the sugar factory in my hometown
when I heard a horn honking and people yelling at me.
Before I heard aluminum bend at once.
I recounted it to spectators after the fact--

IN MY DREAM--
it was this
yelling, this
honking
inDICTED the victims in my
mind.

That road was endlessly wide.

Their car could have moved enough to miss me;  they wanted to
get hit.

For the insurance, maybe.
Who knows?

IN MY DREAM
people get right out of smashed cars.
Below your driver’s side door giving silent, dis-
approving glances within seconds of your palm-
shielded face;

After it had started to get dark
I remember how my dad had
our truck down filling up
on the corner with
scraps of steaming
food.

I noticed potatoes
cut into halves and
fourths piling in and flowing through the broken
tailgate. I knew
where that truck was going:
back to the country.

Where I was told to park my truck and RUN. in-
stead of
crash into the city. Then I saw the insurance adjuster, ask-
ing him,
“hey,
how much will it cost.”

“Some

number that doesn’t surprise me.”

I walked to the corner, past a car
dealership which doubled as a
firework
stand
in the summer
when I was young
and still does.

You sit down at a desk, coffee in hand, and you try writing a joke for a humor magazine.

“Yesterday, my roommate Angie suggested that I should try being a male role model. And I totally would, but that would conflict with my dream of being a male fashion model. I have all the qualifications of being a model: I’m pretty tall, about 6 foot 3, I enjoy walking around with a constipated expression on my face, and since I’m Asian, I’ll look twenty-two years old for years to come. So ***** a 401 k and medical insurance, when my genetics will give me reliable job security.”

The sunlight hurts your eyes, the pencil point has dulled, and in the next room it reeks of boiled eggs and spoiled cream cheese. You won’t eat brunch for a month.

Angie watches TV on the couch in the living room, pours ***** into her glass of orange juice, spills a little bit of it on her jeans. Her sunglasses are black and make her look like John Lennon. Of course, she’s wearing a stone’s Tee, so you don’t bother to tell her what you think. Telecommuting has been her life for the past six months. She works as a consultant for Accenture and has traveled to Austin, San Diego, Brooklyn, even Miami. You’ve never been outside of Virginia.

Upstairs in your bedroom, you dress in a button-up: pretend you’re a 20’s something professional, instead of a 25-year-old going through a pseudo-quarter life crisis. Getting fired from the dealership wasn’t as big of a deal as losing out on seeing your coworker’s smile when you give them a donut from Krispy Kreme. When you’re in the bathroom, taking a number two, sometimes, you catch a glimpse of your old manager’s enthusiastic smile, and you feel like you’ve let him down.

Go out to the coffee shop on Main Street, sit by the window, scribble hearts on the margins of your notebook. Try writing another joke.

“Honestly any job is fine with me, but I'm a little afraid of going back into the workforce. The last couple of jobs I worked, happened to be with co-workers who ended up becoming my sister's boyfriends. My sister is in a pretty serious relationship now with a guy I used to work with at a tennis camp. So if I get hired and start working again, there's a very good chance that my sister could end up dating a guy who walks around in his underwear for a living,”

Google: starving artist. Consider the picture for the starving artist: straight, white, male. Ask yourself: why are the envelopes in the mail box, also always: straight, white mail. Golf-clap for the correlation created by your inner poet. Contemplate drinking wine during the day; red. Look for jobs on Indeed.com to pass the time.

“And if modeling doesn't work out and he ends up in a deep and dark depression. No worries, just make sure he eats excessively, and he'll be ready new career path as a sumo wrestler.”

Ask for a job application from the barista with the puppy-dog eyes. When you finish the app, intentionally smudge your handwriting to prevent employers from seeing your professional references. Your last six jobs ended in you getting kicked out; a world class record right? No one inside gives the impression that they want to talk to you. Crack your knuckles. Crack your back. As you casually take a drag from your cigarette next to the “NO-SMOKING” sign, wonder if it life would be different if you were Korean; Japanese; Chinese. Puppy-dog eyed barista bangs on the storefront window, mouths: put the cig out dude. Follow the instruction and feel guilt momentarily.

While you wait for the Wi-Fi homepage to load up, resist the urge to text Angie: how’s your day? Or: “Wanna read a joke I wrote?” Cold beads of water drip down the contour of your thumb; incidentally, nobody gives a **** about mundane detail like the one you just mentioned.

Ask the blue-scarf wearing girl if you can keep an eye out on your computer. She asks: sure, how long will you be gone? Don’t tell her you’re going to the bathroom to throw up last night’s combination of supreme pizza and several shots of Johnny Walker. Tell her: I need to wash my face. She nods and noticeably grins, as though she’s caught you doing something incredibly embarrassing.

Once in the bathroom, look into the mirror. Breathe: once, twice. Your hand starts shaking like saltshakers in a Ying-Yang twin’s music video. Stand over the toilet. Close your eyes before you dip your finger into your mouth. Refrain from thinking about her.

“The worst thing about driving in DC is having people call you out on slow driving. And then they see my face and they're like it’s an Asian thing. And I'm like no it's a speed camera thing. I tell my friends I don't think I'm a bad driver. And they tell me Mario kart doesn't count. I tell them I've never gotten a speeding ticket. And they say but you've been in four accidents. I say yeah but I'm golden in Mario Kart.”

You park your car in the driveway. Angie is sitting on a rocking chair and smoking a cigar. Radiohead plays from laptop speakers. Her eyes are puffy red and you wonder how long has she been sobbing for. Would laughter dry up her tears better than a box of Kleenex?  The grass sways. Cars pass by. And Angie pulls up a chair for you. Sit, ask her what’s wrong, and listen to her story. Wait for her to explain the situation, detail by detail, then tell her your best joke, and watch her face break out into a smile, as the smoke from her cigar vanishes into the air, a space opening up now between you and her.

I
Taking advantage of the milestone age,
Prowling the night by myself,
I pull into an unfamiliar stone ring of parked cars,
Locked the car, and walk-clinked against ground-level stones
Until I pulled the handle of the main door
To my first bar/club entry.
Hesitation and nervousness showed up
When I presented my license identification to the bar staff...
But if they let me in at all,
Suppose I don't give off an adolescent vibe anymore.
Seeing my work boss rock out with his band bros,
Freak Show, turned me from nervousness and silence
Staring at a random TV channel
To responding to Jamie's audience calls,
To dancing like my mom, Robert Barone, and anyone I could think of,
To dancing with other people I never met,
One woman swooning over my self-initiative to dance at all,
And resulted in clogged eardrums
Rock and rolled
Give it time,
This side of me is awakening.

II
After circling Berkeley Springs
And realizing I passed up Hillbilly Heaven bar
[I mistook it for a car dealership],
l crossed the street into a new-to-me adult audience realm.
Outdoor setting, speakers and techno-colored lights,
A mechanical bull available for riding,
*******,
Rock music,
Women grinding each other playfully to the music,
Busts that only my eyes could see to believe,
All under a starry curtain of a sky.

III
Closer to home,
The parking a trick
That took one circular trip to land a legal spot.
Another unroofed setting,
Downed three Sprite sodas,
Pretending to make a pavilion stake
a stripper pole,
dancing slow up-and-down,
Dancing the same stand-still body-rocking moves each song
Only to support the music being brought by Freak Show.
I sat next to a Dr. Pepper co-worker
Who laughed dangerously the entire night I saw him.
I shook my ***** with a stranger woman
Like two Newton ***** clinking each other rhythmically.
Thanks to supporting staff and benefactors!

IV
Taboo Gentlemen's Club,
The security check-in churned my feelings
Into thinking, I was lying,
Lying to myself and to security.
But I wasn't negotiably.
I passed the metal scan
And paid my way in.
Strippers, poles, birthdays
With spanking.
Luxury chairs,
Flying money.
Maybe there's no club I can join,
But there's always room to join the club.

You texted me this morning
When the trees were being assaulted by gales
And the coffee in my *** had been sitting there
For weeks now collecting poison.

It had been a month
And I too, had collected poison
In the form of underage drinking
Tiny piercing viruses, bottle after bottle
In attempted to eradicate brain cells that held a picture of you
On their nucleus.
It didn’t work.

So I tried inhaling glass in to my lungs
Tried passing out so I could land in a coma
But I missed two feet to much to the right
And landed on my frontal lobe
Where you proceeded to dissect me with your tongue.
So when you texted me this morning

Memories came like cancer



I remembered that car dealership
Where you bought the 1960 sky blue Volkswagen bug
With rust on the side,
I remember driving to North Carolina with you
On a Monday morning.
Blistering cold at twilight
And all we did was whisper and hum
To each other
As we drove on empty interstate highways

You taught me how to cross state lines
And eat food so volatile that radioactivity
Spewed from my taste buds,
Down my throat
And in to my rigid spine
Where it shivered like arthritis.

My body isn’t hollow; it’s just frozen
Because tiny tundras fill the fissures in my rotting skin
My bones are brittle ice cubes bulging out from underneath the surface

And if people were snow, I would be a particle on a flake
And you would be Antarctica: vast, mysterious, uncharted, vicious, brutal, untamed,
And you would have had frozen me in to an arctic sculpture
To be hung over your brick stone fireplace
As you stood there watching me melt
With your blue corpse eyes.


It’s 8:34 now,
I’ve stood here for thirty minutes remembering what you once were
A continental mystery on my western cerebral hemisphere.
There was America,
Specifically Georgia
But you spoke Alaskan.
Talked about going there like 18 year olds talked about Europe

Everyone wants an adventure
But all you wanted was to know how it felt like
To have mountains under your palms
And snow peaks over your head.
They called it climbing.
I called it searching.
But those who climb would inevitably know how to fly

If they knew how to let go

So let go darling.
Stop calling me in December to tell me all the great things we did back in August.
If I’d had written down our phones calls
It would be enough to fill a notebook full of parentheses
Because all we did was whisper and say things we didn’t mean.  

So don’t come back and try to freeze me again.
I won’t melt this time, I’ll disintegrate.
I’ll fuse with my fissures
Become tundra and dissolve in to the soil


Where your body is, buried
Beneath layers of cement,
Dirt
And ash.
I place flowers on your head stone every week
But you still keep texting me and texting me
Telling me how great our trip was to North Carolina
And how we can do it all over it again

The whispering, the humming, the parentheses

All I had to do was drink the coffee

If you could only let it drop
we would not need to bear it:
that holy hoity-toity
illiberal burden you announce
from where you wear it.

Would you then be able to live
with your fellow citizens:
fellow toilers in rhyme
buying gluten-free time
at Whole Foods
US; your citizen-neighbors
online cloud of witnesses
Looking at used Subarus
and paying our dues
with you
at the dealership.

Could you only see
through deplorable eyes
and love with a deplorable heart
you would appreciate the art
of the real deal,
loose the seal
of your own apocalypse;
let love reveal
landscapes your pride
has kept hidden for too long.

If you could let your hatred drop,
Slough off the smug and the sneer
If you could stop
signaling to your own
long enough to know REAL diversity, and live
perhaps you’d give
a thought to your own fallibility
lost in a forest of woulds, failing to see
Your neighbor’s Tree of Life. . .
But you are busy perfecting strife,
screaming Timber!
before the axe has even been laid
at the root of your poetry.

If you knew, as the rest of us
how often you have shouted thus
you could understand why
we tend to ignore your warning cry.

Perhaps it could be feasible
to stop blaming
that orange source of all unreasonable
derangement, cease from naming
your neurotic projections
as they are unscrewed
to reveal another inside:
crazed conspiratorial Russian doll
of your own
discredited obsessive offended perpetual alarm.

Last day on the job meant ensuring lines were tight,
tanks filled, hoses pumped,
     boots heavy, dry

Days of volunteering had long gone, years ago
hours of training, gym time, study time,
little time to rest, scant time for family,
     or friends fishing

Last day on the job meant sleeping light
ready for alarm’s alarming alarm,
pushing through lack of sleep,
ever conscious of the task
     the task

Route to the alarm during last day on the job
allowed a precious moment spent wondering about
stretching a fifty-thousand dollar city pension
through twelve months with sufficient money left for
moderate vacations, finishing the basement (finally),
trading in the beater for a “new-to-them” pick-up.

Colleagues wept openly during the last day on the job.
The hardest moments were spent
with the crew Captain making the long walk up the driveway
to break the news to his wife about
     his last day on the job.



Last day in the city was spent with laces tight,
hockey bag full, fans pumped,
     stick taped, dry

Years of minor leagues were well past due
training program’s ritual, airline schedules,
****** steak dinners in greasy spoons
left little time for autographs, rookie card poses,
     or friends fishing

Last day in the city meant sleeping late
through three time zones, restless in anticipation of front desk’s
wake-up call.


On route to the game during last day in the city
included hushed coach and trainer meetings
with news about trades,
draft picks, adequate compensation
including a five-hundred-thousand dollar signing bonus,
full-cost moves, maybe a trophy wife

The hardest moments of that day
were spent withholding tears
during a dealership visit with his girlfriend
to cancel the BMW lease on
     the last day in the city.

A big American auto dealership shining bright
Silver columns glint in the morning light
Displaying brand new cars at different angles and heights
It pops out of the dull landscape like a bright star at night
But it was not so long ago
That we were about to lose this all
And I remember the swan song before the fall
It's amazing it's there now, standing tall
I was living in NYC
Married, my husband and me
and it was all about the SUV
we saw no reason to conserve any energy
The rest of the world was thinking
Our resources are shrinking
Maybe our cars, should, too
And that was really the thing to do
But ask an exec back in Detroit
What to do right now, what is right
And bigger is better like might makes right
Would be the answer, a sorry plight
And then it all crashed and burned
would not work, like an SUV that could not turn
down a narrow street in an older part of town
made before we thought less of me and more of the crowd
And I'm not glad for the greedy execs
but it was really about American workers necks
I'm glad we helped the car industry
Will it happen again? We shall see.

Valentine's Day Shopping...*

She had a
Mercedes’s face,
a Porsche body,
and a Maserati
libido.

Sadly, I was at
the wrong dealership
looking at
the wrong model.

Lucy was majorly bummed,
looked seriously glum,
said her Daddy had taken
her T-Bird away,
wasn’t have much fun
anymore.

I said, “Are you freaking kidding me girl,
clearly you could buy a ‘Vette
& have just as much fun!”

Then she smiled with
that Lucy-gorgeous-smile
& replied,
”**** straight Jonny,
think I’ll head down to the dealership,
check thinks out,
there ain’t no way
Daddy’s gonna rain on my parade!”

I know you have kids to feed,
But I must say what I need,
I am no thief,
I did not steal from you,
And our boss already finished the deal,
I owned what I worked for,
You don't get to carry the sins of the father,
unto the son. Because it suits you.

You curse the dealership for approving deals,
That make you lose money in peels,
But you want my losers,
You have to ask everyone for yours,
I earn mine, and never have to ask anyone.

Please stop accosting me.
Do not tell me, that my father thinks I am Greedy,
Do not tell me that I don't know anything,
That what comes around goes around,
Do not call me, The kinkiest ******* you know,
And say you wont do buisness with me,
Any more,
And then keep coming to me,
And lecturing me,
And riling me up,
And stressing me,
And making my heart burst up,

Leave me alone.
Fight someone else,
To get what you think is yours,
While I'll sleep soundly,
Maybe tomorrow,
Knowing I did what was right.

Folks shopping for a car at a car dealership
is a depressing sight out of the car window.
All the sedentary businesses along route 131
in Michigan were vague. "Distribution Center"
"Shasta Rentals"  "Oasis Family Restaurant"

And PEACE in a flowery calligraphy
on the bumper of a gray dodge neon
on the bumper of a red denali.
A maroon sedan.
A silver-blue ford truck.
A pale red camero.

I-81 North towards Hazleton.
                   Exit to Hazleton.
Merge left away from Mahanoy
City exit.
           Luzerne County crossing.
                             I always thought the spheres on telephone wires were kids' basketballs that got stuck in the sky.
    Three New York plates in half a mile.
                              151 A or B?  
Kelly Clarkson tells me through static that I don't know a thing about her.
    Water beads on plastic cup lids by the "diet" indent, but never goes in.
          Americans are water.
                      Lemonade clots the cuts
                      on my lips.
The car's a few years old but still carries its dealership scent.
                   Adjacent drivers keep their
                   lazy eyes on their phones.
Prismatic flashes through tinted windows from a woman changing CDs.
           Oaks in the distance overtake
           stores and church steeples.
                *The earth is theirs.

Canted at a crazy angle
with arms going wild like an air dancer at a car dealership.
I threw up in the bathroom of one like three weekends ago.
It was awful.

"I think we should just stay as friends-" She said.

"What? Why, is there somebody else?" I replied.

I knew I was wrong to have let you off three months before,
I don't know who was at fault anymore.
You took the keys to his car, the keys to his apartment
And I thought you were just being nice.
I thought you needed a break
I thought you'd come back
And ask for me again,
But I gave you the green light
To "follow your heart."

But you know what,
I know what you haven't realized -
That behind your puppy eyes
And a smile wide enough to back them up
You know, **** well, how to play a man.
Your credit cards (that's right, I know)
You needed someone to pay them off.
Does he know? Bet you haven't told him -
You're just wanting for him to propose.

You didn't have to tell me
His parents owned a dealership
To know that your end game
Was to help him save your credit score.
*******, and your stupid little game
You manipulative "******" *****,
I got to know the person that you really were.
He doesn't stand a chance
Knowing what you really want,
And that you're playing him straight
Into losing half of his inheritance.

To tell you the truth I'm not sure about what I grieve.
I don't know if it's you or myself to blame,
I was too easy and only used half a brain
To realize that money was the only thing
You cared about and made your hear content.

The old cashier at the car dealership,
she chain-smoked skinny, long cigarettes
all day, every day.
Her voice sounded like a bullfrog
that recently learned how to curse and laugh.
The crease lines around her mouth
and the folds in her neck
conveyed a relaxed style, confidence
earned from a hard life
and dangerous choices.

Sometimes there were no customers
in front of the cashier’s window
and no mechanics busting her chops.
That's when she’d rest her elbows on the counter
and cradle a skinny cigarette
between ******* near her cheek.
That woman’s eyes would gaze outside,
glossed over in what looked like daydreams
about all those lovers, in their graves,
and their cliché widows
with their tiresome grandchildren
and their sanitized lives.

Back in the day,
men in gray suits and skinny ties
never could resist her,
but then again,
so few ever tried.