The kind of cars
that I like,
are those 87' monte carlos,
subs
big as aircraft carriers
in the back.

Gold spoke
wheels,
able to turn
holes in the sky.

Chameleon
paint jobs,
green
and full
in the sun,
fading to black
and
glossy
in the shadows.

When I was a teenager,
the kings
used to ride by
in the
monte carlos
with open
windows
letting loose
a humbling roar
so loud
that it
put
ubiquitous vapors
into
the air.

The neighborhood smelled
like the thumping
and the hard hum
of their vibrating
windshields.

The kings
always
let the car slide slowly
in neutral,

and as they took
stock of their domain,
Their glossy gold fronts
made you realize
why gold
was
so important
each tooth looked like
a tablet of commandments.

Our wife-beaters
were
stained with ketchup
and other things
that bleach could never
get out,
and we smelled
funny.

But the kings
wore hawaiian shirts
and smoked
cigars.

The kings
were the preachers.


One of the kings
was Luke's brother,

whenever he stopped at a corner
we'd pile around
putting our fingerprints everywhere
until
he told us
to
"*******,
don't you have any
home-training?"

Luke would stand closest,
squinting
as he leaned on the driver-side
window,
all that bass
hammering
his bones.

"How much
did you pay for it?"
Reggie would ask
from the back,
peeking his head over,
trying to see
the king.

The king would smile,
and say
"enough."

we'd all be rapt.

He'd get a call
on his cellphone,
and we
would come up
with crazy numbers.

Luke didn't even know
how much
was
"enough".

The kings held the secret
of god
and power.

I wanted to be as close to god
as they were,
I wanted to know the secret
to contentment.

I wanted to come back home
with money like
the kings with gold teeth.