The Lake Pontchartrain Causeway… man that’s one long bridge
I drive it every day for my pay - here’s what I see along the way

Here comes:
Corvette Kary, setting pace, he thinks he’s in a race
When Kary’s not waxing his ride, for your safety you'd best pull aside

Petrified Patty, she’s over water and has never learned how to swim
She’s driving a white Lexus, so scared she has no reflexus

Miata Mike, chasing Kary's Vette, not gonna get too far
Trying to convince himself, he didn’t buy a girly car

Watch out for:

Makeup Mary, on cruise-control, wow she’s one of the worst
She loves her new Camry, but her next car might just be a hearse

Yes, that Causeway, can be a long and boring ride
And if you get a flat… there’s no place to pull aside
Oh but that Causeway has its points, take time to see
24 miles of entertainment, and the Northbound way is free

Here comes:

Road Rage Randy, always ****** and he doesn't know why
Today he’s running late, but finds time to escalate

Doughnut Danny, rolling breakfast and a tea
Such mechanized efficiency, has a newspaper on his knee

Wackin Wayne, you're kidding me, you thought I couldn't see?  Vibrating Virginia close behind, now we have equality

We've got:

Maypop Marty, thinks tires last forever
Does he even check the air?.... never

Mark The Spark needs a muffler shop, something heavy about to drop.  Comes Innocent Mike on his motorbike too bad he just couldn't stop.

Headphone Harry and his Pandora, he's here but also... he's not.  He likes his music best, you see, after a few long tokes of his ***.

Fugitive Fred on the go, at 65 point ooo.  Not a mile to fast or to slow, got to blend in on this bridge don't you know.

Yes that old Causeway, can be a long and boring ride
And if you get a flat… there’s no place to pull aside
Oh but that Causeway, has its points, take time to see
The mechanized circus on parade, our hilarious humanity

Don’t forget:

Frozen Frita, every rainstorm stops her dead in her track
Then here comes Ramin’ Ron, goin 60, aint too good for her back

No Tie-down Tim, **** flyin’ out of his truck
For everyone behind him, Tim doesn’t give a ****

NPR Nancy, she must be in a “Driveway Moment”
Only problem is, she’s on a god-**** bridge

Texting Theresa, I’ve saved the best for last
The last thing in life she did see, was an idiotic emoji

Lookin’ Lee, that’s me, pretty sad that I’m just as bad
Come join us nuts on the Causeway, might be the most fun you ever had

(rust if you must)

I like the way you get me where I go
in any kind of weather , like snow.
i love the freedom i have when i ride
in the drivers seat of you inside.
I dig the tunes we play along our path
I cant afford a New you , i have done the math.
But I love you no matter what others may think
you've Never thrown me of a cliff
or left me at the brink, i think
I drive to and fro to get me where i go
and No better car i own , so now i Say it So...
Rust if you Must , for i don't care about your Looks,
i can study about your kinds repair, if i should read Those books
Rust If you Must , I will always Love you,
For to Me My Camry have you Always been True.  :D
                                                              Brain M.O.G.

It started hot and passionate and blinding.
Then it ran,
ran from me
faster than the alpine highway or
an Afro over your cute lisp.

And a bus leaves for 13 colonies and 14 days and
pictures are all I have.
Colorful but in
50 shades of grey.
Then never a breath from you
on the home front.
And disappointment marks my eyes.

Running all over town with eyes
like video cameras and
minds like a metal detector.
We wish we could be a fly on the wall or a plant in the earth or a new hair on your chin.
All moments,
every moment,
we know.
My fiend.
Detect this on your police detector.
Little blue Honda that looks tan in the sun.

White Camry.
Up the street then back down.
Serpentine through the neighborhoods
hoping to see a familiar body,
but not be seen ourselves.
Every day
till July 15.
Then waving goodbye to an empty house I once knew.
Where I stayed too long and talked too much about nothing.
Too many memories to remember and flash before my heart.
Then I blink and they're gone and we've passed it.

And finally I've mimicked Taylor Swift
and wrote a song about Paris.
And boys in Montreal.
Late hours. Early hours.
All hours.
Spent engulfed in our own music from our minds.

Military men. Marines that cheat and break hearts.
not enough sleep.
Lots of tire on asphalt.
Up and down and up and down and back again.
Not enough French
and a brand new white iPhone.

And the sun sets on another day
and still the one thing I want
doesn't go my way.

"It gets better" they tell you
Maybe they are right.

As I sway among a blurry haze
Of friends and guitar riffs
Arms around his neck
It feels like this "better" they always told me about.

But why don't they warn you
About the nights that feel like high school
And heartbreak and
Disappointment

That just because he looks and feels
A lot more like a man
Doesn't mean that he is one

That the same songs that cleared your mind
On a long quiet road at 7:00 am
Years ago
Would be what comforted you
In a lonely, tear soaked bed
Tonight.

Maybe I am still a girl.

For a week straight, I avoided going to the supermarket, even when my stomach grumbled and the fridge stayed empty and lonely. And instead, I looked through my binoculars from the tree house my dad had built with a few planks of wood, nails, and a rusty hammer. A place he’d built before I was put into my mother’s arms and put into a bright blue cradle. Blue as the shirt Abigail was wearing, the same day the cops busted her for giving head to my best friend Isaac in my Toyota Camry. Right in the middle of the parking lot of the supermarket, as I bought pancake batter and cage-free eggs for breakfast.

And Abigail never ate that meal after she spent a week wasting away in a cell block, reading JD Salinger stories over and over, as though his words could heal her marks and bruises.

Today, I made pancakes and eggs for breakfast.  I waited for the TV to load a Netflix show, hoping Abigail had learned from her mistakes. She passed me the salt and pepper shakers, as I lit a cigarette, sat in a chair, and smoldered.

Abigail put her face in her hands, cried for a bit, even reached for the ***** bottle.

We went to the supermarket later, walked down one aisle, and picked up meat and potatoes. As we headed for the self-checkout line, I passed the breakfast section and saw the pancake batter and the eggs. Abigail crumbled to the floor, said, “I’m so sorry.”

After that, we never touched breakfast.

White Interceptors illuminate, cry, and leave ribbons of red and blue,
  accelerating north on Featherbed. Streetlamps hang like midnight ornaments.

It starts to rain, turning the tar streets into slick mirrors.
  I can see my lights lead me, sweeping the asphalt.

Kent is still too dangerous to gentrify. The trashcans are spilling
  cereal boxes and empty two liters. I imagine a two-thousand year-old
mountain of trash, corroding and forming this neighborhood.

  Barefoot children walk around aluminum cakes, reaching for the rain.

Skinny cats trot across the street, green and yellow eyes,
  leaking through the dark. I name them after sicknesses.

The humming of my Camry grows louder as I squeeze by
  dripping, patting hands. I now recognize the moon.

Buildings swoosh by faster and faster. Minutes go by and I
  find myself on the outskirts; the trees sway, dodging rain.

My phone rings like a frenzied roach. Picking it up,
  'Hello.'

'Sure. Yeah, I'll be right there.
  'Nowhere.
    'I'm going nowhere.'

The phone bounces on the grey seat. A screeching.
  Coming to a stop; my chest almost touching the center
of the steering wheel. All becomes still.

  A buck with velvet antlers stands in the rain.
It runs into the dancing forest. Much like me.

He picked up his last check and proceeded out the building into the cold winter snow.  
Each footprint shaped like the tears streaming down his rough beard. Snowflake after snowflake each touching him with a cold flame, melting away the emotional armour revealing a little boy.
Entering the 96’ camry he starts the ignition, as the car slowly chokes out the cold air…
He sits there…
staring out the windshield, as the night incarcerates him.
Entering a mental Interrogation where there is no good or bad cop, just a man asking himself
“Why me?”
“Why now?”
“How am I supposed to…?”
“What I am I supposed to…?”

He strikes the steering wheel like hammer and nail.

Mouth silent, eyes screaming…

Minutes down the slushy road he arrives at the one story home. Approaches the small black door,  opens it and is tackled by four warm children.  
Each building back new pieces of armour within him. Their smiles and laughter freed him from the cold dark imprisonment into the new flickering flame of faith and freedom.

If only they could see his
worried thoughts
and beneath his eyes,
eyes that only revealed a good time...

If only they could see a man's cry.

Today was the first time I saw my grandfather since his passing.
He had a chubbier face
and was behind the wheel of a red Toyota Camry
next to a woman who wasn't my grandmother.  
Becca was in the passenger seat beside me.  
She didn't see my knuckles turn white
as I gripped the steering wheel tighter.  
Then the light told me I could go.  
She didn't see tears fall as I accelarated into the intersection
when all I wanted to do was turn around follow
the man who wasn't my grandpa
in a car that wasn't his
to a house I'd never seen before
and wouldn't miss when I left.

She’s got her
Legs wrapped around
My thighs
Like blood-filled vines.

She pushes my ******
In and out.

Kisses
Me
hard,
like she wants
To bite off my jaw.

“sometimes I hate you,
Really,
Sometimes I love you,
but not as much
As I hate you.”

she says.

Before,
The first time,
When *** was just a game
And we were kids
Who didn’t know which hole
Was which,
it was good.

Now it’s a witch’s brew.

When I look into her eyes
She spews poison,
Like it’s her passion.

And her mouth won’t stop
Exploding, because
She talks in artillery
And thinks of me
In games and warfare.

How did we get here?

Was it something
I said,

probably what

I did.



It was so dark
And cold the night
**** went downhill.

And there was no one out
It almost felt safe.

Nothing left but intimacy
a hungry phallus
And drunk love
for the tired young man

*******

his girl

In the back of his Camry.

He was Tired
already, ready to die,
Too much romanticism in a
165 pound kid.



He tried to maneuver himself
So that she sat on his ****
and he could check the rearview
For creepers,
and at the worst,

Cops.

but all he could see

In the mirror

Was her going

Up

And

Down:

Naked; Beautiful.

Her Brown skin burned

against his.

Her *** looked like
It was going to fall off
She was going so fast.

Her black eyes punctured

through him like she was taking
core samples.

She was

going to take everything

and leave nothing behind.



Wiggling like broken
Cogs, he and her scrambled
As the lights flashed
Blue and red
And he scrambled
To pull his **** out of her,
as he
Came, and some got
On his legs
And even in her *****.

And for a moment

He feared and hoped
He would be a father,

A proper father.



The cop shined
His light, and tapped the window.
She snapped her bra On
underneath her shirt.

The boy zipped his pants up
like he had a gun.

The cop really thought he had one.

the cop backed away

and started yelling
“GET OUT OF THE CAR!”

The boy didn’t say anything,

He just sat there.

The girl was crying silently.

The cop was still yelling.
“GET OUT OF THE CAR,NOW!”

He just sat there.

The cop was still yelling.

The girl was
Still
Crying,
Silently.

“DO YOU HEAR ME? GET OUT OF THE ******* CAR!”

He hops out.

The cop wrestles him to the ground.

There’s broken Coors bottles down there,
And cigarette butts.

Some left-over
Beer gets in his nose
And he inhales a *** of asphalt and alcohol.

The cop is pushing his face into the ground,
It feels like a car crash.

The boy feels like his nose
Is about to break,
Little blood vessels
Burst as red streamers
come out of both holes
And drip onto the refuse.

He can barely breathe.

Each breath is full of more blood
Than left-over beer.

He can taste the iron in his
Throat.

That was once a good drink
And a good smoke.

Now it’s nothing.

Now nothing is finally nothing.



The cuffs snap
On cold,
colder
Than the way his body
Felt when he saw those blues
And reds.


She remains in the car,
Like a woman in confession.
Her penance will
Be over shortly.

She will be taken home,
and her parents
Will forgive her.



But the boy will not be fed.
The cop will forget.
And the girl will sleep
As silently as a knife
In a drawer.

This is how it ends.
This is where I am
When she has her legs
Wrapped around me.

This is a poem
about the day we first met,
and how you'd always say you knew
before even talking to me
that we'd get along.

This is a poem
about the book I was reading on day two,
and how you made fun of me
because some of the pages
still had pictures.

This is a poem
about your nickname,
and how I always thought it suited you
since it reminded me
of coffee mugs.

This is a poem
about your eyes,
and how they'd crinkle at the corners
and sparkle a lot
whenever you laughed.

This is a poem
about your laugh,
and how even though it was way too loud
it always sounded
a lot like music to me.

This is a poem
about a leather chair,
and how we'd always argue
over who got to sit in it
but ended up sharing anyway.

This is a poem
about my first kiss,
and how it took you way too long
to pick up on subtleties
but you made up for it pretty well.

This is a poem
about your beat-up Camry,
and how whenever I'd ask you
where we were driving this time
you'd only ever say "forward" or "adventure."

This is a poem
about clichés,
and how whenever I'm describing you
they're the only thing that comes to mind
even though I know it's lame.

This is a poem
about the first time I fell in love,
and how through everything that happened
I couldn't have asked for
a better first than you.

This is a poem
about the church parking lot,
and how the way you said goodbye
made me feel literally sick
and I didn't think the hurt would go away.

This is a poem
about you,
and how I can't still imagine myself
with anyone more amazing
than everything you were.

This is a poem
about us,
and how the ending came too soon
but I still wouldn't dare go back
to ever change a single moment.

The isolation is intense at times
Sylvia Plath called it a Bell Jar
My boring day to day
My mind foreign far

Death will be release
Every cut leaves a scar
Pythagoras of Samos in Greece
Azul y Verde El Mar

          My little Japanese car

I don't think I could do press conferences
Or television cameras
Or interviews with journalists
Or the Noble Prize

I got 3 rooms plus a bathroom
A 2011 used Toyota Camry
2 basketballs
Irish eyes

Bobby and Alicia
Doon and Lina
Soren and Regine
Gandalf the Wise

Sad
Lonely
Bipolar
Abused

     But I still tries.

Closing took an extra half an hour. Not that I minded, that was just more money in the bank. My foot was itching to press the gas behind a silver Camry, impatient to munch a few Tylenol pm and put the world on pause. I merged left slipping past, I noticed a little hand. A cinnamon child, cherubic and fresh putting her head out the car window. Her little head nested between her folded arms, her hair a coiled ebony flame. I remembered that; remembered that girl. I was that girl. Bathing myself in the wind, tasting the air from the passenger side window. Her eyes closed like iridescent oyster shells, her hope worn like a jacket. She had not a fear of the world, not jaded, not cynical, not damaged. I gazed at her in admiration, this brave little lioness. Sometimes it's the small things that pick us back up.

Franz left his car keys in the backseat of his Camry,
He was locked out,
He was jimmying the door with a Swiss Army knife,
Trying to pry it open.

I just got out of class,
I held the knife as he pulled at the door handle,
Keeping him company.

Then there was a man behind us,
Yelling at both Franz and me.

Put your hands up and step away from the car,
A police cruiser pulled up,
Two more men jumped out
Already armed,
Guns drawn,
Aimed right between my eyes,
I can look down the barrels,
See glimmers of copper.

Put your hands behind your head,
Oh **** we're ******* dead,
Get on your knees,
Don't look away, look at me,
We both did what the men with badges and guns said,
We tried to explain ourselves.

One man picked me up off the asphalt,
Walked me over,
And pinned me on the hood of the cruiser,
The paint was fresh.

Another man took my backpack,
Shook out the contents,
His smirk told me he wasn't satisfied, not yet.

He then searched through my jacket pockets,
Patted me down,
A dark kid in nice clothes.

It all seems to check out.

I am from my family,
From the tree that I half-know,
From the half that I don’t know,
From the substitute half given,
To give me room to grow,
To at least semi-know,
What its like,
To know the whole tree,

I am from the friends I didn’t have,
And the friends I have now,

I am from the struggles of life,
And the disability’s,
That made it thrice as hard,

I am from the gifts,
Three of them all in a row,
That gives me eyes to see,
What others don’t want to know,
That gives me a heart wide open,
To help me give so much,
And hurt even more,
At the words thrown at me,
That gives me ears to hear,
What others never will,
That gives me hands to touch,
What others cast away,
That gives me feet to walk,
A path that others daren’t think to,
That gives me a mind to part,
The fog of misconception,
That gives me wild paths with a hundred choices each,
And a mind that likes them all,

I am from the uncertainty of what I shall do,
When the high school path ends,
And the college path begins,

I am from the times,
Of soccer ***** and dads’

I am from the middle house,
With a red door and a porch,
With a crab-apple tree,
With a Toyota Celica and a Toyota Camry,
And web-collecting Moses bushes,
With beige walls,
With a closet to the right and a bathroom straight ahead in the foyer,
With a red couch and a cabinet framed TV,
With a mirror on the wall and shelves up above,
With a once-white carpet and a computer,
With a book shelve set into the wall and an old broken inherited radio,
With hardwood floors in the kitchen-dining room and an old wobbly wooden dining table,
With a counter of doom and a pantry,
With white carpeted stars that lead up to the rooms and down to the family room-basement, bathroom, office, and laundry room,
With the master bedroom and after nightmare cuddle sessions,
With my old room, now my brothers, with yellow walls and a castle mural painted by my Mom,
With my playroom, then nursery, then my room again, with blue walls and clouds on one side over white wooden borders,
With door less closet and Joes’ old bed,
With a pink cubby-bookshelf and old wooden dresser,
And stained floors.

Half JDM car
It's falling apart
But it will go far
Wanna be tuner
But just a ricer
But ain't no lier
I know I am slow
But I'm not low
Coupe with TRD badges
Can't win any race matches
Camry engine listen to her sing
Hatch on the back big tall dragon wing
Four banging pipe hanging
No muffler the rice machine
Listen to her scream as I drive
Fake hood scoop make WRX cry
Waking the neighbors
Making the papers
Wanted by police
They lookin' for me
Broke parts don't stop me
I'm so shook to hear
You hurtin' my ears
You breaking me heart
Who you think you are?
To judge my own car
Leave me alone
Shouldn't have shown
You this ride
To judge every night
Go and leave my freakin' sight
You life leeching parasite

"I love the sound of rain on the roof of a car, knowing you're inside, warm and dry" my father once said to me
"Until you get out," I responded, gazing into the night
"Until you get out," he confirmed.
And in that moment, on that rainy August night
I realized he was my car, keeping me dry from a world of rain
And at 19 I am starting to open the door,
Put my feet on the ground and try to keep them from getting wet
But home is always there
Whether I sit in the car and wait
or run outside, trying to beat the cloud from bottoming out
The world from bottoming out
To hell with metaphors
To similes and references
I don't need rain
Or an old camry
To describe how my father has always been there
To protect and shelter
And teach me to appreciate the little things
That you don't need much to be happy
And to work hard, earn that car that sits in your driveway
And lets you listen to the rain on the roof
And for a moment, just a moment
Time stands still
Like a raindrop descending from the clouds
And making its way all the way to the ground
Running down the windshield
Tracing the trail it leaves behind with my eyes
And while the world is waiting for that raindrop
I am just happy to sit and listen to the rain
With the man who taught me that when the rain does come
To sit in the car and listen to it with the people that you love.

The man of Tao
Seems dull
And confused

He is not driven on
By some shouting voice

Aimless and wandering

The customer service representative
Was a bit obnoxious

"What you can do
Is have a seat over there
For me please"

Okay?

I sat after a few moments

He just could have said,
"You are welcome
to have a seat, if you would like"

It's fine

What a terrible job
Working at a rental car place

A hierarchy of sales representatives
Trying to climb some ladder

I got the car
So I have it to go to work tomorrow

Drive carefully
Extra carefully
I remind myself

The car is a big boat
A big unwieldy Camry boat
Blah

Wish they would have had a Jetta there

it was late in the evening & on the street
had my body kit waxed on my Camry
fenders had a slasp of silver so did the rims
stero was blasting to my favorite song
Like Michael Jackson & Stevie B
rolled into my neighborhood bar many looked out at my car
I was fixing to put one on slamming back drinks until I couldn't even think
out in the back was the girl of my dreams named Sara
I smiled in her direction needing some sweet affection
much to my surprise she had a bun in the oven from her secong cousin
was it any wonder i had too much time on my hands
Still I made a play for sweet Sara
she was so very nervous i could hear it in her voice
but it was my choice to dance with her in the middle
perhaps i was playing second fiddle or loosing the ball in a dribble
that's why they call me the smooth operator today
I used my many talents that God gave me
but I was a dear gentleman to Sara and raised her baby as our own
took a chance in the dark in that i lit the spark to what i was waiting for
although the many years have passed still having every reason to grasp
how much a love can grow the strong beat of the tempo
in the way we should go
so today I still wax my Camry with every fiber in me
the times have changed but the love still grows
been knocked to the ground but my hope still shows
now every place that I go I'm known as the smooth operator
would you like another ice cream flavor
it's just sugar & spice with everything nice
once this life is through no second chance to roll twice

Once upon a time
I was cursed to follow a woman,
Her bed was the alter of my sacrifice.
    I had three jobs
To pay for her extravagant lifestyle,
    I robbed the local convenience store
to pay for her ttaste in expensive jewelry,
    I have checks made of rubber
That bounce from mall to mall,
   I could not stop myself
For I was fearful she might scorn
Me with her luscious lips,
Stare at me with those entrancing eyes!
  It wasn't always like those,
Before we used to date and eat ice cream
At the park,
Drink at the cabana place I know,
We would make love til the morning.

      But the years went by and I fell
In her web of mysteriousness,
She would wear these dresses
With nothing under and flash me
In privately in public places,
     She would contort her body
That wrote new chaoters in the
Kama Sutra, I was a poor boy
Lost in a world of candy.
Then, she threatened to take
Away all the sweets if I did not
Stop talking to my friends,
    And to make sure this came to
Be she hacked my Facebook page
And said I hated them all,
Each by name,
   She was in a jealous delirious state.
     When I get home from work
She makes me kiss her on her cheek,
The her forehead and slap her on her
Backside, she makes me talk
About which dress I will buy her next,
    Of what make her next shoes I will
Surprise her with, a pair a month
As a surprise, aside from the ones she
Expects on demand,
     My ears burn, I know she is near,
I throw up at how much I know about
women's clothing,
I fainted when she bought her
twentieth purse,
She then says for fainting she had to go
Rethink our relationship so she
Takes her mother on vacation
With my recently cashed 401k.

Its been some years now,
I stopped the three jobs and held on
To one, she did not mind
After I passed her credit check.
    But the woman accused me of not
Loving her and wasting her best years
Because I refused to buy her
A car, she could not drive,
So she brings her Mother home to visit
And after a month I buy her a Camry,
      Her eyes flash in anger because
It was not go to the year,
The new models came out next month
But it was the same year as it is now,
So I have no clue what she is babbling
About,
    I then walked out and lived as a homeless
Man for a few weeks,
I slept in the park and found peace in
Hunger, but the law would
Not let me stay there,
So then I went on to pretend I was
A joyous hobo,
And I lived in a small tent village
With others like me,
Many whom had left their
Crazy wives.

   One day I got a surprise kiss on my cheek,
It was her,
She had found me and I was horribly glad
To see her again,
But I thought I didn't love her anymore.
She holds my hand and says
That she will take care of me now,
That all my troubles are over.
She has bought me a plot
Of land with my tombstone
She said,
That I would be with her the rest of our
Days she said.
I told her I could use a break
From all the wild life,
Get me some food woman,
And a beer to boot.
As I wait for my new old wife,
I kick my feet up and watch
The game,
Next to the remote I notice the picture
Of my tombstone from
Some photo she took,
On it was my date of birth,
And mysteriously my date of....

Don't get into that car I scream
But I am trapped on the opposite side
of plastic window panes
Don't take her away
she's barely sixteen
all alone this time
(God, I'm glad its not me)
Don't get into that car I whisper
to a black Toyota Camry
sitting in the street
waiting, just waiting
for its quarterly visit
Don't get into that car I exclaim
to a black and white bumper sticker
that says "read" in chunky (ironic) block letters
Don't get into that car I choke out
to the four wheeled death trap
that takes away my sister
on an eight hour journey
back to childhood misery
that I myself
have only just aged out of
Don't get into the car I say
to the exhaust that's left in my sister's
wake.
(knowing it will make no difference)

WAKINGUP...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~­~~~~~~~
I couldn't sleep again
only remembering thoughts
scattered like puzzle pieces
of back when
I was told in school
making friends comes second
happiness comes third...


MEANWHILE ATSCHOOL...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~­~~~~~~~
in poetry class
we were shown
how words can make hearts melt like snow
and that we each have the power
to thaw out the cold
from anybody with a kindle in their soul


AFTER SCHOOL...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~­~~~~~
in a parking lot
alone in my 98 Camry
I didn't just **** the engine
I snapped the cars personified neck
with the flick of my shaking hand

I hold a pen
a beautiful pen
from the girl who sat behind me in
poetry

from the glovebox
I hold a gun
a powerful fierce magnum
that spits fire across my temple
helping me get some sleep I've been dreaming
of...

A Toyota's a Toyota
I'm about to drive again
It's been a couple years
Look out USA!

See me up in Boston
See me Shakespeare Staunton
See me to Seattle
Lonely Lost Highway

Gonna visit my young children
Maybe an old friend
Maybe Florida
Cannot truly say

Concerts once again
Movies in the darkness
Irish restaurants
Are fairies truly fey?

Our teacher taught us about beautiful places
With the blinds drawn shut so we could see them on the overhead
The face on the mountain has since been washed away
The oak tree outside the window grows tall and strong to this day

The Amazon is disappearing
The projects down the street are still there
Nestled between dry sandy lots and convenience stores

Antarctica is cracking and melting into the sea
But I still drive by the 3rd-grade classroom
And see that same rusted green Camry parked across the street

And those things are beautiful to me
But I'm the only one, it seems, to see how
The power of the everyday, the unremarkable
Can leave you that mark, the one called beauty

And maybe I'm wrong but I feel it's my duty to inform you
That tropical jungles and mountain vistas are just a burden
Right now my thoughts are sporadic like a finch indoors
So I just open up my window and let that bird out

And while my brain is poked outside
I just take a moment to notice that house across the street from mine The bluish one I could've sworn had shutters

I notice the browning grass underneath the AC
The cracks on the sidewalk where the tree roots once reached for the sky
I notice the marks on the road where the car swerved and skidded to a stop
To avoid the now cracked telephone pole
And I see how they never really fade away
I remember that he was so young when it happened
But that I was just a stupid kid
And I think about what each day means to all of us
And how beautiful that really is

Often, I find myself thinking about all the people who I no longer speak to. I’m constantly lost in thought over every person who I will never see again.
I think about the best friend I had in preschool, the school nurse who made me a better person. I think about the two old women who were always waiting at the bus stop in front of my house. It’s not as if they died but it has been years since we’ve seen each other and I don’t know if we will ever meet again.

Sometimes I’ll watch T.V. and an old show will be on; a show that’s been off the air for years now. I like to watch the last season of those shows. It will occasionally take the audience back to a character that hasn’t been seen since the first season. Maybe it’ll even mention what they’ve been up to, who they are now.

When I was a kid, I used to think of my life in seasons. I used to keep an eye out for old friends. I used to find joy in running into a former algebra teacher. Or my brother’s childhood best friend. It felt like things were tying themselves up into a neat, little bow.

But I’m starting to think life doesn’t work that way.

I’m always looking for these people who I will probably never see again. I’ve gone on long walks, purely concentrated on remembering the last name of my favorite bus driver. I’m thinking about everyonet all day long.
I think about all the places I’ve been without realizing that I have been there for the last time. The pediatrics department of my doctors office. The Treasure Island hotel in Las Vegas that I have not stayed at since I was 7.

I think about all the moments in my life, big or small. that shaped the person I am today without even realizing they were those moments.

I’ve always had a bad perception of time. I’ve never been able to sit down somewhere and tell the difference between an hour passing by compared to five minutes.

But that perception is not limited to numbers on a clock. It is not just a matter of figuring out the time. It is a matter of staying in the right time.

I’m 22 but I was just eleven years old yesterday. I was walking home from school. It was 4 O’clock on a cloudy Friday. When I walked in the door, my brother was watching Family Guy and started to tell me about his day. Now that same brother has a wife and two children and lives eight hours away from me.

I’m 22 years old. I’m single, no children. The other day I was driving down the street and my mind jumped ahead to a day in the future where this car will no longer be around. The engine will be dead, the parts will be scrapped, and I’ll have two kids and a wife. I’ll be driving down the street with car seats in the backseat of my minivan. And I’ll see a Toyota Camry parked on a street somewhere.

I’ll think that today, right now, was such a long time ago.

Sometimes I look at my parents and I think about them in their twenties. I see them as the same age that I am. I wonder if we would have been friends.

I once picked up my niece while she was napping and carried her to bed. I laid her down, took her shoes off, and pulled a blanket up over her. I tried to picture her as a sixteen year old. I tried to picture this little person, who comes up and asks to open playdough, will still want to talk to me.
My nephew is only two. He’s a verbal late bloomer. I think about the times he will someday come home from school and tell me about his day. Or maybe he will be just as quiet as he is now.

I think I might be a time traveler. I’m always all over the place.

The other day I pulled off the freeway and onto the side of the road. I broke down into gasping sobs because my uncle had died. He passed away when I was 16. I think that was the first time I realized he was never coming home again.I think that was the first time I ever cried for him.  

Time is tricky. People say I have an old soul but maybe I just have old eyes. Maybe that’s why I’m stressing out on a mortgage bill that’s due on a house that I’m not even close to owning yet.
The other day, I had felt this deep sadness all day long. People kept asking me what was wrong but I thought it would have been silly to say that once, when I was 6 years old, my mother bought me a balloon at a park and it floated away and I’m still upset over it.

People aren’t like seasons. One day they’re here, the next they’re gone.
People aren’t like anything else around.
When it’s been sunny for awhile, I always know it will rain again, eventually. When I plant a tree, I know it’ll either grow. Or it’ll die. I won’t just look outside one day at a tree that has run away from home.
I don’t know if I’ll see certain people again.
I don’t know what has happened or what might happened.

Time has always been a tricky thing for me.

I try to make constants in my life.

Little anchors that let me know that this life is still my life.
Like when you see a silver car in a parking lot with a bunch of other silver cars, and you can still somehow recognize which one is your car.

I like to drink coffee. I always have.

It’s one of my constants. I drank coffee throughout my childhood and I drink coffee now.
I probably always will.
On the mornings when I shockingly have nothing to do, I like to make myself a big *** of coffee. It doesn’t matter if I’m at home or not. I’ve made coffee in hotel rooms, I’ve made coffee in ex lovers apartments. Even if it is not very good coffee.

My 8 year old hands hold onto the coffee mug, letting it’s warmth seep through my entire body. I’ll sit down, close to a window somewhere.
My 22 year old eyes taking in all the sites. I have drank coffee on windy fall mornings. I’ve drank coffee in a motel right next to the beach. I like to watch the waves hit the water. I like to watch joggers jog by the house.
I like to drink my coffee and look outside at my grandchildren playing in the backyard.

My one, true constant.

I’ll take a sip from that coffee, from whenever I am. And I’ll start to think about all the people I have seen for the last time.

And all the ones I have met to meet for the first time.

The truck to the right is lumbering on beside me
Inches away
The red toyota camry to the the left drifting near
This is how it feels for me to be close with you
Claustrophobic

Let’s pretend you’re someone else I whisper
to my champagne camry: a green monster

truck or a slim chopper fueled by havoc. I enact the same
fantasy stroking my neck beard in the mirror.

Will these bottle cap earrings compromise my don’t **** with me aura?
What about magenta nail polish? What about blue irises?

Those brown halos around your pupils: the first and only time my lips sheltered
yours. I gripped your arm and swallowed some spit, letting my mustache

pins tickle your stubbly chin. You, too, are a memory I displace in reflection.
I’d never do that again and I really haven’t—it was the white stuffed in our noses,

it was because no one else was around. We were friends; I’m
still too young for exile. Although I admit that the red lips I’ve drained

since have never turned blue like yours, that potent indigo
camouflaging your bushy eyebrows and sasquatch legs.

In the driver’s seat I spot the burn streak on the frayed ceiling
—the accidental joint bristling the top after the momentary us.

I could've let the ash tumble among the crevices instead of
blighting the interior, but I didn’t. Instead a black indelible

Rubicon, one I surely hadn’t mean to cross, greets me
every time I strap myself to the wheel of this engine.

Let’s pretend I’m someone else I recite in the rear view mirror.
The pretty woman at the drive thru window slides her number between

the fries & burger combo. I’ll never call, but I keep the napkin in my wallet,
on the off chance that one day I’ll be someone who would.

There are the days
When the mind is so sluggish
The imagination so depleted
Passion, desire, motivation
Evaporated

That all I'm left with
Is life
And all of its beautiful
Mundaneness

How do I describe
The lack of energy?

How do I describe
The depression
That keeps me from me?

How do I mute
The voices
That voice there
Knowingly
Consciously
Purposefully

There is a mad rhythm
In all of this
In all of us
And some days it's simply there
Underneath the fingertips
In the mind
In the soul
In the heart
And onto

The page

Other days
This day
This hour
This minute
This second

There is nothing but the objective truth
Of my fan whirring
Pushing air that mixes with this 9:40 PM
Early summer breeze
Warm neon orange reflecting on the
Silver moon Camry across the street
The pavement dry and littered with cold dog ****
With the rumbling echo of a plane filling the night sky

I put these down
These setting details
And I worry about the mechanics
Of such things

Wishing I didn't recognize
These things
Wishing I was as new to all this
Ignorant to the purpose
Of the proposed
As I was when I was a child
Not thinking about word choice
Page count
Structure, themes, authorial interpretation
Twitter followers and re-tweets

Is this what
This is now?

A game
Of
Outdoing
Yourself?

Of elbowing your way
To a seat
At the table?

Is this
What it's always
Been?

Is this
What it will always
Be?