"glovebox" poems
i love you this morning
it's a come home safe morning
fog on the road
& no seatbelt kind of morning
the sun is over easy
& nothing's on fire
there's punctuation
where i don't want it
and extra love
in the glovebox of my car
been thinking about being honest
how these poems are all me
but they tell the story
how someone else
might believe it happened
within reasonable doubt
no copy & pasted love letters
no 'who ever says hello first gets my attention for the day'
try a little tenderness
in my ears and today
there are instruments
in the back of my head
i think you love me
because i'm sunburned
felt it in a 'come hell or high water' kinda way, that 'touched from far away' kinda way that 'if i touch this piano one more time one of us is going to break' kinda way
and i drove over 17 bridges yesterday and today i'll do it again
and i think nobody gets
what that means except maybe you
i just tell them i love the scenery
that somebody must've made
these trees blush just for me
you know how i love
to change the subject
i bet they'd love the view
i bet you would too
and all these metaphors
for other things are beside the point
this is a metaphor
for why i don't wear my seatbelt
a metaphor for why whiskey
knows me better than you
could ever try to
all the buildings seemed to sag yesterday and all the stars
are doing that cliche thing
where they talk
quiet jet noise
& some lumbering giant
made everything shake
not those hand metaphors
not another one of those
& keep the sea to yourself
i think it was a train
it's sound hugged the embankment
for a moment
and then trailed off into nowhere
and that's kind of like me
how there's a town called 'rescue'
close to my home &
it's no coincidence
that i've never been there
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 5:53 PM UTC
Your truck knows it all
It contains our whole relationship
It knows the beginning, middle and end
I loved seeing those lights
Knowing you were driving to come pick me up
It made me really happy
And sometimes
Even a little nervous
But in a good way
In the summertime
We had the windows rolled down because it was hot
In the winter it was cold
But we'd find a place to park and make it July warm
I almost lost my innocence in that passenger seat
We did so much in that truck
We talked
Laughed
Shared
Kissed
Argued
Cried
Stressed
Freaked out
Held each other
Loved
That truck knows it all
Those camouflage seat covers still hold our passionate sweat
The drooping brownish red ceiling absorbed all our words, feelings and keeps them there
Even today
The plastic in front of the gas gauge doesn't feel as whole without one of my pictures covering it
The center console probably still holds one of my notes
Saying how much I love about you
Who knows, the glovebox still may hold my garter
The lace with a tear on it from prom
When the truck heard you say you didn't care anymore
That truck holds everything
All the feelings and emotions
Maybe not so close to the surface anymore
But it will never forget the stuff you've let yourself unremember
That maroon Chevy still loves me
Even if you don't.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 1:02 AM UTC
the sky over i-95 is violet, the color of the deepest bruise
like the one you actually remember getting, that eclipsed
all the little gray-green ones from
tripping over belgian blocks, and mismeasuring the distance
to the doorframe.
the sky over i-95 cannot hold water very long
and soon it doesn’t.
you look out the new-car window
silent windshield wipers and you remember
the other times it’s rained on your occasion
(with stinging peroxide sometimes, and
sometimes gasoline, when you had a match
in the glovebox,
but mostly water).
you never stopped liking the way the big trees swayed
in the not-quite-hurricane
or the deafening of the drops on the car’s aluminum backbone.
you used to trust they’d never fall, they’d never flood
the crashes you passed rubbernecking were never fatal
traffic would always clear
you’d never be late.
as you watch the oversized leaves support the waterweight today
you think how every bit of that is gone from you now
siphoned slowly and quietly but
unmistakably gone from you now
you think in matter-of-fact sentences because you are a grown-up:
“I do not trust the trees. I do not trust the raindrops.”
quieter you think
“I do not trust the future. I do not trust an empty building.
I do not trust the movie theater. I do not trust the ocean,
or the river. I do not trust water
when I can’t see the bottom.”
you get a little philosophical as you get hungry and the exit numbers get high
“I do not trust the highway. I do not trust me. I do not trust the curtains
to keep me safe when I sleep, and I do not trust waking to bring me morning.”
you think in matter-of-fact sentences because you are a grown-up,
but also because that’s how the thoughts come.
there’s something that you do trust
that’s enough to warm you as this unseasonable may
comes to a close.
you never stopped liking the way the big trees swayed
and you think how they might fall
but they haven’t yet.
you think how it’s kind of okay not to trust them:
you trust something else.
(pain is lucrative.
so is smiling.)
a female cardinal perches outside the window of
the room, just as you arrive to leave again
and you think how she's just as pretty as the
candy-apple-red male, though she's dark against the tree trunk
and when you’re back to celebrate the years since leaving
you might even trust that tree trunk
and the girlcardinal you have to squint to see
you might also trust morning, then,
and night.
meantime, the sky lightens:
sundrops while the rain comes loudly still.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 5:29 PM UTC
herman harding showed me his truck today
in the muggy high school parking lot
in the sweltering sun
that could easily set my still temperament ablaze.
"she calls it the **** wagon."
he told me.
"she calls mine the firestarter."
i told him; he gave me a look.
"surprised?" i asked.
"so what do you think?"
"it's a battered wife."
"what the hell does that mean?"
"all bruised and broken down,
probably only runs because
you give it gas."
"it's a hand-me-down, okay?
so am i giving you a ride home,
or what?"
i crawled in the **** wagon.
"i should be getting my license soon."
"that's nice."
herman seemed uneasy.
"yep, i'll be driving by next school year."
"that's nice."
the truck had green seats
and a yellow dashboard.
obviously replaced.
approaching the highway,
i opened the glove compartment-
insurance information.
"you're telling me you bought insurance
for this piece of ****
"why should you care?"
"i'm just wondering,
seems like a waste of money."
almost home,
i flip down the sun visor-
down flutter a couple of pictures of her
that shouldn't have been taken.
i flip the sun visor back up,
take a look at the photos,
and deposit them in the glovebox.
"tell me, herman:
do you like getting hand-me-downs?"
"get out of the truck."
Apr 8, 2011
Apr 8, 2011 at 1:17 PM UTC
Do yourself a favor.
Don't think of the little bit of food that got on their chin that one time in the little pizza place you stopped at together, and how you both laughed.
Don't think about the night you laid on the roof of their car with them, looking at the stars, pointing out your favorite constellations and listening to cheesy love songs.
Don't think about the morning you woke up to their smile when you least expected it.
Don't think about the mornings you woke up to their voice.
Don't think about the long drives where you'd sing at the top of your lungs, for hours and hours.
Don't think about the shows you went to together, and how they cried during that one song, and tried to hide it, but you held them anyway.
Don't think about the moment you made the promise of forever, whether it was the ring in the glovebox they tricked you into finding, or the slow conversation at 2am.
Don't think about the time their car broke down in the middle of town and you helped them fix it.
Don't think about how empowered you felt knowing you could help fix something with them, for them, and made them so happy.
This is something you can't fix.
You can't fix everything.
Somethings are meant to stay broken.
Like the first place you made love,
intimate, raw,
it's not a place you can go to anymore.
Their love does not belong to you.
Yours does not belong to them.
Think about the moment they did the unexpected--
the moment they ended it.
Think about the fact you were expecting a life of happiness, memories, a family, a happily ever after.
Think about how they took that away in a matter of seconds.
Think about how you still deserve that.
Think about how you didn't deserve to get that taken from you.
Think about how they don't deserve you.
Their eyes will forever be your favorite shade of whatever,
but for their mouth to convince you this would never end,
know it's better you got the truth now than later.
Close your eyes.
Put their things aside.
Trust me, you'll get yours eventually.
Lay down and sleep.
You'll dream of them for weeks, months,
you'll think you hear their voice when you don't.
It's for the better.
Your heart was never meant to endure such torture,
and as fragile as it remains once they lift their foot from the wreckage,
why let them have the opportunity to put it down again?
Lift yourself up.
Dust off your coat, your shoes.
It's a long journey from where you are now, but happiness will reappear.
When you're least expecting it, you'll find it again.
And they won't be there.
And that's okay.
I promise.
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 3:19 AM UTC
i've got this sick neccesity to know where you are, what you're doing.
i've got all this hate and all this grief that says i don't care, i don't.
i've got this craving for your mocking laughter, your sarcastic smile.
i've got all these feelings and nowhere to put them.
i've got all these tears and no reason to cry them.
because can you really grieve over something you never had?
and really, what if it was all a lie?
what if it was all a lie?
tell me how it was for you.
i promise not to cry.
i'm comfortable in my misery.
my glovebox is filled with so much music that isn't fit for listening.
my trunk is filled with so many clothes that don't fit me, anyway.
my heart is filled with so much of you there isn't room for anyone else.
my life is filled with so much that isn't you, i can't help but forget you.
but the sun goes down, and i remember doing nothing but driving.
i remember endless bickering and games of padiddle.
i remember singing, laughing when i told you i liked the way you sing.
i remember hugs, in the car at first. then outside my car.
and then i remember embraces i never wanted to end.
i remember, "see you later," and my whispered goodbye.
but i don't remember when all of it stopped.
you lied, last time.
i haven't seen you later.
and, as a whole?
i'm doing just fine.
Sep 13, 2010
Sep 13, 2010 at 2:09 PM UTC
was it love or open heart surgery?
i think it'll take me years to find the answer
because well
for years you were my answer
and i'm beginning to learn you don't matter
all that much.
it's strange how something so small
can become something so large
and vice versa,
like how you drove my heart
through the brick wall i've been
staring at for too long
how you woke me back up
how you never said i wasn't enough,
how you loved me more than i've
ever seen someone love another,
until i lost you too many times.
all my strings came undone and
my marbles went rolling and
i had this steady voice in my head telling me
something was missing. reality wasn't real anymore.
this is emptiness and i'm learning to embrace it
this is me yelling at the god i don't believe in
this is tracing the remnants of your veins, like
the roadway map i followed to forget us
this is me meeting the day i met you
i'm shaking my soul so violently maybe
i'll shake you from my memories too
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 1:31 PM UTC
"you sack of crap,"
i spit, broken cigarette clamped between
my lips.
speeding by the rIver at maybe
or 60
street lamps whipping
by like faeries.
i'm drunk
we're all drunk
beer cans in the glovebox,
on the seats under us,
filling the car up to our ears,
filling the trunk,
i swerve and suddenly i'm home.
i clamber up stairs,
throw the door open
collapse on my bed
and pass out.
and that's when i dream
these visions come to me
of grinding teeth, flames, screaming
there's a beautiful woman, completely naked
but instead of human legs she's got horse's legs
"what the ****
i say to here,
"let's get goin"
and she says
"you'd take any woman that could fog a glass, wouldn't you?"and i say
"no, just ones with horse legs"
and then i wake up. it's morning now.
i feel sick, hungry, hungover, tired,
and forget all about the ominous dream for the time being.
i put some eggs to boil
i go outside and have a cigarette
and while i'm sitting there i remember that night
there was a bunch of people, and drinking
speeding through space time,
what strangeness this all is.
all humans,
some of us drink to forget
but
i drink to remember.
it's metaphysical, it's important,
more important than
money or what the **** ever.
i go back inside
i run cold water, peel the eggs,
it's difficult, the shell keeps pulling off
chunks of egg with it. i get frustrated and
spit
"sack of crap,"
and take a bite of the egg.
mouth full of shell shards, cutting my gums,
the egg wasn't fully cooked. i pour mustard and
paprika on it anyway and eat it.
i get the sense that my life is a metaphor but
instead of thinking about it i go get drunk.
Aug 11, 2011
Aug 11, 2011 at 8:15 PM UTC
That is my favorite shade of red
how your eyes go when you roll them back,
tilt your head back, a little to the left –
hurting the leather and yolk of a chair abandoned
in the backseat of an alley, right of downtown
numbers impressed into the branches,
must code every time I spread your legs there.
Enough hours to decompose a body bag,
but I was alive the entire time
and you had enough blood in your face to supply
sisters in an orphanage, glittering privately.
We sipped coffee some evenings,
it became black sand slithering up your dress:
I did not add enough cream.
The mugs were left organized in an aisle
to be gathered later, overcrowded in the glovebox
maroon droplets fall onto my toes as I brake –
imagine a mouse having cut himself
and drowned in the miniature pools you left
of my not being good enough for you, but there
it is nearly my favorite color again
stained between my feet so you cannot fade.
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 7:23 PM UTC
like words
sold in churches
dissolved like a
communion wafer
on the tongue
of the infinite
like an
empty banquet
beneath a gothic arch
there is no conquering
it is the art
of no conquering
she said
and showed me
a bowl of fruit
some rotten
morsels in her ribcage
in the winter
parking lot
buick town car
we are riding across
the pavement of the east
and that’s the same ***
everyday he’s greedy
for my images
i keep them in the glovebox
with the receipts
i don’t look at him today
i can’t
see him in the mirrors
cutting up the scenery
something is misplaced
i’ve left it in
the bedroom
in the boxes
you are taking
down south
your precious hedge clippers
and crosby, stills
nash and young
do you really
need them?
down south
where they’ve got
horses
and go karts
and snakes
and tvs in their showers
and biscuits and gravy
and dust
and rodeo
and milk crates
and model ts
and model as
and all the other
so called
necessities
you say my cousin
my uncle
all are happy
your father
unknown as you are
unknown
this is what
is before me
he is closing
his eyes
and speaking:
“hana”
“dul”
“set”
repeat
“hana”
“dul”
“set”
it is the art
of no-conquering
he says
and smiles
beneath a ripped-out ceiling
beneath a vaulted space
return
he says
to breath
look through the images
he calls us
into our own bodies
into our own spaces
“hana”
“dul”
“set”
the absolute reality
he says
is where we are all god
“hana”
you shouldn’t be trying
to feel any certain way
“dul”
i came up with the idea
for flavored crust pizza
until those ********
at hungry howies
stole it
“set”
he is lighting a cigarette
she is pouring tea
she is taking off her underwear
“this world’s gonna keep on spinning”
“i wish i-“
“man i’mma get mine”
“aw **** it”
“no better than the man in the moon”
“need to get some new drywall in here”
“santa’s not cheap”
samsara
is
samsara
return to breath
“hana”
“dul”
“set”
Feb 21, 2016
Feb 21, 2016 at 3:12 PM UTC
i like the word epicenter
heard it one night all cranked out trying
to get drunk the juice like water
my nose sweating
amped like hell
wanting to disassemble the VW
bug
find what that sound was,
took apart the carburetor first,
sniffed and stood for half a second said, nah,
not the prob
looked into the glovebox
was sure the bug was in there,
a few screws later
the dashboard was on the porch
and still I had no idea what
that ******* sound was
walked in quick circles
thinking , almost,
it had to be the radiator
or a fanbelt or the tires!
Yes !
I took them all off, carefully snooted around their
hoses the perimeter of the fanbelts circumference
the radiators fins
the pressure
got to me of the tires was perfect,
had to be the ******
I sniffed down my throat went that
chemical taste like antifreeze
I took her out
the transmission
inspected her tip to toe
the servo thing the
valve body
went full bore into the
torque converter
it torqued
converted
now I was getting worried
it was the mirror was loose of course
I took her off
it was coated with a white powder
did a line straight to
AutoZone
for a mirror cleaning
fluid , they looked at me funny.
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 10:19 PM UTC
i took a lighter to all the love i had left
left the ashes in a coffee can on the mantle
like a dog i had to put down
i buried it like a secret
like i could ever regret
i left my heart in another boy's glovebox
next to everything else he never needed but
thought he could some day
i couldn't love you even if i tried
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 11:26 PM UTC
"Cartier Independence,"
stationed behind the bathroom mirror,
lying in the glovebox of the car;
my father always found his way to it.
Along with the stench of smoldering incense when he recited his morning prayer,
his cologne lingered.
Sometimes I put on my father's cologne, and I cloak myself in his ragged musk.
It's not me.
I'm missing the depth of the cigarettes behind the glorious mountain fronted on his usual pack of Seneca Blue 100's;
I'm missing the sharp burn of the ***** which often comes in bottles;
I'm missing the tender rigidity of his calloused and gold-decorated hands.
I still wear it, though.
I still look in the mirror, watching us, and let my fingers press down on the nozzle of the cologne.
Do I deserve his scent?
Do I want it?
Do I deserve the comparison to him--
the same face,
same eyes,
same life?
Do I want it?
After years, my mother's gift from my father stands still,
buried under samples of Eau De Toilette.
He waits for my fingers to again press down and bask in acceptance.
He knows I will;
I want to use my own cologne,
but it all seems too childish -- too meaningless.
Tonight, along with the speckles of dust resting on the nozzle and the prints of my fingers,
I will smell of him,
talk of him,
think of him,
but I will wear my own cologne:
"Cartier Independence."
Sep 1, 2021
Sep 1, 2021 at 5:39 PM UTC
Remember standing outside
the Mountain of Clouds
waiting on the bus to arrive,
and thinking:
“How the **** did we get here?”
There’s always a point
where the tree trunk ends
and the branches go on,
no matter how high it reaches.
I'm not sure if I’ve ever told you
this one before,
but a while back
Sentimental Stevie took my hand
in the snug
and confessed his lunacy to me.
The ash built up fast
then dropped to the red sand stone
beneath my suede boots
where I had to admit my age,
finally.
The smoke tastes
like burnt Strawberry
and lingers in the crevasses
of my meridian mouth
before I succumb to the image
in his head.
Anyway,
now we’re one week on
and I’m no further on
with finding out
if I belong,
or if that even matters
when you pull out the map
and lay it across the glovebox,
so I guess
I brought that place up,
that musky Titanium white room
filled with love and doom,
and all things good
because
I'm not dead yet.
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 6:48 AM UTC
*Scars
by
Jude Kyrie
No one gets through life without scars.
I don’t mean being
accidentally scarred.
Like a burn or cut from glass.
The other type
Like the quietness that fills you
When driving through Fruitland
With the window down on a spring day.
The blossoms perfume choking your soul.
And all you can taste is her lips
like the day you made love to her
and she tasted of peaches.
If that was all
it would be bearable.
But holding back tears
When snowflakes
fly for the first time.
Or
That playlist fires up unannounced.
Finding her woolen gloves or
Her lipstick tube in the glovebox.
And people say to you
Hey are you ok?
And the words
It’s just my scars showing.
Form silently on your lips.*
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 7:47 AM UTC
Contagion condition like it were tradition
Thus it was said, and so it were written
The dress code was formal
To dance the new normal
Keep a mask in the glovebox
Keep askin' love faux
Implore a two meter distance
No change we
Ignore the meter's insistance
Rearrange me
We sanitize our surfaces
Resurface to sanity
City slickers, one punch
Clean up the vanity
City sick, bad lunch
Team up; Insanity
Jun 10, 2020
Jun 10, 2020 at 2:56 PM UTC
xacto knife
glovebox
ambien
bedside table
bathtub
full
there is a note on my desk that i wrote and i have never gone this far
there is a knife beside the bathtub and i have never gone this far
there are text messages that i sent i have never gone this far
i wondered if my closet shelves could hold the weight of my body and an extension cord and i have never gone this far
i always liked the trapeze at the circus maybe thats how i shou
i was asked if i had a plan or wrote a note last time by the nice nurse with blue scrubs on
i had never gone that far
i am far
gone
Jul 20, 2017
Jul 20, 2017 at 11:11 PM UTC
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...
May 17, 2019
May 17, 2019 at 10:32 AM UTC
i will make art
for myself.
i won't
stuff it in
my glovebox
and leave it to
gather dust,
forgotten.
i will frame it
put it on the mantle,
i will think of myself
every time i walk
past it.
i will pick myself
a bouquet
of wildflowers
i will not
shove them in a
drawer, deprived
of light,
left to wilt.
i will put them in
a vase on
my windowsill,
i will cut the stems,
change the water
intermittently,
i will admire them
from afar.
i will give myself
the love i gave
so easily to you.
i will nourish
admire
encourage
and nurture
my own spirit.
i will appreciate myself
for it, far more than
you ever appreciated
me
Aug 22, 2017
Aug 22, 2017 at 8:14 PM UTC
There are so many ways to learn and grow,
to challenge one’s views of life, of death,
of the time in between.
At times, yes, there is a harshness to the wind,
a bite in your mother’s words and an unrelenting squirrel
emptying your bird feeder, but
know that there will be reward for your
continued generosity of thought,
and your assumption of the best in everything.
Given patience, the universe reaches out with gentle touches,
leaving offerings of love in the form of smooth pebbles,
pigeons and friends who offer to buy lunch.
We must learn to accept
the love we are offered,
no matter how unconventional.
Seek this love, be it in the form of a high five,
or in extra napkins for your glovebox,
in petting friendly stray cats.
Find love everywhere
and accept it, because those moments are the other half of the transaction.
Where you offer up time, the universe looks to compensate your loss.
Accept the spare dime in your cup holder, the acorn cap left on your windowsill
and the smiley face drawn on your cup,
as signs that the love you put out is equally
and fully returned by the world.
Dec 7, 2019
Dec 7, 2019 at 10:08 PM UTC
Last night,
we had six miles
to walk
to where
I parked the truck
the winding road
the mimicking trees
my eyes behind
a pair of shades I
found in the glovebox
Thank god,
I couldn't take my eyes off you
the way you know about
poetry and
art
and you notice how the
light cascades
swims,
over every shade of dark
and you said that I'd be "it"
someday
the last time that we spoke
but now you
walk as though
you've never seen
this ghost
before
but I know you
want me,
all the same.
Six miles to go, but so much more to me.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 12:18 PM UTC