"hatchback" poems
Anxious flashbacks in the back of your Cadillac, with
The window half down to drown out the drones of
Mom’s mouth, ten years old and I’m anxious to
Fill what I lack, but now I’m dying alone in
The back of a stranger’s hatchback and I
Wonder, will God let a ****** through
The gates? Because Mom said the
Chance of a *** getting into
That place was as good as a
Camel strolling thru the
Eye of needle, or
Something like
That, I don’t
Remember
Really.
I do know that Aunt Ruth said I was a needle in a stack of hay, so
I can’t die this way, because God would never make a kid shine
Like truth just to burn out in the soft glow of the flame against
A spoon, that’s just logic. ‘Cuz God, I tried to tie a thread
To my spine and swan dive into the fabric of this Earth,
But all I got was a couches’ bruise, a pillow filled with
The feathers of a plucked bird with its tongue-tied
And words’ lynched, destined to haunt PSA’s and
Statistics, now I’m itching for a way to lay
Or place to sit to die with a sense of
Purpose, so I stretch my arms out
With my palms up like Jesus,
But the Police will see the
Lesions, a haunting
Image of celestial
Intent, But God
Will only see
The
Marks
From
The
Needle.
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 9:46 PM UTC
poisoned well of the antichrist littered with ground cover
picking out ****** flecks of gravel
blacktop kneeskin
patience pieces of scattered space time
to go back to the future of continuity
lack of genius ingenuity
and the suckling of the pig entourage
riding in a flat top hatchback
cadillac of the daily grind
upperclassman japan onii-chan
brother in arms from anotha motha
hug from afar colliding with crackpot theory
terrible fantasia cooling bricks in soggy sun
swallowed his pride with a glass of self-worth
and these ***** don't cook like they used to
I don't look like I used to
warped veil of camouflage chameleon leather
with a ****** level of automobile salesman
tried to get closer to god
ground him up, picked out the stems
twisted him into thin paper
touched flame to his finger tip and a son of Adam was born
gum shoe gaze
or the emptiness felt at the end of reasonable doubt
correctional text messaging system
sent from hoarse corpses
tenderly poignant in their ****** coffins
will think for food
cries from an outdated MENSA
over ***** and under-appreciated
siting on hunched shoulders to get a better look
to be a martian in a plain port
wharf warehouse whaling boat
red tide in a Shanghai **********
floodgates made of bitter premise
that last bit of purple yam
**** Okonkwo
Things Fall Apart fell apart due to faded highschool ambitions and bloodshot eyes
cruel like the shade of off-cerulean
champagne fizz tickles at the soft meat of his tarnished throat
and silver tongue
as the matchstick framework
so fragile in comparison
fizzles out on drenched sidewalk
while cigarette ash floats by
like gray gnats
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 4:03 PM UTC
Sleeping. A minute or two at a time. Mark. This guy hit somebody. Awake. Coat on. Front door out. A silver hatchback is parked blocking our driveway. Drivers Door opens. A man with dark hair gets out. Italian maybe. Takes three steps. Sees me. And at once without any acknowledgement beyond eyes meeting he is back in the car. And it's all you can do to stare at the rectangle of pressed aluminum. It's white characters on green. 638 UAR 638 UAR. And then his car is gone again but not before you glimpse the passenger side front quarter panel. What's left of it. Man he did a real smack. And then Still in Costco house shoes You listen to the scrape of his tires drive away and walk the outer line of the front fence along the line of cars parked in front of your house and up the front door of your rather dory sort of spry 84 year old neighbor. As you reach her front door You see it is open and only the glass screen door is shut. Think about rapping but reach for the doorbell instead. And there she is. Hi you say. A guy hit one of your cars out front. Four cars parked out front. two silver two redfish. Well come in she says. You apologize for the house shoes. A dad don't. As you step inside you realize how close to Christmas it really is. Her entire house. Silver & red. Four women Sitting around The dining room table. Someone's car has been Hit 84 says. The murmurs at the table soon turn into realizations. And questions. Which car? I don't know. He left. I just came here straightaway with the license plate. You realize you've been saying it aloud this whole time. 638 UAR. And now you and 5 bible studiers walk back outside. It's the first car. A white silver one. Joy for not much damage but Enough to pray over.
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 9:15 AM UTC
The sun hasn't risen yet
the black hatchback opens up on the Lee Bridge
in the rear view mirror the city shrinks minuscule
as I forge forward at a steady pace of fifty
No matter where My destination is
the reason is always the same
escape
like a thief in the night
trying to put some distance between me, myself, and I
daydreaming ceaselessly as traffic flows on every side
the front tire has a slow puncture
the door panel barely hanging on
in much need of an oil change
driving alone below the aspersions cast by unwanted eyes
as the rain slowly comes down to blind and cleanse
I never got to say half of the things I wanted
and I know that I won't write half of the words inside me
so I'm impatient
laying on the horn
and flipping old ladies on their way to church the bird
faces not seen enough to be memorized
hands not felt
laughter never shared
these things haunt me
holding their flickering candles to the bottom of my feet
Driven now
the sun hasn't come up yet
which is good
because before it does
I have some things that I need to do
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 8:39 AM UTC
Burgundy, white, black, blue; all in a line.
SUV, 4-door, hatchback, minivan; waiting.
The sun beats down, the air blasts inside,
The calm before the storm-the building pregnant.
Suddenly they come. The students emerge from the womb
Into the outside world. We wait no more.
We pickup our little ones and take them home to be cherished.
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 2:24 PM UTC
Watch three seasons ninety times
addicted to vicarious emotion
Hooked
in the cheek
by the glowing screens
messages
Blurred vision
unfounded
and
logical
causalities
Digging precognitive predicted graves
bitten on the stomach
The little hatchback just crushed his legs
Snubnose finishes the job
Shave your head and you change
like Walt and Shane
Become
Addicted
to words and images
like me.
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 7:40 AM UTC
lassitude lassoed her
she let her tripod hide in her hatchback
and woke not her camera
from its long nap
instead, she sat, a bowl of popcorn
in her lap, watched reruns of Madmen
and ogled a multitude of mushy moons
on Facebook's finicky feed
some were orange, some ivory
some gibbous, some round, all purporting
to be profound
this rare occurrence, captured copiously
in 2D, for all to see, and wonder, why shadows
on rocks rub us right, while myriad stars collapse every night,
and planets thought to be elegantly aligned,
are but bobbing bubbles
in an infinite sea
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 8:49 PM UTC
And she ran
through the hollow peaceful night
a juxtaposition
to her mangled thoughts
and indecisions
She ran
hair un-brushed
the laces of her tattered Vans
untied
She ran bra-less
She did not give one ****
She ran to her mother's
old hatchback
away from men who longed to hold her
but didn't
from the abilities
that escaped her
diluted by the thick fog of apathy
that never lifted
And she drove through the dark
the radio dead silent
hearing only the crackles of
her own whimpering
Wondering
why God broke her so
Why the stars were misaligned
Through the windy roads that
would otherwise thrill her
but now
Until the bonnet
Passionately kissed the gum tree
POW
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 8:13 AM UTC
She was broke & had no folks.
He never says any funny jokes.
A drunk scavenging for junk.
I have a hatchback not a trunk.
A foul stench of funk.
Robbed by some punk.
A resort never reports escorts.
They don't dispute petitions in court.
A feud with people sued.
Abortions are fetal extortion.
A security guard trys to act all hard.
Civil service makes me nervous.
The summer could've been more funner.
Starstruck celebrity hype.
Articles magazines can type.
Gossip to thee extreme.
CELEBRITY schemes & scandals.
Misbehaved & manhandled.
Images & looks to copy & swipe.
Identities to wipe.
Fortune & Fame that is not yet ripe.
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 1:46 PM UTC
I can sit and twirl my hair until
My fingers are caught and tangled
In there like a dolphin in a net or a
Little bead of sweat stuck in a pore
- though I don't
Think many beads of sweat would
Make an attractive necklace - I can
Smear my fears on the mirror in here
But I can't get rid of the fact that
I'm unable to find the hidden track
That a black cat means a heart attack
And a scratched back leans towards
A knack of lacking a gift for words in
The pitch black, hatchback, backseat
tours
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 11:38 AM UTC
“...I have no time for the ignorance of others.”
said the fool
“I know what I’m doing. I can handle my own ****
thank you very much.”
Said the marked man
“I’ve still got plenty of time to salvage this thing.”
said the wrongful optimist
“okay, smarty-panties - what would you do?”
Said the *********
“I do just fine on my own. Im better off.”
Said the man, too focused on not drowning
to see the land all around him
“I’m better than that guy, why should I have to wait?”
said the novice
“I just need some more time to practice.”
said the wary apprentice
“I just need some free time”
said Mr. Self-deception - Self-appeasement
“I just need to rest my eyes.”
said Mr. I’m going to pass out on this couch
“I love you.”
said the stepping razor
“I’m happy.”
said the drug addled hobo
“I didn’t know she had a boyfriend, I promise.”
said the teenager with a penchant for trouble,
as he stole smokes from his sleeping parents
“I need you to tell me how ******* incredible I am,
so I can tell you how wrong you are
with a real nice feeling in my gut
like a double shot of let it be”
said the silly little wannabe artist
***** this place. **** all of these
over emotional teenagers
and **** this sanctuary
for circle jerking back patting”
said the sore loser
“Can I start you guys with something to drink?”
said the street corner beggar
as he looked for five dollars
to eclipse the gas light
of the speeding hatchback
“I wish you wouldn’t worry so much about me.”
said the skeleton covered in skin,
tendons,
sinews,
and strained muscles shaking from the nerves
“Want to go out tonight?”
said the bored future adult
running away from the sunset
“I just have no luck.”
said the guy who didn’t spend enough time
breaking walls and knuckles
in the basement of anonymity
“What do you have to say to that?”
Said Harry J. Baxter -
the smart-assed kid
in a 20 year old’s body
with an expensive pen
and dime store poetry
falling out the pockets
of his sagging pants
“What do you have to say?”
Said the empty blank pages
of the happily chaotic universe
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 10:14 AM UTC
Three cars are parked by the clearing
I find, every night under the faint light
of the dim street lamps. Two of them,
sedans, red and black, while the other's
a hatchback, white in colour. All dusty
and faded before the occasional wash.
The wheels of the white car have dug
into the mud after the puddles caused
by rains cleared. And flowers and twigs
garment it. I thought they were a big
family but, one, they own a small car,
and two, they seem to use it sparse?
The red sedan, always parked reverse,
is sometimes gone suddenly away and
at other times, stays parked for weeks.
I've seen him in and out; does he have
work out-stations? Good car, I must
say though, for he's young and single.
The black one is gone most days, and
sometimes, for days together, to return
covered in bird droppings. They moved
recently, this quiet couple who prefer
to keep to themselves. May be they go
on long weekend drives out of the city?
I wonder, gazing at them, sipping my
tea, by the window, late every night.
'Why don't you just go speak to them',
says my wife, tired of my speculations.
'Hmm...not today, bit tired. Tomorrow,
May be', I say, as I jot down these lines.
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 7:41 AM UTC
Driving too fast on my way to get you because the sky is opening up into the Heavens, thinking that a sunset can make you fall back in love. I pick you up, but you've already haloed. My heart is telling me to grab your hand, my hand is telling me to take another drag of the cigarette we're sharing. Hiding beneath the cuffs of my jacket, sitting on the hood of my hatchback. Never knowing whether to fall into you, or fall apart. I look at you against the mauve sky and I can't remember the last time you weren't high.
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 4:41 PM UTC
A black sedan cruises by with patches of white left behind from the last life it lived. what once stood for justice stands for rebellion as youth irons out the creases in expectation.
A ******* yellow bug carries triplets each from a different family, each wearing pink bows. They turn in perfect syncro with heartless bug eyes when they catch me unconsciously stare on.
A small hatchback with a busted taillight; full of **** comics, and action figures bears a bearded chauffeur who drools all the way back to his cave
Smell the sharp burning chill come from that coupe with the yellow windows and eyes as red as the ember passing from passenger to passenger in the mirror.
The little old lady in the silver Buick can't even see over the wheel. Probably better that way considering all she'd see is a bunch of terrified youngsters in a panic to get to that blasted rock concert.
Don't let the dented tailgate fool you, the only work this one's seen is the piece of work he has waiting for him at home; with fire in one hand and fear on the plate in the other.
Vans hold all kinds of secrets but the only one this van holds is how its still allowed to come within a mile of a school. After all, candy and ice cream will rot your teeth, especially if they're free.
Orange, yellow, red, green, blue, checkers. Either way, he's gotta make a living, and if it's to the airport you want to go, he'll get you there in a jiffy.
The rear view mirror of my old 65 shows only the smirk and grin I wear as the rumble of turn down exhaust wakes up towns and sets off alarms left and right, and sirens blocking my view in the back.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 1:46 PM UTC
Two white shirts, starched
on the floor of a car, hatchback.
Blue beauty in the corner, wolfish grin
time for the assassin, new belief.
A resolute thing, his horns won't budge
flying from a limerick's mouth, cavernous.
Sunny youth departs in crocodile fears, a phase
Please don't, I swear the farewell will hold.
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 2:19 PM UTC
My love has no limits, except for the minutes.
While my time is gold I spend most of it on the road.
I drive an hour to work every day but that doesn't even touch the countless hours I spend driving my career, driving my education, Driving her, Driving them, driving me to the edge of my adulting ability.
All the while surrounded by near misses and almost disasters.
Watching other crash and burn.
I remember that Subaru hatchback that was older than us,
magenta with a back seat that laid down.
You first said you love me before I knew what that meant.
Now you say you love me with an upward inflection and I know exactly what that means.
When that Subaru died we could have fixed it but we hadn't invested enough to make it worth our while.
Now "We" with a capital W is slowly choking to death but so much has been invested to let her, it, us go.
It started slowly with no real merit.
A scratch that wasn't even noticed, but it wasn't the scratch.
It was the infection that was introduced.
So, so, so slowly it's worked its way.
The internal battle constantly being waged but we didn't know.
We didn't support the structures keeping it at bay.
I didn't feed it so it would be strong, I gave it McDonalds because that's that made it happy.
Now My chest hurts and I can't breathe because that little infection is eating my heart from the inside out.
So do I let it finish me and go back to the star dust I was?
Do I clean out the infection knowing full well that the damage has been done and no matter what I do I'll always be missing a little piece that I didn't nurture and always have a little pain where the good stuff uses to be?
I'm not a doctor yet, I don't know. This infection has gotten so bad that maybe stardust would be better.
No, Papa taught me that our scars remind us that the past is real.
That damage is done, but now I have to remember.
I remember holding your hand for warmth as the ocean mist turned to ice before stinging our faces.
I remember my heart pounding as you walked. two words binding us like a spell.
I remember laughing, and crying, and laughing again in the same conversation.
I remember smelling wood smoke, hearing gentle streams, seeing starry skies, and feeling you pressed against me.
I have made mistakes.
I was the cut that started the infection.
I didn't nurture you, nourish you.
I wasn't careful when you told me "careful, it's ******* fragile."
I said I love you before I knew how to or what that meant.
I drove fast and took chances.
I didn't tell you to buckle up.
I didn't, wasn't, couldn't. I chose not to.
Now we're here in purgatory, but it's already getting hot.
I don't know how to fix this, but I'll try forget-me-not's.
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 1:12 AM UTC
Walking past businesses with their doors wide open
letting the spring air permeate the room and vanquish
the lingering taste of winter
I’ll have what I always have - only make it iced
an ice cream cone is melting in the gutter
and I can almost hear the five year old girl crying for another
all of the colors of this worldly palette now so vibrant
take the blinders off of my eyes
and let my heart dance to rythym of far off shores
I’m smiling because the birds stopped shrieking and started singing
I write the same five or six poems over and over and over again
but I dress them up in different costumes
I’ve always loved acting the noble fool of endearment
I have to move my car in 40 to avoid the ticket
but I might just see how far that ***** little hatchback can take me
to avoid my roots going so deep they dry up
listen to love
listen to rage
listen to petulant cries for warped justice
listen to lust
and listen to depressed realizations
listen to all of the ******** we can come up with
we love to talk but not to listen
blah blah blah
shut up
it’s sunny outside
so take of all of your clothes
and dance in your nakedness
in the middle of midday broad street
unlock all the cages
let the light in
it’s a great day for living
so quit your death march
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 11:26 AM UTC
I see it most days
A red hatchback
Mostly red
One of the doors is white
It has two doors
I see it most days
As I stand outside
And take a cigarette break
A break from a soul shattering job
I see it
A 1987 maybe a 1992
Can't name the model
Or even the make
Certainly not the year
My best explanation is
It is a beatermobile
I don't know how it runs
But it does
I see it most days
As it chugs along in the parking lot
Spewing exhaust
Carbon emissions
It has two doors
One is white
The other one is a red that doesn't match the rest of the car
I see it most days
And it blows my mind
How is this thing still running?
Well
It is
A beatermobile
And I'm sure it has a story to tell
And its story now
I don't know how it runs
But it does
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 5:07 PM UTC
Cruising through The Great Plains,
In a well traveled and well loved hatchback,
The calm rhythm of folk acoustics follow the gentle sloping motions the land takes as they travel
Clusters of trees off in the distance,
Looking like tidal waves in the evening sky,
Looking almost dark blue under a cloud filled sky,
Forming an ocean all their own.
Mar 11, 2018
Mar 11, 2018 at 5:51 PM UTC
how many youthful nights have i driven away
from a town of late nights searching for hope
driving this highway with orange street lights
and yellow headlights flashing past my eyes
how many lonely drives must i endure
blasting songs too loud to drown out
my thoughts of grief for this life
the city lights glowing over water
under bridges built to connect us
when all i feel is worlds away
from a life of people that move forward
towards white picket fences
and bouncing baby’s
these drives are spent running
wishing to have enough courage
to pack up this hatchback
and watch as everything i know
grows smaller and smaller
Apr 13, 2019
Apr 13, 2019 at 3:45 AM UTC
Acid got the sky painted tie dye
I’m that Heathen
Pass the blunt, why lie?
I been chiefing
Bumpin $uicideboy$
Got me feelin like it’s
Do or die, boy
I’m leaving these verses
All in hearses
Ridin spinners on the hearse
It’s that psychedelic fiend
Sentenced to Hell for a dream
****** if I do, ******
If this life just ain’t what it seems
Is this DMT or just a dream?
And why is it more real
When I sleep?
Merrily creep through the streets
I seep through the cracks
Smoking **** in the back
Of the black Cadillac
With a new beat bumpin
I just made on the MacBook
I’m a diamond in the dirt
And they all just some weeds
Shook off the cops
Now I’m lighting the trees
Got a lot, so
The clouds will thicken the plot
Yes, indeed
As I roll through an
Old part of town
Of the Southeast
In an old school drop
With new sounds
And a whole car full of pounds
Of that stink
Pound back another beer
Til I can’t think
Then tell all them cowards come
Near so they can hear the rifle
Blast back, too
Hatchback coupe
Full of Afghan Gu
That Hindu Kush
Be the greenest of bushes
It’s on fire with the acid
I’m pushing
That gas on a couple of tabs
I think I’m pushing it
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 5:15 AM UTC