"headlight" poems
old hunger makes us sick
forget who we are and
where we're going
how to see thru fog
how to pierce the sky
where's the truth in all this
mustard gas and lies
translucent silken shadows of people
wishy washy wistful thinking like
'o look at big sophisticated words dribbling across page - verbal *****
great philosopher all expression and
thought purge speaking in a vacuum'
petulant little lines for liar's lurid heart
petty little fines growing large from the start
what is this point you speak of and how do we get there
if it is really about the journey and not the destination
then can i get off right now
or
can i be seal eye headlight hi beams
is there trust enough left between us two
to go on down this road together
or part ways at lightning fork in path
no
i go into petrified forest bog
to hide and melt and decompose
bucolic rot under stalwart stoic onlooking trees
you go to riches, glory, ******* and now sprouting planted seeds
misgivings all forgotten like
irreverent, irrelevant childish deeds
and
i grow bitter and ferment
starving gut absinthe
filled with frozen wormwood lies
like Poe and de Quincy and all the rest
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 10:35 AM UTC
God's foxholes,
pick your poison,
burn burn burn, and
snare, flesh out an idea
and let it take hold. grit
your teeth, strip the bark
or just strip instead.
cherry, rabid, dragonflies
and headlight eyes.
this dream running us
ragged, this glittering
copper and boil before
you burst.
There is a piece of your skin that refuses to burn.
I keep sinking my teeth into it.
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 6:09 PM UTC
Tiny dancer
tiny dancer
Love my hands
Love me
Tell me im handsom
and you wanna dance with me all day
In the sand
In the shade
oh the smell of jade
and your perfect hair
and your pretty face
Elton sings your sweet song
and we both count the headlights
listening to one headlight
by the wall flowers
and lennon tells me
Don't loose your head
like I did
tell her she dances so good
in your weary head
kiss her face
And tell her
That
she's
your
tiny
dancer
In your
head
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 2:28 AM UTC
"Cash, Grass or Ass-No One Rides Free!"
reads the bumper-sticker slapped on the ratty Harley.
Its black leather seat is cracked, tattered and torn,
the headlight is busted and there's no friggin' horn;
with mismatched saddlebags strapped to each side,
the panhead leaks like a sieve, but it's still quite a ride.
The gas-tank is dented, scratched and coated with muck,
the chrome no longer shines, but who gives a flyin' ****
Its tires are bald, the spokes are all rusted to ****
and the frame is off-kilter from a cage-driver's hit.
The biker just puffed the last hit from his pipe,
slammed down the rest of the J.D. from the bash last night;
then he hops on his hog, kicks the monster to start,
the muffler-pipes blast flames and roar like a ****
Together they roll down the road like old pals,'
with nowhere to go, just obnoxious and loud:
the tombstone tail-light flashes bright red on this mess,
'though Cashless, Grassless and Assless, they couldn't care less!
Sep 2, 2010
Sep 2, 2010 at 1:34 AM UTC
Hey you there
It's not just me in here
Oh how I wish you could hear the coconspirator
Or see in a single tear how loud the fear of fear truly can be
And how I'm so rarely allowed to steer
I AM a dark passenger, MY dark passenger
A near prison like constricting atmosphere with no breathing apparatus gear
Life can be so impossibly cavalier
Death is always closer than it should ever appear, regardless of the mirror
In my story I have the glory of a lone fourth musketeer
With a crowded asylum between each ear
So many questions but not a single agreed upon answer will appear
And I've yet to meet this so called infallible puppeteer
Though the hierarchy is clear, it passes through an auctioneer
"Punish thee if thy finds I should ever veer from thy holy 'engineer'"
Hell, they can stay put like a headlight frozen deer
I'd rather be allowed to be the one to disappear
I did not ask to be here
©2025
Mar 16, 2025
Mar 16, 2025 at 7:13 PM UTC
What a gorgeous night to ride,
the temperature’s just right.
Jeans an "T" and a leather vest,
are quite suitable tonight.
I walk out, get on my bike.
Turn the key; switch on headlight.
Push the button; start her up.
Set aside my coffee cup.
Sitting on my steed of steel.
The road ahead has much appeal.
The air feels good as I ride out.
Great night to ride without a doubt.
Twisting on my throttle grip,
into traffic now I slip.
My headlight shines on lines of white.
This road, this bike, both feel so right.
Accelerating past some cars,
stopping at some smaller bars.
Grab a burger and some fries.
Lets move on my buddy cries.
So many places I've not seen.
Come on lets ride!
Know what I mean?
We've turns to make and, roads to cross,
Lets keep ridding until we're lost.
We keep on riding through the night,
Much to soon comes morning's light.
Our eyes now heavy needing sleep.
The highways call will for now keep.
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 9:41 PM UTC
"polite for a yankee"
making stop sign bullet holes
we start the massive pump churning into irrigated watermelon rows
headlight round a shadow bend in nightline tree bulk
sleep with empty cans beside the ashtray couch on matted ****
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 7:22 PM UTC
We were driving my car
out of town a few sunsets ago.
Had just gotten from the shore,
uphill on an 80.
Every headlight
like a good newspaper headline
to your cracking Sportage leather seat—
the steering wheel as heavy
as my breathing.
Fog devours all the windows
and if the engine participates
with the general meltdown
least i can do to help myself
is call a mechanic.
Hey now
stop peeling the last
bit of skin
on your already-bleeding lips;
you’ve gone past the necessary pain
now youre just prolonging the
sight of red.
Even traffic lights
turn green once in a while.
There are no dead ends from sharp curves.
Maneuvering always seemed
like cylinder blocks on your shoulders
But now youre steady;
too steady
unmoving
and it’s scary isn’t it?
To simply be
unable.
An engine
you cannot engineer—
navigation
you cannot decipher.
Cut throat mechanism.
We’ve passed by
too many yellow lights
to forget
we sometimes need
a bit of a slowdown.
And perhaps you’re gonna
have to go through
the kind of adrenaline
that digs your nail
underneath your palm first.
The current
leads the batallion.
Even the strongest
require a running start
before the leap.
Breathe.
Twist the key in the ignition.
Drive.
The fog eventually subsides.
The mechanic eventually arrives.
What i’m trying to say is
my car broke down in the middle
of the road.
A slow descend.
I counter the shaking fist.
At least we didnt crash.
Mar 17, 2019
Mar 17, 2019 at 11:19 AM UTC
The owl-car clatters along, dogged by the echo
From building and battered paving-stone.
The headlight scoffs at the mist,
And fixes its yellow rays in the cold slow rain;
Against a pane I press my forehead
And drowsily look on the walls and sidewalks.
The headlight finds the way
And life is gone from the wet and the welter--
Only an old woman, bloated, disheveled and bleared.
Far-wandered waif of other days,
Huddles for sleep in a doorway,
Homeless.
2.3k
Harsh wind screaming
moaning
with the crisp bite of Autumn night
Dark shadows dancing
tossing
with the branches of bare grey Elms
The lanes are winding
uncurling
in the pale orange glow of headlights
Sudden hedgerows
green
edging the limits of the night
Power-cut darkness all around
silhouettes
strange in the headlight beam
No farm lights distant on the Tor
guiding
beacons of open field and place
Cottages shuddering their thatching
thrilled
chimneys smoking message-morse
Pub signs banging wildly
flapping
in a crazy dance
inside candles flickering
distorted
patterns in tiny panes of rounded glass
Old stone steeple steady
dull toned bell
catching
a ride on the wind to the copse
And still the lanes thread out
beam-born
a ribbon of pebbles and stone
stretching into the night
until they melt
into the flat black tarmac
of the motorway.
Nov 15, 2016
Nov 15, 2016 at 5:35 AM UTC
Near the Houston hotel sitting on the bench,
looking at the warring sun,
I see it's thoughts
fill the amber sky.
I feel. The heat -
Pouring on the the pillars of the blue and purple shoreline.
Her.
As the sunset runs in
The stars twinkle like a dying headlight, a
deer passes by the ocean. And immediately
the rain falls, my blue jeans are soaked, and the
crash of clouds and thunder with enormous rain fill the night air.
I race and reach for the memories.
Running through the ocean blue,
Searching for her silver eyes,
The sky stands black along the naked coastline.
Still running, crushing, subduing
the ***** lobsters, and rocks underneath
the open earth.
I'm running to find her eyes again.
Where home felt so new, against her wit and lovely sarcasm,
and her untimely ways, my life never felt so real,
I stand on mountains looking for a place to kneel
before her silver eyes.
In the distance, I hold the warmth of her hands,
For in the secrets of her dress, her name reverberates
like blue Texan rivers.
Her smile hangs like the moon over water,
and I breathe my dreams out for her, my sweet surrender.
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 10:21 PM UTC
~
*This level crossing--
stick,
sand,
and broken glass,
from naming to numbering,
names tend to define,
numbers are neutral,
they count the roads, follow their failings--
flow,
force,
and absorb,
dictated by a headlight,
I feel nearer to the surface of us,
motion made of visible memories, arrested in space,
mere unorganized explosions of random energy,
and therefore meaningless--
to fall in love with our progress,
and yet be outgrown by it.*
~
Mar 10, 2021
Mar 10, 2021 at 7:33 PM UTC
I got down
And see the street lights
The cars passing by
Stuck in the headlight
I've seen bestfriends become lovers
We've eaten their left overs
What's left with us,
Is the piece of junk way back past.
I've watch lovers love
Like I did before
I've watched them fall apart
I've felt their beating heart
Baby there's no ticket to the past
There's nothing you can do
We didn't make it last
Just throw your love to the past
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 8:16 AM UTC
His nose was Cairo’s Bent Pyramid or a pair of ergonomic pliers
And his loyalty was a slumped tower of Jenga pieces
And his skin was a film of thick oatmeal or cream of mushroom soup, coating the bottom of an untouched ***
His teeth, little tombstones sinking into the earth.
His logic was a pair of safety scissors chewing through corrugated fiberboard
And his insults were sharp staccatos
And his humor was a steeped tea bag or curdled milk
And his laughter was a Singer sewing machine choking on tangled thread.
His eyebrows were gargoyle wings
And his hair, a bushel of dry bear grass
He sang, and it was cough syrup
And his beard was a soiled litter box.
His fingers, dried seaweed
And the palms of his hands were month old dish sponges.
His spine was a curved dipper gourd rotting in the sun
His grin was a snagged zipper
And his temperament pad-less brakes or a wasp in September
And his kisses were apple cider vinegar and radishes
And his eyes were two bottomless stone wells, foaming with moss.
His gait was a vulture scrutinizing its prey.
His chest was the backside of a dung beetle.
His insight was a cataract ridden car headlight lost in a curtain of fog
And his knees were skulls
And his touch was a snug pressure cuff
And his compassion was a guillotine
And the last time we spoke, it was crucifixion.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 9:09 PM UTC
Finite Fjords ferried then forgotten
junctures Masking mashups
disunion unfound by everyone
slackface mouth agape
tongue in cheek spittle drips
words trapdoored out
vocal vacuum chords
strum silence
heretical heresay
the headlight sped north
Abortion of caged comfort
Abort wars, birth best
invent intentional acts
WILLED UNDEVILED DEEDS
BLEED BREED PLEAD
SERENITY WITHOUT ANY GRANDIOUSITY
Mar 24, 2010
Mar 24, 2010 at 11:25 PM UTC
Snuggled in your corner,
New York, New York, an echo to an echo.
Boulevard cleavage flanked by
lamp-post pigtails,
headlight eyes and
warning sign lips.
Your skin is cream and
your personality is sugar,
but you're hesitant for a
second round of hot coffee.
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 6:29 PM UTC
rotting horse carcass.
green glowing filament by moonlight ******
& mistrust us.
radioactive drums of waste &/or dreams.
boys swimming.
fistfights at night
by headlight & tooth crackle. (spit) then bonfire pallets
lit & danced upon.
plumes
of gas-can outcries.
the days & abuelitas
& ghosts
pinched cheek - pinched cooler - grandaddy
on the grill.
his gasping yellow dogs.
judy is in the underbrush with a walkie-talkie
& a p.b.j.
desmond leaps from high rocks; he
descends into another world by way of molecular-mishap.
dove deep.
riding the portal boar.
wasps hover above spilt wine
& declare war upon brothers with b.b. guns
& firecrackers
& spf 50+. the saturday/sunday sagas
between beams of heat laughter breakdowns
to knees, to bees,
honey.
homecoming queen dead & wrapped
in plastic.
body found with
turtle bites.
fungi.
the slabs of granite.
old iron tractors bent & held by tree wives.
toast.
jam hewn hwedges of crisped bread.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 2:34 AM UTC
-Studying car lights from outside- an automobile's slow flash-
Primary colors of headlight reflections, flirt in their dance-like dash.
Here I sit in the back of my van, in the corner on the side of the street; I've been right here since 5pm, how the hours lapse with deceit. Its been just over 5 full hours that I've been paralyzed in this seat; Now as it's pushing 10pm, documented my defeat:
I'm more than done with this pit of fear,
overcome the paranoid gap,
all I need is to now pause, re-evaluate
Exiting this trap.
To wrap it up in this conclusion
To iterate the hours ceaseless delusion
Is to redefine isolations inherent seclusion- with confidence, strength-
dispel illogic's confusion.
Sep 7, 2024
Sep 7, 2024 at 3:17 AM UTC
Why is it that every streetlight
Every passing plane
Every headlight
Every voice
Every face
everyone
Reminds me of you
Jun 24, 2016
Jun 24, 2016 at 4:48 AM UTC
Wade perilously through violent flames
Decay of a thousand riddles
Of the midnight hurricanes.
Dressed in gray linen,
Eyes gazed downward,
Upon Heaven’s direction
Waiting for some sort of cleansing,
Through one headlight.
Lost in the high lighted directions
(left, right, east 2.6 miles)
Tossed out to sea,
Follow the blue-lit eye
Of our storm
To illuminate every imperfect beauty,
Upon balanced Braille on your heart’s sleeve.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 11:04 PM UTC
Varghese has no home.
Stays in his workplace.
Jesus’s very own man.
Big rosary around his neck.
And a matching wooden cross.
He gardens around the yard
On days of no work.
Holds a deep grudge
Against the trees around.
Doomed are they the moment
His eyes settle on them.
Asked him once whether
His rancor was because
Jesus was crucified on wood.
Or, was it the wheezing that
the Acacia trees caused?
Or, was it the itchy worms
from the soft wood trees?
He said time and again
‘Brother, I love the trees
More than you love them.’
Have seen many times
The birds from the trees
Chopped down by Varghese
Looking for their nests.
Clearing the bushes along
The road to the office was
Varghese’s job for the day.
When I went out for a smoke
Glowing was he about
How the place gleamed.
Midnight, after work,
Was driving along the path
Shorn clean by Varghese.
In the blaze of the headlight
A hare dashed frantically
Looking for its bush.
(trans from Malayalam by Ra Sh)
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 11:20 AM UTC
12.5.11
Better than me
Is that what you are?
Better than me,
Is what you should be.
Your knees wobble, it’s all I see.
Your voice quivers, giving me shivers.
As I cringe,
I need you to be, better then me.
My walls are crumbled
As your words grow jumbled,
I stand there with you,
In front of the crowd.
Every noise
Seems so loud
As you face
My fear with grace.
WE are the dear
Caught in a headlight,
I feel the cold
Of the lonesome night.
I feel the sweat drip
Down my face,
I feel a disgrace
As I quicken my pace.
But i need you to see
You are better than me.
___________________________________________________________________________
This is inspired by the bravery that it takes to stand infront of a crowd and show something you have created. It highlights that public speaking, at least infront of highschoolers, is a big fear and weakness of mine. It also highlights the empathy and solidarity I feel with people who feel the same way as I do when they stand up there, next to that microphone.
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 4:50 AM UTC
the black night is stiflingly humid, eliciting
a glistening sheen of beaded sweat on the
tanned faces of any being who dares to
enter the boiling summer evening.
a thick smattering of clouds create a
downy blanket, the foreground to
hundreds of intermittent stars and
the round, glowing face of the full moon.
i seat myself on the stair closest to the ground,
and as it is passed around between us four,
i light one long, chemical cigarette and place
it carefully between my lips, cracked
by the harsh rays of the summer sun.
jagged, angular faces grin and laugh
at us, formed by the gaps and holes in
the beautiful, intricate cloud cover.
suddenly, a summer breeze softer than
than the winged seeds of a dandelion
caresses frizzy hairs and cools the dew
drops upon our moist foreheads.
a split-second shift in the clouds creates
the most resplendent sight my eyeballs have
ever encountered in their twenty-one years.
like an imposing rock formation, or the
billows of smoke from a great forest fire,
the fluffed gray structures have aligned
themselves with the radiant orb in the sky,
and her face casts beams of light through
them, projecting long, fragile arms of
brilliance through the dull backyard.
with our four faces stretched upward as
far as our craning necks will allow, we
absorb the sublime, pure moonlight.
i lock this picture in my mind, certain
that this moment, trapped in infinity like
a mosquito trapped in amber, could be
the refreshing breeze or the hurried gulp
of ice-cold oxygen imperative to survival.
as she shines her vibrant headlight through
the cloudy fog, i breathe slowly and allow my
cigarette to extinguish itself, and i think that
this must be how it feels to really, truly be alive.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 3:13 AM UTC
Quips and quibbles of
A teenage heart
Drip drop dribbling
Through my chest as
Teardrops made of rain and
The screech of tires
And flashing city lights
Pour through my veins
Running writhing wriggling
From soul to stomach
Twisting turning
My mind is
Sick with
The feeling of
Nothing
Because
My heart is
Iron and ice and ire
Steel bars separate
Emotion from
The streets that lead to
Freedom and expression
Release
And Happiness rots
Alongside Rage
Molding and mildewed
In the deepening darkness
Where Rational and Reason
Locked them up
Long ago
But I?
I have no reason
To feel this way
My love-sick stomach is
Always fed
And university walls
Surround
My head is
Bewildered,
Brilliant headlight-beams
Blinding my
Aching eyes as
I stumble home
Twelve hours of
Class and work weigh
Heavy on my
Mind is hung-up
On him
Again
Still mostly
My life is
Fire and whiskey
And friends
That burn off the
Chill
And soften the scars
Except on these
Winter nights when
Alone in my room
Blood pounds cold
Through shrieking veins
White-water-whipping
Whirling and
Storming through my
Soul and I
Know
I am nineteen years old
But my teenage heart
Isn’t so hopeful
Or naïve
Anymore
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 10:50 PM UTC