"mph" poems
Route 84 would not lend me
the light of a star last night
Radio blazing at 75 mph
nonsense noise to chew gum by
Crackling political commentary
Static of distance and thick clouds
Invisible mountains blocking
Memories seeping through the cracks
coating the music in a film
I rub my eyes
watch myself punch alert buttons
But it’s the angels’ jukebox tonight
Roll down the window
Watch the heat escape
Summer again
I am building a castle of ancient stones
pulverized by relentless tides
Dragged across maps by mastodons
and mammoth glaciers
The scouring hiss
the ocean sighs
Time has lulled these smoothly
rolling them in the softest hands of sand
and gels of life’s comings and goings
tenderly tumbling
in the millionth moonrise—
Time deposits them here
wet and glistening
For the girl with the plaid two-piece to gather
Shoulders sun-burnt barely say
one week only,
one week of the fifty two
“It’s the time of the season…”
and daddies on the beach are watching….
She has chosen yet another stone
And the castle continues—
in oblivion to all but her legend…
The queen will be safe here
from the rabble
The disgraced Tristan will surely seek her
Among these lofty cliffs
Between the raging circuit of the tide
Here winds forbid the vengeful mob
Here lovers learn
the debt of love’s bad timing
“Drink ye all of it!”
--the potion that assigns our sorrow….
She will not sleep—
while I chew this gum-- GUM?
Roll down the window!
Angels escape with the heat
Waking me with the brush of their wings
As that eighteen-wheeler hugs my flank
And leans on the horn
Lights flashing
Rude rumbling under right tires
Tantrum of snow
In the draft of mass and velocity
…and the angels?
They’ve chosen another good one!
They must’ve liked the 80’s
Their wings slapping the windshield madly
Their hands steady the wheel
Sep 13, 2016
Sep 13, 2016 at 1:20 PM UTC
To the tweaker who just ate lunch
On the side of a 55 mph highway
I'm not staring because I'm judging
I can judge without looking
I'm staring because I want to know
If my eyes can slow down your limbs
Like the arms of a fan
So I can see that you're still somebody's daughter
I'm staring because I understand
Never mind the gawking eyes of midday traffic
Never mind the glares of the gas station clerks
I understand
You're just having lunch
I understand
The bugs, the tics, the needs
You are not a stranger to me
You are who my sister used to be
You are what the father of my niece
Is trying not to be anymore
You are every shady character
Who ever knocked on my door asking questions
I do not know your name
But I know you
I know you were once somebody's daughter
And I hope you still are
I'm not here to pass judgment
Definitely not here to help
I know all to well there is nothing I can do
I just want you to know I know
And so does any body you're trying to hide it from
And they'll be waiting up for you
Whether you come home or not
Your mom hasn't had a full nights sleep
Since the last time she saw you
I hope for her sake
It was this morning
And I know you won't believe this
But grown woman and all
Your dad just wants to bounce you on his knee
But what I know most of all
Is that your little brother
Can't go two hours without crying
He's got ulcers again
And he misses you
You probably see him the most
But he hasn't seen you
Since you took your first hit
He misses your advice
He misses your hazing
And all he wants is a sober hug
And I'm sure this isn't what you wanted to hear
During your picnic
But it's everything I wish I could've told my sister
Even if she wouldn't have listened
I'm not staring to judge
I'm staring to care
And I don't presume to know what addiction is
But I do know how it feels
I just watched you barely cross the street
I can't imagine you making it
Wherever you're going tonight
So if you die
I hope there's **** in heaven
But if you by some miracle don't
I hope rock bottom's not to far down
And that one day you get clean
And start to make amends
So you can remember what it's like to dream
And if that day ever does come
Do me a favor
Sit on your father's lap
Sleep in your mother's bed
And hug your little brother
Because there's a girl he could use some help with
No matter what you've done
Or how much pain you've caused
Through the twitching
The nervous glances
The weight loss
You're still somebody's daughter
I know you
I understand you
Enjoy your lunch
Jan 4, 2010
Jan 4, 2010 at 10:26 AM UTC
If I were only me I would drive to San Francisco
and jump off the big orange bridge.
I might do it if I knew it
wouldn’t hurt them,
but I can't because it would
so I keep fighting all
this **** that haunts me.
I have eleven reasons not to do it,
eleven people I will not name,
eleven reasons
not to hit the water at 86 mph,
eleven reasons to avoid massive internal bleeding,
to avoid broken ribs and punctured lungs,
to avoid …telescoping fractures……
asphyxiation by blood and……
….telescoping fractures……..
Eleven reasons to avoid 4 seconds
of second guessing.....and telescoping fractures…..
Eleven reasons…… …....................OK twelve.
Eleven people in my life I couldn’t do it to.
Twelve including me because I know I won’t like
the sound of what it might sound like,
the difference in my mind between the sound
of fractures and the sound of telescoping fractures,
a terrifying sound, enough to keep me away from
San Francisco, not to mention the big orange bridge.
I lie awake at night with numbers racing around inside
my head, 60 seconds in a minute, 60 minutes in an hour,
4 seconds from rail to water, 220 feet to fall,
24 hours in a day, 86 miles per hour at impact.
I keep counting and sleeping fitful frightening sleep,
endure nightmares of falling, flying off the big orange bridge,
reaching upward, the bridge getting smaller and smaller,
and every morning I wake before impact still a martyr
for all of us.
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 1:03 PM UTC
an incredible incite (the ruthless volatility of words)
~for L.B.~
the only place of solitaire solitude in the city accompanies me
like a faithful country dog that doesn’t know better to be afraid,
of moving cars, sleepless night terrors and unscripted “dreams”
where image and words say come “follow me” with ruthlessness and no cloying come hither looks and
see and take and recall with perfect midnight blue sky clarity for
the incredible incite of credible insight
surfacing unexpectedly in a intemperate pool of slushy snow,
that will be an ice storm of painful confrontations with naked
inner truths standing outside in sunny sub zero playground
there is great risk. volatility gone wild. when the speed
governor is removed and you live at 100 mph on local streets,
when the merest slight of an accidental incidental touch
transforms into an incite incident and hell is the threat
that you will not die today and your own words will ruthless
pull from the nerve places where sensible and sensual cannot
coexist and this write this script is a poetical insight inside, an
incredible incite and what your spilling is spaghetti sauce blood
when you left your brain on broil, instead of the faking daily of
slow simmering ineffectual intellectual words that just don’t
cut the crap. your addiction complete, you cannot live without
the incredible incite, the ruthless volatility of words,
otherwise why rough write what you see
in the blind
beyond the blind
1/6/18 5:03am
Jan 6, 2018
Jan 6, 2018 at 5:17 AM UTC
When I hear the words “marching band”,
I think of 4 am’s eating donuts on the bus,
Piled in big heaps to conserve warmth,
Not caring who we were laying on.
I think of lips on fire,
Sectionals that drag on and on in
The scorching sun, and staying
At attention for longer than you can bear.
I think of impossibly quick changes into uniforms,
Asking your friends to zip you up,
Band moms wiping off bibbers and shoes,
And when you’re all ready, realizing you didn’t put on your mic.
I think of falling on turf during
25 mph wind gusts, hearing the hail smash your instrument,
Not being able to feel your face,
But knowing you have to play on just the same.
I think of eating at weird times,
Breakfast at 4 am, lunch at 10 am, and supper at 10 pm,
But knowing that when you get you get a chance to eat,
The band dads have got you covered.
I think of laughing so hard on the bus
You’re crying, sobbing even, sprawled across
Your best friends, and you think you’ll never calm down
Enough to ever play your instrument again.
I think of the drum majors’ voices yelling
LEFT LEFT LEFT
Over and over again until the freshmen finally understand.
There’s always that one that never does.
I think of the moment of utter agony
Before they announce the last place in your class,
And you’re squeezing your eyes shut, praying
That at the very least, you won’t be last.
I think of that moment of utter relief
After you hear the last place in your class,
And it’s not you, and your prayers have been answered
That at the very least, you were not last.
I think of the last competition of the season,
When the seniors are bawling and it seems like
Your entire world is crashing down,
And nothing will ever be right again.
This poem could go on forever,
But finally: finally.
When I hear the words “marching band”,
I think of that triumphant moment right
As your show ends for the last time,
That last horns down,
And you know you’ve given it your all,
And no matter what your score is,
You feel in your heart that you have put everything
You have out there,
All the music, the drill, the blood, sweat and tears,
Out there on that football field.
And that moment, you can get no where else, but
Marching band.
Oct 26, 2018
Oct 26, 2018 at 5:42 PM UTC
Forbidden plant
Mixes with fire,
Inhaled deep,
Held within
Until it burns;
Cough it hard,
Raise the chin,
Sit up straight,
All change color
Of pinks and purples,
Yellows and greens;
Sights beyond
Fade to black:
Amateur cinematics.
Stumbling feet
Throws car keys
To the conscious smile,
Who drives at 55 mph
When the dash reads 15.
Sit and rest,
Gather those thoughts;
Pessimistics argue
Mundane topics,
As the mind wanders
Through dark skies,
Picking and pondering
The out of reach stars
Before awaking
With sleepy regret.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 12:58 AM UTC
15 MPH
caution, the kids are at play
embracing the youth they will
one day lose
just like you have
50 MPH
you get where you're going
but on the highway there are hazards
if you don't watch where you're going
or look through the dark
you'll wind up turned over
rolling
rolling
roll...
70 MPH
you're making time
straight forward shot
but you can not see the scenery
and the music is too upbeat
but speed along, sweetie, speed along.
100 MPH
only on the track are you really safe
you're passing strangers
you're losing control
but you can't slam the breaks
you can never stop
280 MPH—
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 6:15 PM UTC
A few years ago
I fell in love
Racing 60 mph down a 45 zone
Clutching the seat and the door
Of a 98 nissan sentra
Hoping to get the hell out of that car
Because i couldn't stand him anymore
His reckless turned me on though
In a way that opening that car door
Seemed like an exit strategy
I didn't need to take after all
The darkness that encased the car around us
Seemed like the perfect mood setting
For the thrill we both wanted
And for me what i needed
Love didn't understand that
My fear for speed
Resembled my fear for life
Life always seemed to flash by to fast
Like it always had some place to be
And i wanted to remain still
I wanted to take a picture
Because i knew it would last longer
Instead of it always changing
And rearranging itself
Love drove me through the streets
many countless nights
Expanding my perspective
Reversing my sense of direction
A feeling of protection
That i didn't have before
Love gave me reasons
To speed through life
To not be scared
To every once in a while
Let go of the handle
That i strictly held onto
Love became my life
And i thank god
Each and every day
That i didn't take
That exit strategy
That i sped away into the night
And lived an actual life.
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 10:32 PM UTC
Prologue
casual glance at my notifications while driving even though
I’m all ready a bad bad boy, cruising at a sedate,
cruise-controlled 70 mph vs. the bureaucrat bifocals 55,
a remnant regulation of the Eighties,
all the while humming with Gilligan
“a 3 hour tour,
2 passengers set sail that day”
then execute a four lane 180,
gotta get highway sideway grassed ,
cause i’m gassed...
by a Poem Breach
of the poems promised by me,
to write of thee,
you, my best inspiration,
the list grows longer, faster
than the hours provided
pull over fast emergency for my composure breached,
my vision wetted, my eyes hit by an unplanned unexpected,
sudden summer thunderstorm
<•>
The Poem Breach
***once more into the breach thy words breeze through my chest,
like on a flamed stick, night roasting, toasting beach summer marshmallows,
that cut direct to the ineffable sadness that resides resists within,
that sticky, white mess,
a human heart melting
a thank you message that I’ve read before,
many times more than once,
how my unasked poem, a sun unique,
arrived at the
precise time and place,
to lift and even save,
how could I’ve know?
I did not know
but these messages collect on my chest,
unsought words of purple ribbon metal that make a
less burdened cowardly lion,
grown man cry,
do crazy things for it is a possible solution to his
age old quest
Why do I exist, is this my purposed plan, don’t understand, all
but the answer peaked and peaceful accepted in the breach unreasoned,
my port of entry, a gateway to the scales, a bridge it is, over a time-life river styx and unstuck, yet certainly always confused...***
“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.”
thank you so insufficient
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 11:56 AM UTC
capricorn: cover your heart in acrylics like you are art and promise yourself you'll leave after this one last kiss (you won't, you never do)
aquarius: you never stopped trying to be your own worst nightmare and this is why people find their breath of fresh air in you
pisces: something about the way shouting something off of a rooftop never feels the same as whispering it in their ear
aries: you are both a quiet tuesday morning and a tornado in the middle of april and there's never been a more beautiful disaster
taurus: you are the apology strung between two streetlights and you will never give up on finding the worst person to love
gemini: you are something along the lines of a fairytale but i think your author was drunk because this isn't going how it should
cancer: you are something of a tsunami stored in shaky palms and uncertain breaths and she will still love you with 100 mph winds
leo: you are nothing less than the scream your heart begs to let out when you feel like you're losing them and i want to punch it out of you
virgo: *picking flower petals*—they love you, they love you not, they love you, they love you not, they love you, they know you want to die, they love y
libra: and ten years from now, you will still be falling in love with people the same way others skydive from planes
scorpio: you are more than the last "im sorry" between two people whose infinity was shorter than it should have been
sagittarius: death has been flirting with you from across the room all night long and there's a good chance that it's love at first sight
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 2:12 PM UTC
My life is a series of questions that come at me like a 90 mph curve ball straight to the chest, and I don’t have a bat to answer them.
If only I was a baseball player, and could decipher one pitch from the next
Because the only pitch I can knock out of the park is the question “why are you sad?”
And my home run answer is
“I don’t know”
Sep 29, 2018
Sep 29, 2018 at 2:12 PM UTC
I.
something within me,
maybe its my amigdala,
misses the oven-turned-gentrified clot,
that great collection of want,
of transient soles-souls.
I miss how we’re piled three stories high,
so close to each others’ mouths that we must
burrow in criss crossed, colliding tunnels
to our point b’s, our job sites,
our lovers’ houses.
maybe it is indeed part of our un-nature to do this,
to cling to one another even
as our unforgiving sungod bakes us whole,
cornish game hens on the el train,
hurdling 40 mph, to and from
our personal hovels, heavens
and bedsheets,
tethered to this place, possibly indentured,
definitely flawed,
where we revel under roofs to prove incredibleness
an virility.
II.
our eyes are not closed today.
they may not blink in unison
as mannequin lids do,
so effortlessly, plastic and mechanical,
but those, we are thankfully not.
for we are flesh,
and air, and miles of gastrointestinal turnpike, if unpinned,
would stretch from here to panama.
we are each of us
a viscous mound called
Sally, Bertram and Queen Mary.
We are the collision of milk flowing, divine,
a whirling dervish
in scalding darjeeling.
we are air,
gliding over enamel into the collective breath
to be devoured so sweetly by others,
as saintly man-scripted gelato,
dribbling down our chins in piazzas.
la dolce ************* vita.
III.
that’s the funny thing about living
in this size 2 world,
the ability to appear anywhere upon its face at a moment’s notice,
to be in front of any face when desired,
to live sans toll booth or customs desk,
to simply dust off our ability to fly
and tumble icarus-adolescent into the collision
between the two blue planes called sea and sky
Jun 7, 2011
Jun 7, 2011 at 9:58 AM UTC
sometimes it feels like
the air's escaped my lungs
or a symphony of synchronized sighs or maybe even a free fall into the fog at night
i know that it's been a while
even though it still ****** like a pinwheel spinning in gusts of wind going 90 mph
or maybe like the air's been ****** out of my lungs
or maybe like a river runs out of my crying eyes
or maybe
i'm just...
being
******* dramatic
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 11:13 PM UTC
Addiction
No, not what you think, not needles, not bottles, not too much food or too little, not sleeping 18 hours or running until feet bleed, not *********** not voyeurism, not pole-dancing or jello shots or driving 150 mph down dark streets, not working to exhaustion, not bizarre rituals, not staring into bright lights or ******* on sweet treats until a migraine sets in, not pulling out fingernails or walking with pebbles in shoes, thinking any of this brings God to the door.
No, none of these excesses
But, life? Yes. Addicted to breathing, yes. Addicted to sweetness of morning-light, yes. Addicted to aroma of salt water, when the sun swings low and pelicans skim the curling waves in search of dinner, oh yes. And playing hide-n-go-seek with my three year old neighbor, yes. Addicted to not giving up on that African violet in the windowsill, despite its crispy appearance, to watching my child shimmy, yes and yes. To her well-being, her off-key singing, a resounding yes! To letting family be. To the solitude of a hot shower. Addicted to your righteousness, your swagger, the way dimming sunlight cups your body, I’ll admit it, yes. And anticipation of oysters still in their rough shells. And never, ever worrying about whether these are excesses or not because it’s in the elusiveness of the word (addiction, for example, or desire or want or tenacity), in the lone gesture, the moment before that door opens and the house empties of terror and fills with human breath that the balance is reset.
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 4:58 PM UTC
The ten speed biker was coasting down hill
about 20 MPH when he took a spill,
He's moving on, He's moving on!
He hit the brake a little too late, He's moving on!
The ten speed biker was do'n ok,
Till he an old Tom Cat got in his way,
He's mov'n on, he's a mov'n on.
He tried it to miss, but the ground he kissed,
He's mov'n on!
The 10 speed biker broke down in tears,
climbing up a hill he ran out of gears,
He's a-moving on, he's moving on.
He had to call his nurse, when he went in reverse,
He mov'n on, he's mov'n on!
The ten speed biker was a do'n ok, till he saw a pretty girl,
and he looked her way, he's mov'n on, he's mov'n on.
His bike is a wreck and so is his neck, he's mov'n on.
(She wasn't worth look'n at any way)
Welll, the ten speed biker was hav'n no trouble,
Till he tried to ride through a big mud puddle,
He's a mov'n on,
Now he's filthy sight, and so is his bike
But he'll soon be mov'n on, be a mov'n on.
The 10 speed biker hit a serious cog,
When he got chased by a mangy ol' dog,
He tried mov'n (faster) on,
But he ran of of luck, 'n got bit in the ****
He's mov'n (a little slower) but he's still mov'n on.
[This next stanza was written by my 7 yr. old Grandson.)
The ten speed biker do'n 'bout 25 and didn't see
the big hornet hive, he's moving on, he's mov'n on.
You could him cry'n "I think Im dy'n!
He's mov'n on, yeah mov'n on!
(This last stanza is a true experience when I was 65 yrs old)
The ten speed biker had good control, till he waved at a friend,
and ran off the road, he stopped mov'n on, stopped mov'n on.
Now he's sett'n home with broken ribs and a collar bone ,
He' NOT mov'n on! yeah he's NOT NO LONGER MOV'N ON!
[I didn't have all these experiences, but wrote this poem to
an old country western song tune. by G.E.Parson
Feb 15, 2018
Feb 15, 2018 at 9:40 AM UTC
I am going so quickly on job applications, I have lost count how many I have applied to.
I am going way too fast in this process.
I am treating this like NASCAR.
Going 200 mph a hour a Daytona.
With one goal in mind a job.
So for once in my life I hope to slow down the process.
Nov 29, 2010
Nov 29, 2010 at 10:38 AM UTC
Another haunt is arriving, feverishly fast tonight.
Somehow I managed to delay the feeling, briefly,
as it usually takes the manageable Subway and begins to fester around high noon, but today I skipped lunch,
and the feeling didn't go underground for her mode of transport.
"Maybe I hit the lotto?", I secretly questioned,
and the haunt would forget her requiem, passing over me
like those lucky "Kennedy Husbands" during the sixties' draft.
But I was getting divorced while all the other couples
were on a faster track heading in the opposite direction.
Tonight the haunt is traveling 248 mph,
on the Fùxīng ** bullet train from Beijing to Shanghai, en route to Vietnam.
The conductor yelled, "All Aboard."
and as if that period denoted a punctual mark,
everyone manically crammed into the narrow vehicle.
The first influx of lovely passengers to board were,
Missus Anxiety, Sir Prior Transgressions and Dr. Heartache.
Unlike Dr. Feelgood,
They had been waiting in line from the previous night,
like those idiots for last week’s black Friday sale.
Mr. and Mrs. Payments Past Due cut in front of
Bills Esquire and Judge Job Insecurity,
for the Belmont Superfecta win, I guessed the right horses, just didn’t box my bet.
Congressman Careless and Deputy ******* nearly trampled Senator Surrender on the way through the turnstiles,
while Mayor Moan was flagged by security for groaning
and pulled aside for a pat down and wheelchair inspection.
The Mayor was found to have ******* residue on his sleeve, but legitimate prescriptions for his aches and pains,
so TSA
wheeled him through the crack rocks
Analog veins pump analog blood to my analog heart;
traveling for the journey and not its hasty destination.
My analog heart will eventually be shelved,
as it still salutes the Subway on its journey to my soul,
but like dusting off an old Coen Brothers flick,
my analog heart is still entertaining its vintage tick.
Nov 27, 2017
Nov 27, 2017 at 9:23 PM UTC
Introduction
_____________
some words
chase you around
infiltrating and winking,
in emails and poems to
your attention dispatched
undeniably messaging
a wanting to be
realized, completed,
teasingly speaking
you know
a poem newly birthing
in your left brain,
tender pleading,
love me already,
just write me
like you would
make love to a woman!"
messages from others employ
the self-same word r e p e a t e d l y,
you start to get the hint
very very v i g o r o u s l y
the rumbling,
the back-seat tumbling,
you're driving
bipedal composing,
guitar and piano
gas and brake
pedals to the mettle,
and the speed limit
was 15 mph under
where your brain is fermenting
all tuning you up to
meet the guild's
product quality standards,
yet unlike an automobile,
a poem, like a life,
has a unique DNA,
cannot just be
recalled,
for repair
and additional tinkering,
jes' because
once it is out there,
it has been outed
sure enough in my
my "started but *** file,
a lazy layabout,
overlooked and undercooked,
the poem below,
a dabble and a muddle,
so ignored, so berefted
for so long
it got this
special introduction
by way of an apology....
Incarnate
She is my poem incarnate
She is the carne of my body
She is the innate of my soul
She is my woman incarnate
she is all I need
in form realized and invisible imagined,
angel and thank god,
devil as well...
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 11:06 AM UTC
Her name was Mave.
She had gorgeous long red hair
and green like apples eyes.
She liked to collect circular rocks
because they gave her luck.
She was terrified of driving
because just the idea of trusting others
with giant metal machines going at 70 mph
made her head hurt.
She loved freckles because she said
that they looked like little hearts on peoples faces.
She hated pumpkins and carrots. First of all because
they were orange just like her hair, and she liked to think
that the color was special and not given to things as mundane as a food.
Second of all, shed like to believe that shed be caught dead
before she ever asked for anything pumpkin flavored and conform to the 'white girl'.
and carrots just tasted funny.
She was inconsistent, and while some said it kept them on their toes
the truth is, all it did was keep them wrapped around her finger.
She was careless and didn't think much before she acted.
It could be seen as spontaneous, but actually it was just hurtful.
She loved the winter, because her cheeks matched her hair
and she stood out against the pure white snow.
She loved summer as well because she didn't need to be held
to anyones expectations and she could simply disappear.
She was an all or nothing type girl. Its why she either summer
or its polar opposite winter.
Its why she wanted to either be your lover
or be a stranger.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 8:06 PM UTC
That familiar feeling of depression,
led me on,
drooling
with my mouth open, nostrils wide
taking air in from hot, open windows;
driving at 20 mph in a 15 zone
carefully avoiding the road bumps.
The rear view mirror shows me,
a familiar stranger in dark, Ray-ban shades
She follows me,
a life of condescension
yet we love it
as long as we maintain the pool
built with utmost care.
Her hidden eyes give me comfort
I wish she was my wife
and the comfort in her hidden eyes
was comfort
in my cramped up car and my cramped up loft
from this cramped up life.
(There's a weird thing about unfamiliarity)
There are other things
like Ana's bookshelf in an upscale house in Buenos Aires,
those yellow tees specially designed to remember old pals,
or getting high in the Sierra Nevadas
with someone paid to be like you.
There's too much **** down that road,
the one I never took,
women became girls waiting in puffy waterproofs
coffee gets old
there's the cost of oil change every 300 miles
I don't drive that much anymore.
We have widows, young widows
sometimes with young babies, barely born
in fact, we were all young sometime
you, I, brides, the war on terror
that boy from Ethiopia,
things were simpler without automobiles
and rear view mirrors.
Jun 26, 2012
Jun 26, 2012 at 10:47 PM UTC
Question: What do you do if your car crashes?
Answer: Don't crash your car.
I drove myself home from the hospital the morning after I drove myself insane.
A note in my hand listing ways the doctors could direct to get me home safe from my own self.
Come to a full stop at sharp edges,
Steer away from liquids you can drown in,
Put in your caution lights so people just drive around you,
Take your medicine,
Don't drive alone,
No not that medicine
Here's a phone number in case you have something worth saying,
Bus to class,
Unless that's too hard.
Flunk out
Call your mother.
Don't tell her everything.
And it becomes a challenge just to say I'm not okay.
Because after a disaster like mine,
No one wants to hear you haven't healed yet.
And I can't count the number of times I've been offered a vaccine instead of a remedy,
and scoffed at when the cast comes off and I'm still a little too broken.
As if I haven't healed fast enough.
Don't tell me I'm being overdramatic,
Don't tell me I chose the broken glass,
the bending steal.
That it was all avoidable had I just not blinked,
Had I just slowed down and stopped to think
Had I just snapped out of it.
I wouldn't have crashed.
Question: Have you ever gone driving in the rain?
In the snow?
Cause then you might know how it feels to lose just a little bit of control.
And the next moment find yourself in the bottom of a ditch,
waiting once again for someone to pull you from the wreckage
Because you can't save yourself.
I wanna save myself.
And I don't need to know how the engine works.
Just teach me to read the warning signs when I'm heading south and there's no way for me to turn around.
Let me know that when I start to let go, there are safety nets 'cause sometimes my mind is more of a balancing act, the bridge accident than a joy ride
So give me air bags,
give me seat belts,
Give me a crash test dummy.
If I cut the brake lines, show me how to coast to a stop.
Because people cannot live in a plastic bubble, rolling around at 5 mph for the rest of our lives,
repeating caution signs:
Don't blink,
Don't breath,
Don't move,
Don't freeze,
Don't drive,
Don't park,
Don't live.
Don't tell me don't tell me don't tell me
this is defensive living
Sometimes veering off the road, eyes shut tight on a straightaway covered in obstacles bigger than ourselves is the best we can do to survive.
Question: What do you do if your car crashes?
Answer: Just crash your car.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 10:34 PM UTC
The Police you fear.
You’ve feared them since you were five,
Mother always telling you as such.
You’re not breaking the law at five, right?
If you did, then you’d totally deserve whatever they’d do to you.
After all, they only go after people who disobey the law!
The Police you have nightmares about. Frequently.
Do you speed in your dream? Seriously?
How is it that you commit crimes in your dream?
If you don’t want to be ‘bothered’ (or as some intellectuals put it, murdered or killed), maybe just follow the law??
The Police give you pause every time you see them while driving.
The Police cause your heart to pound, your fists to clench the wheel,
And you to immediately slow down to 10 mph below the speed limit.
Really?? C’mon, now you’re just being dramatic.
If you’re so freaked out by them, maybe not speed so much?
Unless…you’re hiding something in your car?
You’ve got brown skin; you act all afraid of the cops…
You probably have drugs on you. You seriously deserve to be searched.
Just kidding! Although, I’m sure some of the white people you tell this too might actually believe it.
The Police you fear at the airport, with their K9 dogs on leashes.
It does not help that your stupid acne medication smells like ****
Or…Maybe you just have **** on you?
You know that the dumb dog probably wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.
But hey, at least it doesn’t smell like rotten eggs!
The Police you have to create a lot of strategies around,
Like a football game,
But instead of winning,
The main goal is not to get beaten or shot to death!
The Police have harassed your dad a lot.
You’re always told how you’re a shade or two lighter than him.
But hey! At least you’re not darker!
The Police harass your dad at work and off work.
But if he didn’t want to stop, maybe not wear a LG uniform and drive in a LG truck!
No wonder why they stopped him and asked what he’s doing!
He’s so suspicious.
The School/University Police has never once made you feel safe.
You freeze up like a deer in headlights and force yourself to move.
You keep your head down, not maintain eye contact,
But maybe in order to make it really clear
You should wear a gigantic “I AM NOT SUSPICIOUS SIGN”.
Do they sell those on Amazon?
Maybe you can take a look online?
Maybe that’ll help your whole…’ooh I’m so scared of cops thing?’
Whatever you do, get some help.
Dec 17, 2020
Dec 17, 2020 at 4:00 PM UTC
Big Balls
AC/DC sang about these items of bounce
shooting them through baskets weaved
game winning corner kicks keeper couldn't pounce
stories of bravery not all believed
soldiers on the front and city cops too
firefighters saving lives and endangering their own
the size of the owner means little it's true
in the side pocket pressure of feeling alone
heroes and villains alike need at least one
95 mph fast one you try to hit with a stick
even sea lions and seals use them for fun
it makes me laugh to see them do a trick
admitting you were wrong can take a large pair
painful thought to see how far you can kick instead
through the distant goal posts of life if you dare
served with sauce and pasta and slice of garlic bread
you can club them with a driver if you like
or seek your destiny looking thru crystal deep inside
but guys hate when they slip while riding a bike
by showing yours you won't lose your pride
Gomer LePoet....
Aug 14, 2011
Aug 14, 2011 at 6:31 PM UTC
High Times In Harvey Taylor.
Part III: Slutty Dancing.
I'm
speed-ball
racing
at
85 mph
on a
55 mph road.
Drive to survive.
Getting down,
with the radio,
dancing like a *****
rocking my ****
hotter than
a
***** stamp.
Putting on a
show,
for all the ghosts passing by.
during my
head rush hour.
Time
predicts
Nothing good
for me except for
the chance to
get into
a head on
crash crush collision.
Sirens, lights, noises & Pigs.
Maybe they'll take me home
for a **** slumber party?
I always try to see the best in people.
If I have no luck looking,
I just pretend I'm blind.
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 1:19 AM UTC