"pontiac" poems
Working on car engines and in fish cases
has enabled me to cook
for often
when the process of cooking is a balance between hands and heat
my old fingers
battered and beat up as they've been by the heat of a Pontiac V8 manifold
or five hundred pounds of shaved ice every day for seven years with no gloves
shrug and shake it off
as an old cowboy shakes the dust from his chaps
after being thrown to the dirt by a horse who doesn't realize
how many times the cowboy has been in the dirt before
and gotten up
Aug 11, 2012
Aug 11, 2012 at 7:16 PM UTC
Sometimes we like to do something for the story
we’ll tell afterwards. Buy a ’58 Pontiac, climb
a mountain in the dark. Lamar tells ***** jokes
with class, knows how to wait awhile, bend
a syllable and savor the laughter.
Absurd work, building a fence miles long
waste of steel and strong straight lodgepole pine
but even I don’t opine against it anymore. We’re
the government's children, fence is play and
livelihood also, but something cheerful as sunshine
for all the death it costs. There is so much life
a little death doesn’t matter. We stretch our muscles
the men feel like men, the women feel good too.
We stand around, watch a young rabbit one morning.
Aug 17, 2022
Aug 17, 2022 at 6:49 AM UTC
all my stop signs
are draped with pearl necklaces
and my headlights
caress wounded kittens
i am the dunce
carusading thru the blues
the moon is emblazoned
with indignation over
crowds of unemployed people
(nodody notices the white elephant)
stealing
the hacksaw, the cookies, and all the money
i saved for a haircut
all in all, a ***** is
hitchhiking toward a pontiac
in the desperate desert sun
counting
his thumbs with a switchblade
"anything temporary can be used for money reasons"
Feb 8, 2012
Feb 8, 2012 at 9:02 PM UTC
let’s go for a ride
in the ‘55 pontiac
just like the good old days
it doesn’t have AC
but its okay
we can roll down the windows
and just ride
down the highway
we can go to that
drive-up burger place
if you’re hungry
the carhop will bring out our shakes
yours chocolate
mine caramel
just like the good old days
and we’ll sit there
and talk
long after we’re done
maybe I could take the wheel
and I could drive
if you’re tired
but we’re not done yet
we could go watch a movie
at the drive in
and after that
we can just go to
the middle of nowhere
some place really dark
and just look at the stars
with the Beach Boys on the radio
just like the good old days
let’s not talk about the future
not right now
tonight we talk about the past
because tonight
we’ll talk about our love
and how it formed our
special bond
to today
it has survived
every trial and tribulation
it has been alongside
every joy and happiness
so as I hold your hand
that monstrous thing
tonight of all nights
I’m going to remember
the good old days
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 5:02 AM UTC
i am a Spidey red Pontiac
the ceiling is falling in and the doors are broken
(that you pry open anyway
but only because i want you to)
you ask me with your eyelashes
why i don't put thumbtacks into the parts of me that droop and sag along the interior
and the heater whines softly,
smoke spilling in from a mangled motor
because i ask myself the same question
we are cramped, you and i
the stuffing seeping out of the back seat,
the mangled box spring hearts dangling from our chests like metal slinkies that can't find the floor
because we've swallowed one too many books
and seen each other barefoot once too few
but we are happy, you and i
we find amusement in red sweaters and pull Pokemon from Abe's old hat
i wouldn't pass the safety inspection for your soul
(but you drive me anyway)
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 7:33 PM UTC
Something in your cell structure compels me
The way your bones form around a soul
Your ribcage are prison bars-
Break free and form new shapes with me
Your long golden wings will carry you from fate
But this body is a prison
Escape. Soar over green seas and sleep in the silver valleys
Find comfort in the distance of stars and moons
A speck of dust in the desert wind
A cell filled with memories
Of driving a blue pontiac down the 107 in 1962
Spilling blood with Napoleon
It depends on your definition of "life"
It depends on chemical reactions
The fire of electrons
Do you believe a great devil or a great king one sculpted your form
And breathed life into your limbs
Firing you- the black arrow of fate- into the winter wind
Sep 5, 2012
Sep 5, 2012 at 3:10 PM UTC
If only you knew
How stressful it is
To hear a siren at night
And wonder if its heading to your house.
But you have rabbits to take care of, and classes at community college. So there's no reason that you'd cut too deep tonight.
Right?
But I'll see your car in the parking lot on Monday and throw up my anxiety in the bathroom.
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 7:50 PM UTC
When I was 16, I slept-drove in my car.
Walking outside half-naked, I pulled my keys from my underwear like it was a jean pocket.
Entering my 2001 white Pontiac, I put the keys in the ignition and drove two miles before I merged onto the 101 S FWY.
I woke up terrified and behind the wheel, not knowing where I was until I was in the next city over. I drove back immediately.
Needless to say, I would have had no explanation if my parents or the authorities had found me...
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 6:44 PM UTC
But lately,
I've been falling like rain,
collectively puddling at the edges of your rain boots,
splash,
your boots bright red
like my cheeks the first time we impromptu'd to the beach
because we didn't have anything better to do,
and everyone forgot us anyway.
My pants were, peach,
or maybe coral,
but rolled up enough to see the sharped edges of my ankles,
because it was what I could afford to give you,
I had lost those trimmings long ago to the world,
even though it never gave me any of my pieces back,
and speaking of,
I still have white pieces of sand in my pockets,
and maybe if I poured them out on your floor,
we could have had a beach of our very own.
And I could roll down those pants, you could change into your teal shirt,
and we might have sunbathed
in our own warmth,
glowing yellow and bright
like those little specks in your eyes
nobody ever notices,
but I knew they were there.
That's what happens when you pay attention to the details of people,
You find in them colors that are too hard to name,
but
if you have a color wheel and a pen, you can find out what they're called, and even if you can't,
you can make up your own as you go along, like;
Greasy-pizza-stain-from-the-little-shack-on-the-water-red,
and light-2009-Pontiac-G6-that-got-you-to-the-beach-when-you-had-no-place-else-to-go-grayish-blue.
You can even almost mix these
colors into paint,
and hand them out in pamphlets to all of your friends and family;
"Here's the shade of green
the leaves were on the tree she sat on with me."
"This is the shade of pink
her lips were when she said 'I love you.'"
"And here's the shade of red
I saw when I heard her say goodbye."
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 12:41 AM UTC
Melvin’s Hat
Melvin’s hat was blue,
it smelled of tobacco
and rode close to his ears.
Kept the evil thoughts out.
Kept the evil thoughts in...
even pon a hell-hot July day,
on a Tri-Met bus going uptown,
Melvin wore his hat.
He rolled his own cigarettes,
leaky confections that
shed onto his black skin
like dandruff.
He struck his matches
on the **** of his jeans.
Melvin had two teeth;
yellow commas
on each side of a leathery smile.
Two boys got on the bus.
They snatched Melvin’s hat
right off his head...got off
and set it on fire.
Two boys as black as him!
They ran, those bad boys.
One ran under the wheels
of a 1989 Pontiac, green.
Sirens screamed.
Horns honked.
People panicked.
Melvin’s feet burned
like holy fire.
He had to hurry.
He had to be quick.
He had to find another hat
before any more evil thoughts
leaked out and killed more boys.
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 10:44 AM UTC
I often softened my hours waiting for her
By reading Cummings or Plath
Or other dead poets.
Still, she took her time arriving.
Usually dropped off a block down where mom and dad didn't see her
Getting out of her Big Brother's car.
A '71 Pontiac.
It was blue, like her eyes, and noisy, missing a muffler.
Like her...
But I waited.
Anticipating her secret roar and rumble.
Just waiting to crawl into the back-seat of those Pontiac eyes.
Feb 6, 2011
Feb 6, 2011 at 11:52 PM UTC
My first car was a Pontiac;
Winding down
County Road 577,
Hand atop wheel,
A boy and his machine,
Letting snow swoop by like
Hyperspace.
I miss those quiet rides.
But dreams dissolve, evolve,
And I’ve another tangent
Upon the tip of my
Tongue –
Something, somewhere,
Somewhen, fitting,
And prior another attempt at sleep.
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 9:02 AM UTC
I would sit on the back
Of my little red Pontiac
And sing you bluesy love songs
And strum on an old guitar
And ask you to join me in the back of my car.
But never mind.
I'm not musically inclined.
I think if I ever tried
A stunt like that I would die.
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 8:05 PM UTC
under slime that sticks
between hairs and fingers
you felt stuck between
the Pontiac
and my duvet
so with a trudge
through oceans of time
and cracks on the pavemnt
leading the apartment and my hand
to your rainboots
and wet smile and bright pink umbrella
with too much vitality
for this neighborhood
to handle you were scooped
up by my arms
and with raindrop pellets
landing awkwardly
between nostrils
and between eyebrows
and through the sticky weight
of break-up politics
I took you back to our bed.
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 1:04 AM UTC
A minty ball of air
that was her candy cane breath
filled the space between us.
Her warmth was welcomed
from the frigid seat
that was in the back
of her 94' Pontiac.
It proved to be
a magnificent scene
for a Christmas affair.
Innocent as an angel,
crooning the songs they new well.
You came so naturally
like the desire to have more.
Your brown hair
as precious as a reindeer's
coaxed me so deviously
into running my fingers through it.
But alas,
you had on a hat,
so I threw it on the floor
of your Pontiac 94'.
There it lay to this day
because you exist
no more.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 2:29 PM UTC
weaving through the farmland
past black bodied cattle
in misty fields of green
zipping past the rows of Christmas trees
varying heights
we hit the sharp right at near 50
and dive into the Birch forest
steep grade and a hard right
down into the bottom of the glen
and time slows
the grass and brush glisten a little brighter
and sunlight displaced
gives shadows a playground of mossy Eden
the trees seem to lean in
surrounding the open meadow
my pre-pubescent mind
has relegated this
the place of unicorns
fairies and elves
I hop up in the back of the backseat to watch
utopia fade into the distance
its delicate ferns
and wild lilies
dance in the breeze
left by my father’s old blue Pontiac
he yells and I turn quickly back into position
locking the seat belt
and looking at the red face in the rearview
staring back
this road is always worth the *** whooping --
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 11:39 AM UTC
What defines you as a person
As a man
As a woman
It is not your money
Nor your car
It is not the house you live in
It is not the things you own
You are not the clothes you wear
You are not your weight
Nor you height
You are not defined by your job
What makes you less
Or greater than the next person
For society to make you believe
That to achieve greatness you must be rich
But riches leave you with nothing
Is a man with power any more
Likely to be better than one on minimum wage
A man makes more than he can spend
Pulls up on a 2014 Lexus
He rolls up his window
To ignore a beggar
A cashier trying to make ends meet
Pulls up on a beat up 2000 Pontiac
Running low on gas
Waiting for the next paycheck
Here's a dollar its all I got today
And all I got
Is more than what he has
He gets to eat a hamburger today
Because of that last dollar
So your money can mean it all for you
So you think you're a big success
But you are not defined by your money
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 3:08 AM UTC
If it is a race, then the pace of one set of clouds out does the ones that float above lazily. Smokey dragons cut across Odin’s one good godly eye. The night pursues its cold cool wind muse,
and I cannot lose, because I use this muse so well. I walk the building corner to brick corner unwilling to enter the unyielding nightmare hallways. I do not wish to walk in the white hollow echo chambers, alone and uninspired while the night spirals in lunar delight. I postpone it as long as I can, walking the yellow concrete corners like they are tight high wire. I swerve and struggle to maintain my perfect position, for fear of falling into the black top lava pit. The inside world waits for me like a ravenous beast. Please oh please do not force me to leave the light breeze that brushes my skin gently. Glass and metal doors see me swallowed whole. I did not want to go but now I know this white washed world will be my graveyard fantasy. The red buds on the tree beckon me, but I cannot go back out. The musical clank of metal clips that hang the flags summons me beyond the security doors with their dangerous whipping movements, but I am not allow to explore such freedom. The strangers of varying degrees, shapes, weights, skin tints, hair, and teeth beckons me to question their history. I cannot go out there to the fantastic. No that is a lie. I could if I tried, but I chose to hide in a secure hourly wage paid life. I could leave and let my wanderlust take me where it will. I could go back to Pleasantville, Champaign, Williamsville, Pontiac, Mt. Vernon, and Danville, then go see places I have never been. I could give in to the seductive siren call of landscapes unseen, sounds unheard, and strangers not yet met. Instead I sign my time sheet, walk and repeat, securing nothing. I drive home tired and come back and repeat that as well. I accept the mundane. It is a part of the price I pay for a slice of peace.
Mar 29, 2017
Mar 29, 2017 at 11:16 PM UTC
My wife rolls her eyes
When I point out another wind turbine
“Bird Shredders”
“Pork Barrel for guilty Liberals”
“Don’t they disrupt wind patterns?”
But
When I look up at a stately giant
Broadcasting infrasound across the plains
I remember my nose pressed against the window
Of a 1957 Pontiac
In Wisconsin
Yelling
“Windmill”
As we passed every farm
As my parents rolled their eyes.
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 10:21 PM UTC
we sat together
in a nothing-special parking lot
in your rusty red pontiac
staring at a white picket fence
contemplating whether we should drive right through it
and out into the real world
a world full of love, pleasure excitement
but not without the loss, pain, and down times
but we wanted all of it
we want all of it
because its better than this, this sitting and waiting
abiding by the clock, our parents, our dresscode, our reputations
i love you for sitting there with me
while i cried and laughed at the same time
you magnified the light at the end of the tunnel
and i never want you to leave because you are the little bit of spontaneity i have left
Nov 7, 2017
Nov 7, 2017 at 12:03 AM UTC
If only besos could fuel this old Pontiac
Then again,
Even then I'd probably still run out of gas
Nov 12, 2016
Nov 12, 2016 at 3:24 AM UTC
We took Jesus off the dashboard and it doesn't really matter because we were madly in love.
I know everything I did with him was a sin but the sin was out of love and maybe our love was a sin but it was something I had never experienced before because I was enriched into the poison of your lips.
Maybe my feelings may seem a little selfish but this love feeling was like Pontiac heaven for me.
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 10:51 PM UTC
trolling bait wriggling under the moonlight
in the backseat of a sixty-five dodge dart
on the banks of the Rouge in Pontiac
Mich on a cold night
on a lonesome dirt road
with sacks of sand in the trunk
in case we got stuck
a long time ago
hope you think a time or two about that
like I do , Sue.
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 10:47 PM UTC