"subaru" poems
Glass ticking like cold plastic
My fingers thrum hopelessly in the hopes of drumming up a solution to a problem with an issue of loss.
This dilemma has found me at the end of my rope and I fear the knots in my stomach are only getting tighter as I squeeze you closer to me now.
Why can't I help me?
I won't let you do it for me.
But must I force feed you the truth?
I'm not hungry for this day any more. Fighting this sickness, I choke back another spoonful of medicine...
--And what am I supposed to do now then?!
Frustration consumes me.
I am bile. The emptiness inside, that fills me with rot.
I'm hollow!!
Somebody save me from myself! I want to self-destruct and not be okay anymore.
I want to fly a Subaru into the sun on fire.
*I'm just so ******
Just leave me behind and maybe I can decompose into something useful and that actually wants to be here and maybe after that I can finally float away from here...
Wouldn't that be okay?
Why should I have to stay.
I never belonged here any way.
Jun 15, 2018
Jun 15, 2018 at 11:16 AM UTC
I think of mom often.
Like when I read anything by Jack London
or Ernest Thompson Seton.
Her memory swirls around me when I see a dead opossum by the roadside
it reminds me of the one we had as kids.
Yes, we had an opossum.
It wasn't a pet as much as it was a wounded soldier,
convalescing in a field hospital close to the front and cared for by Florence Nightingale,
except the field hospital was our carport under a suspended Old Towne wood canoe,
the battle, with a Ford or Chevrolet, on the main road near our house in Connecticut.
Florence was Mom.
She peeks at me around corners in the kitchen when I make fish,
or soup,
because I hated fish as a child.
She made us eat it because it was healthy and the blocks of frozen Turbot were cheap
and she was a single mom at forty two with three hungry mouths to feed.
She tried to make me think it was exotic because it came from Iceland.
I thought Turbot was Icelandic for "more bones in your mouth than you ever thought possible".
Mom was, however, an accomplished homemade souper.
She's by my side as I explain wild things
to other little wild things which hang on my every word.
Words put into my head which make it seem,
to the under four foot set,
that I know everything.
Knowledge put there by her in our yard,
by the lakes of New York, the mountains of West Virginia or deserts of California.
She is in every frog that jumps, whippoorwill that calls or each stalk of Jewel ****
which is a cure for poison ivy by the way,
that grows near a stream in the woods.
But then today
as my daughter opened the overhead sunglass holder in her car for the first time,
the Subaru she inherited from Mom over a year ago,
and Grandma's sunglasses fell out,
there were no thoughts of lessons learned
or knowledge imparted.
Today,
I just thought of her.
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 1:10 AM UTC
Subaru
Subaru blue, gold rims
Whistles, Fights, Hides
Loves to eat muscle
Car
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 12:25 PM UTC
You wonder why my name is spaghetti,
It's sounds funny to you.
Not quite a long story,
But it's all very true.
Our tale begins,
When I was quite young,
Right when spring,
had just sprung.
Living with my aunt,
At the age of two,
She brought me to preschool,
In her liberal Subaru.
My parents left me,
If you were curious.
They went off to help illegal-aliens,
which made me quite furious.
Anyway, when I got to my class,
We did a bunch of useless work,
While the teacher sat fat on her ***
After reading some ****
called Cat in the Hat,
we all went for lunch,
to eat some crap.
All was going well,
In that brick-enclosed hell,
but all went wrong with a single song.
Some ****** turned on,
Some pop music,
We all got mad,
At that stupid *****
I had enough already,
Since my parents had left me,
And I was stuck with a woman,
Who voted for Hillary.
So I got out of my seat,
And walked right to the kid,
Took my lunch out of my bag,
And opened the lid.
Inside held the spaghetti,
That I was planning to eat.
I grasped it in my hand,
And planted my feet.
I grabbed the fag's neck,
shoved the spaghetti down his throat,
And before I knew it,
He started to choke.
Through his espohogus,
very far down,
The blood gushed out of his mouth,
And onto the ground.
The kid's eyes rolled back,
into his head,
until they were white,
I knew he was dead.
Even though it was over,
I continued to go,
And throw his body,
Out the nearest window.
My classmates watched in horror,
as the body fell down,
Into the road,
without making a sound.
Then in the street a dump truck went by,
Running over the body,
And my classmates started to cry.
They will never forget that wonderful day.
"He killed a kid with spaghetti!"
They all started to say.
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 7:35 AM UTC
He drives a gray Subaru
I get in the passenger seat
He turns on nirvana
I don't want to
But I can't
Help it
I begin to weep
He asks what's wrong
I can't explain
He turns it off
I thank him
Until
Radiohead
Water falls from my eyes once more
I shouldn't be in this car
I should be riding my bike beside yours
Jul 2, 2017
Jul 2, 2017 at 3:12 PM UTC
There you were on your camo Kawasaki
Riding leathers on, in racing position
Pacing the metallic beige Subaru
Pacing the vintage blue Volvo
Pacing me, in the back seat,
Hungover.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 2:46 PM UTC
Blue Paint,Gold Rims
Your inside a god
The Car Roars with Pride
When the Tires turn You Cant go Back
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 1:54 PM UTC
Brian has a Subaru, he drives it very fast
He likes to see the people look as he goes whizzing past
Brian thinks he's special a celebrity of sorts
Tearing up and down the street with his oversized exhaust
The truth is Brian no one gives a toss
They look in hope and pray you write your Scooby off!
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 3:52 AM UTC
I wish I was with you, under the canopy of your covered patio...
above parked subaru station wagons
next to aspens and pines, thick with pollen
and lazy concrete carrying joggers and cars and speeding bicycles piloted by the hormone-drunken youths of another sophomore summer
I'd forget, if I was with you
content to sleep in the morning sun and make love on the red porch of your red house....
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 12:37 AM UTC
Courtney’s old subaru stuttered and stalled as she sat at the red light. The large blue duffle bag sat ominously on the leather seat beside her. She couldn’t look at it.
God, Luci. Why did you get yourself into trouble? Courtney’s mind was racing. Ridiculous. This is ridiculous. She ****** her head to look at the bag. It was bulging.
The bag was stained and dusty, ripped along the seams in some places. Courtney’s phone rang loudly. She jumped, and held onto the steering wheel with one hand and answered.
“Hello?”She was silent as the voice on the other end talked quickly. “No, I’m not there yet... yes, I’ve got it.. No, I haven’t touched it... Yes, sir. She’s very sorry... I know, sir. Yes I’’ll tell her.” She hung up. Her face was ghost white, her palms and forehead sweaty.
Many voices argued in her head. I shouldn’t be doing this for her. She broke the law. But Luci’s your sister! That doesn’t matter. She caused the whole family a lot of pain and money. And now I’M breaking the law. What the hell?!
She looked back over at the duffle bag. It sat staring at her accusingly. She turned away. Her car was getting awfully hot, so she rolled down the windows, letting air flow through. Checking her watch, she hiccuped with surprise. Her foot slammed down on the gas, her head pressed against her seat from the quick acceleration. Her car’s enging groaned with the speed, but she couldn’t slow down.
********* Luci. I really hate you right now.*
Suddenly, she saw flashing lights and heard a sharp wailing sound behind her. A police car pulled right up behind her, speeding along, signaling for her to pull over to the shoulder of the road. Courtney’s eyes were wide with fright, and her palms were sweating profusely, leaving stains on her steering wheel. Oh god oh god oh god oh god...Ohhhh my goddddd.
Courtney slammed on her breaks, pulling over. A man in uniform knocked on her window, and she rolled it down slowly. There was a loud noise from the passenger seat and Coutney’s world slowed as she saw the duffle bag fall to the floor of the car, the zipper breaking and the contents spilling onto the carpeted floor.
The policeman’s face was horrorstruck.
“Ma’am...” He stuttered. “I’m going to have to ask you to...step out of the car and put..put your hands on your head.”
Jun 25, 2012
Jun 25, 2012 at 12:49 AM UTC
in the passenger seat of your
tightly packed subaru
i felt as good as royalty
you as king, me as queen,
always wondering what lay in store
for me and you.
little did i know it would
come stammering to a halt
not that it should've
but i always found it strange
how you added salt
to your macaroni and cheese
not that it phased me,
no, i loved you all the same
your salt and all.
because i was taken advantage of
and you were salty as ever
and i was high off the ground
in a lifeguard chair as i told you the news
and i heard clattering on the other end of the line
you were done, you were no longer mine
and suddenly it was as if
the ocean had its own gravitational pull
begging me to come in, come and drown
i would go fleetingly, with nary a sound
but i grabbed familiarities instead
took the knife to my skin again
and it bled and it bled and it bled
i never wanted it to stop
i was surrounded by
people who knew what unconditional meant
and they wrapped me up, kissed my
wounds with their closing fingers
too many times
i should have died.
there is no requiem for a dream
there was no requiem for me
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 12:59 PM UTC
Her backbone is a long stretch of American western highway
I trace my fingers eastbound/westbound across the slats of her ribs
pressed against the skin ready to pop
She left southside Midlothian Virginia as soon as she was old enough to make her own bad decisions
sick of being looked at
eyes grading like the big fat red D's stamped on her math homework
She left by foot
bus
plain
train
that grey jetta with the scratch down the passenger side from where she parked too close to that ugly Subaru
she left me
but she needed to breathe some air that wasn't stale with mediocre pretension and the frat house odor of stale beer and sawdust
so run wild
fly free
may your lips utter cliches without fear of derision
go make your life an incredible story
beautiful
ugly
hard to look at
can't look away
make your life a story
and I'll record it
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 9:25 AM UTC
when the world,
was much younger
and i was a stupid-crazy
girl-ly-chick, enamoured
with her youth.
i drove, a sunshine,
lemon, yellow bottomed, white pith on top combi van. coyly, cloyingly named Mello Martha.
it was...surfboards and swimsuits,
egg and bacon sangers,
early morning breezes,
after a blitz at the breadbox.
before... changing into
the structured, tortured baby, bank teller blues,
in the back,doors left open.
it was... rockin, knockin,
*** on credit,
to a promised future,
alluded to, but postponed,
for the moment.
it was... bruised back and
grazed knees,
harder, deeper oh god!
oh god! please... faster, fucken frenzies,
on a saturday night.
it was....running away to nowhere,
to find myself,
then finding me,
running away from,
the self i didn't want to know.
noway, nowhere, nohow.
it was... a barrel of monkeys, a barrel of laughs,
a keg of beer,
a box of wine,
under the crowded stars.
it was.... a roadtrip,
up the coast,
midnight bonfire,
midnight munchies,
playing hunches,
exploring reefs and reefers and such.
it was...far from family
and church rules,
a friendly rebellion,
of loud, proud youth.
totally and brazenly,
uncouth
it was... wham! and m.j.
cindy and boy george's culture club ,paperlace,
billy idol and the beach boys.
sung with abandon,
at spinal tap level eleven.
it was... peaceful, quiet, sleeping grace.
insanely in love with...
i forgot his name.
it was.... the birth of bodaciously me.
all brass hair and bosoms,
wild and carefree.
it was ....so long ago,
it was... yesterday night,
when i saw... Mello Martha's identical twin,
stopped at a traffic light.
it was... sunshine and lemon, bitter and sweet,
as she sailed off, down the street.
i sat and watched,
wist, full of recollect,
far and away, from my presently minded place...
sitting in, the driver's seat,
of my mom-blue subaru.
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 6:16 PM UTC
Sitting packed in the back
of a semi-decrepit white Subaru
belonging to the Swedish Harpist
driven by the Romanian Drummer
with a literal car-full
of perfectly tetrised musical instruments,
including:
Four cymbals, two toms, a hi-hat, and a stool,
a Celtic double-Harp,
an electric Piano,
and two guitars
(an acoustic-electric twelve-string and an electric six-string)
with a few days' clothing
and, not knowing where we're sleeping, a sleeping bag,
all the while
devouring Matza and pumpkin seeds
(that we bought at Trader Joe's)
as we barrel moderately safely
down various back roads and Highways
in this car weighted as a truck and driven as a motorcycle
towards enigmatic San Francisco
to play a couple shows,
two days in a row:
one, at a literally underground Theatre
(in which improv comedy is, apparently, king of kings)
smack-dab 'pon the border of Union Square,
and another, for a private birthday party
typified by oh so many avid Burners.
Surely, our Psychedelic Jazz Funk-Rock
will find some empathic ears!
Y'know, last summer,
when I said I wanted
to be in a Gypsy Band,
I sure didn't see this coming:
this is pretty ******* Gypsy,
in my observational opinion.
Well,
here I am,
and I even asked for it.
For us three,
this will certainly be
an interesting few days,
down in the Bay,
on our way to play
wherever it is we may,
and all I can say
is: "Okay,
this is the stuff
books are made of,"
and, "Well,
time to live
one hell of a story!"
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 4:46 AM UTC
He's in love
Let him show you what he can do
Get in the car
Its a bright blue Subaru
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 11:02 PM UTC
Grace moves in these structures
Virginities undersold
Saving familiar breaths
Tissue restraint
I head away and leave my name
A kinder morning than we've shared before
Finding Jesus in a Subaru
Unable to create from ashes
Stained glass
This glass is stained
Oct 4, 2015
Oct 4, 2015 at 12:47 PM UTC
The Cranberries hum their tune
in my mom's Outback Subaru
And I'm scared of growing up,
and I'm scared that I've already grown.
Why are we driving so fast?
Let's linger at the next stop
Let's drive slow, with the windows down,
feel the cold wind mess up your hair.
Turn up the music, let the light in—
I'll be here forever.
Nov 10, 2023
Nov 10, 2023 at 2:00 PM UTC
1.
My father sits in the corner of his
living room with his mouth curled
and ****** hair drooping like a ******
up angel. His body is just like mine.
I have never hated him more than
I do now, with his gut hanging over
his knees like hot solid fur.
2.
I sit in the passenger seat of a green
Subaru Forrester. Father drives. I am
trying to sleep and he won’t stop
talking and I realize in his voice that
the two of us are the same: we have
the same throats, like two blue
bibles.
3.
Father in his rocking chair sleeps
stilly like paved whispering. I picture
him with a snake in his lap and it is only
then that I am willing to cover him
in the plaid blanket that drapes the living
room couch. I leave him with my shoulders
bent like rusty metal, my mouth shaped
like guilt or a glass of milk.
4.
My father dies in 2006 in between
line of highway and line of trees. Subaru
Forrester beaten against the side of the road.
His spine bends his waist twists as though
he has just slept with the devil.
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 3:32 PM UTC
I haven't felt this in a long while
That same old, beautiful teenage rebellion coursing through my twenty year old veins
Remember the grass we'd tread on during days of
Extracurricular activities all hungover and dread locked
Or the Saturday night in late September
When three girls first inched their way toward a mirror
In the thrift store and the coffee shop
Gourds and games and locking ourselves in the car to listen to that rust colored song
Amid the high school hoi Polloi
Three girls, still, getting closer to that mirror
There were books about the body in a Goodwill
About the diseases that afflict our tiny bones
And science hung from a rack while she put on an old mans sweater and fantasized about the death that could have taken place in each stitch
Catholic school boy bonfire
Doing donuts in the field because, well, life is a highway
And can you believe it? She hit her head again
Oh our blonde believer, knocking her brain out of her skull and onto the highway
While our other friends smoked secrets in the woods out past the driveway
When we parted from our dear doe eyed psychopath
And found ourselves a trifecta for the first time in months,
There was only one thing to do -
Admit there were robots among us, chug a beer, and say goodnight
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 11:14 PM UTC
I’m leaving today
On this San Antonio Highway
While San Antonio jazz
Oozes through the speakers
Of this big blue Subaru
I-35 N to Austin
Destination Texarkana
And in two days’ time
July 15th 2015
I will be back home
To the humid Ohio weather
Ohio is covered in rain
But on this San Antonio Highway
The sky is dark and the ground is dry
And Louis Armstrong sings away
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 5:05 PM UTC
I saw a grown-up tonight for the first time.
I had seen her before
Seen her born
after three days of trying
and wrapped
in a warm blanket with just her little face
poking out.
Seen the elation in her face
when she realized she had walked
from her mother
to me
for the first time without her toy shopping cart
in front of her
for support
Seen her first day nursery school
of kindergarten
of new schools in a new town
of High School
of College
Seen her stoically sitting in my mother's chair
in the living room of the house where I had grown up
saying goodbye
to her grandmother
for one last time
Seen her arrive home with a learner's permit
then with a driver's license
and later
leave the driveway
in grandma's green Subaru
her's now.
Seen her grow for 18 years
but tonight
sitting across the table
at a packed restaurant with lousy parking
in Ithaca New York
I saw and heard a grown-up
for the first time
and with that
the little girl
with the toy shopping cart
was gone.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 11:14 PM UTC
i don’t want to talk about it.
i don’t want to talk about how for three years
my morning routine has been prozac and just enough coffee
to disguise the fact that i haven’t
slept in four days.
i don’t want to talk about how
the boy with the subaru coated in grateful dead stickers
loved me and how i ran because of this.
nor about how my birthday is in
19 days
and i still want to die.
another year come and gone.
i am a stranger in my own body.
maps written in a foreign language.
my ship has sailed,
my breed extinct.
going
going
going
gone.
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 12:35 PM UTC
I don't need a Mercedes Benz.
I'd rather be surrounded by a group of friends.
You'll never hear me wish for a Cadillac.
I'd rather know someone has my back.
If you offered me a Lamborghini, I'd trade it for a dinner and movie date.
But they say love is what makes a Subaru a Subaru.
That's why it's my dream car for me and you
Aug 13, 2019
Aug 13, 2019 at 10:36 PM UTC
I keep smelling dead things,
and fire, and smoke,
ammonia, and ****
I wonder if I'm dead,
or am dying,
If i'm laying there in the gully,
where his subaru crushed me into the ground,
if my chest has caved in,
if i've been moved yet,
leaving only a stain in the dirt
and a crash path through those frail little trees
How am I here?
and not there?
That is where i ought to be...
is this some hyper realistic dream?
has this already happened?
or is it happening?
and how the **** would i know the difference?
I will live this life as if i haven't yet,
make memories that matter,
even if i am already dead.
It is the best i can do.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 12:27 AM UTC
I don't cry anymore.
Not since I cried for you.
Nothing seems quite worth it, since you left.
So I don't cry anymore.
Just on that one day...
that seems to roll around a little faster each time,
as the years continue to mount since the sky came crashing down.
The day the war ended,
and the white flags began to wave.
The day all the songs suddenly played out of tune.
When the phone call came,
that was mostly silence.
Just two people connected by the absence of speaking,
while we attempted to comprehend the news.
They had found you. You didn't make it.
So I cried.
But, your sleeve wasn't there to wipe my eyes on
anymore.
And when the anger came,
you weren't there to say my name the way you always did,
when I was angry with you.
There were no more 2 am phone calls,
there wouldn't be any again.
And I didn't look at the passenger's seat of that red Subaru anymore,
because you wouldn't be there rolling your eyes
while you serenaded me with that one Dave Matthews's song...
The one you hated,
because you hated all of them,
but I had insisted that it was "our song" one night at 4am,
when I told you that it made me think of you, and us
and everything.
There would be no more arguments that always ended in "I love you"s,
there would be no more fighting for each other,
fighting to love each other,
fighting to figure out if we mattered to anyone other than each other.
So they laid you to rest on a rainy Saturday.
I didn't go.
I like to think you understood.
Because the war was over,
and I was tired,
and I never wanted to remember you like that.
I was a coward.
You deserved better than that.
I just sat in my apartment,
cried every single tear I had ever been destined to cry,
and I didn't cry anymore after that.
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 11:56 PM UTC