Monday, August 11, 2008

Poem of the Day 08.11.08

another older one simply because i haven't had time to type many newer ones. so here's two.

the king of sheridan drive

third time at the car dealership
with the ‘check engine’ light on,
after two thousand miles
up and down
south and then north again.
i know the drill
the mechanic knows the drill.
we exchange pleasantries
but he is just as sick of seeing me,
as i am of seeing him.
and then i give him the keys
to the hyundai,
so he can fuck me some more.
i feel like a depression era bank.
as a courtesy he puts me in this rental car
with a brown leather interior
and more buttons than a mcdonalds
cash register.
i don’t know what to do
with any of them,
even after he explains the whole car
to me.
i nod along anyway
and secretly blame the three
glasses of wine i had that morning
for my inability to understand his directions.
then the mechanic is gone
and i am gone
on the road
on the way to work,
messing with every button and touching
the leather interior.
the car glides like a dream.
i almost understand why people get so
bent out of shape over their automobiles.
in front of me is a line of traffic,
the day to day,
the human death of shopping malls,
and jobs and fast food restaurants
with suvs full of fat loudmouth children.
buffalo is cold in may and everyone here
still cares about hockey.
but i am better than all of it in this car.
the dealership can keep my wreck, i think.
i’m going to go get my wife,
get the cats,
and we’re heading south again
toward nashville,
and some kind of freedom.


poets are sad fucking people

my pockets are empty
of poems
and the contract for the book
has not come.
the publisher in question
did not return my email
and the regular mail seems to bring
rejection notices daily.
they arrive with the frequency
of bills
or advertisements.
in the car i am late for work
and on the stereo i listen
to willie nelson.
he is singing about new orleans,
and i remember it was nearly
a year ago that you and i
were there,
drunk outside a tit bar
on bourbon street
two months before katrina,
watching the last of our wedding money
slip happily away.
but the thought does not last
because i am back to worrying
about how my pockets are empty
of poems
and how the contract for the book
has not arrived,
the publisher and the daily mail.
if you were here you would
tell me
how most people have it
worse than i do.
and hopefully i would look at you
really see you, baby,
and agree.


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