the others came like slid pawns kings knights
effortless
everybody from adams to zeimer
had a car was the shark or the sea
when no wind shatters the car
was the shark under that flat glass case Om
they had a car that clicked open
meant merriment when it shut
they had a car that kept the secret with the road
we had a car that made sound
the gossipy car the weepy car the tom cat static radio flamenco car
we had a fallen tail pipe light the worm like the junk yard hog’s cigarette
we had a starring car in the low ceiling story of poverty
at the County Highway Toad edge where
wild strawberries one middle finger thick
and shotgun shell swallowing contests
kept the local water sweet and killed
there were holes in this car
barn cats sometimes stepped through
to staunch the rusted breach
blood in reverse barn cats sometimes stepped through to deliver
seven hot kittens on the floorboard or dash
it was an American car
it was wide as eight pre-World War Americans
it was long and bad on gas and the brakes spoke like pigs
under heavy metal duress
my mother’s father worked at Oscar Mayer
he didn’t talk by oinks
he drank it like medicine smoked saw dust cigars
smelled like new blood
drove a tidy Toyota cussed on God and men
his teeth were brown and white and black
he broke or at least swayed the steeple in the sparrow’s breast
if you connect the morning star to the tree and throw a rope
over the river’s single glowing sturgeon
you will wonder why
my mother married the County’s best jock and buck killer
he had eyes like her Dad’s
the blood was not old along his wrists and ankle cuffs
the bad snake sound of his piss after
another all night bender
was all we had to know
to begin again
the prayer against the coming dent and bruise
was his fault
that pig car
his stepped down potato vodka tongue
what turned the rhubarb brown
what pierced the dog’s slipping ear
bade the cat eyes run with broken cursive lists
I was in the back seat of the car listen
exhaust rose and soaked into my arm
I could feel the car touching
could feel the rain water kick up and lick the cow shit
from the bottoms of my shoes
oh benevolent derelict car
it wasn’t you I forgive I kiss your fender
wasn’t your long roaring rasp that cost me
the chilly hand of Melissa in the 7th grade
Is that your car? Yes and no Jerry’s
Auto Junk Yard was the blown engine finish
line for ours
today
a man Earl by name
a hole in his bottom lip
a too much snuff too long hole Earl
pinches the bolt
against the screw driver nose
pulls the mirrors from the body of our car
cinches them down
on his Ford Falcon
he’s loud he paid four fifty a pop
he has a face that proves knives are in
wind
the open road is written just
for him
he sees
a buck canter
in the mirror
behind
walk to the edge of the ditch and stand
he licks his lips
reaches for the gun beneath his seat and leaves off
the gas he can feel it
penis rising
there is no end
inside every cold thing the heat of factors of sin
in the blown engine
field grass
newspaper from September 73
reports of blue ribbon boys who walk around now fat and men
living world
living word
mice
grip the dirt the bald tires rest on
weeds cattlepunch the axles are okay the spaces
where the mirrors were grease fire
shine camp fire
holy eye shine shine