I’m not good enough to write
this poem. these ******* words
won’t come. here I am, feeling
like a dried **** on the grass—
all hard, white and shriveled
obstinately sitting there, surrounded
by all that lush green.
this resistance is a real *******,
sitting on me like a sumo wrestler,
smiling in its power over me.
looking down on me
and controlling me effortlessly.

“you can’t write poetry,
you’re a nobody.
a real lukewarm leftover special.
no one will ever love you.
no one will ever like you.
no one will ever see you.
no one wants you to succeed.
no one wants to read your poetry.
don’t waste your time doing
something you’ll never be good at.
you’re not good enough.
you’re not strong enough.
someone like you could never
be someone like that.
someone like you could never
do something like that.
someone like her would never
love someone like you.
you’re gross,
nobody wants to look at you.
stay home.
don’t do anything.
don’t even try.
give up.”

I mean, this guy’s got a million
of these bumper stickers
and he slaps them all over
the inside of my car
all day, every day—
that is, when he’s not using
my chest as a seat cushion.
it’s gotten to the point where
I now can’t see out of my windshield.
I just wanna go somewhere
but he won’t let me see
where I’m going.
he won’t stop talking.
I can’t hear the music anymore.
I don’t know where I am.
I can’t breathe.
I just know that this car feels
more like solitary confinement
than freedom and the a/c
stopped working a long time ago.

I think I need to stop the car.
I need to open the door
and step out into the light.
I don’t even need to take
off the bumper stickers,
I think I just need to walk
for a while—
move at my natural rhythm again.
like children do before
we start in on them.
before we start building their car
around them and teaching them
to believe in it.

this is you.
you are this car.
except when you’re alone,
then maybe you can leave
the car but never in public,
never in front of other people.
this car will protect you from
them, from the world—
from yourself.
hide in it.

well, I left my car
on the side of the road
some ways back
with the keys in it
and a full tank of gas.
the door’s open,
take it if you need it.
hell, take it if you want it,
I don’t give a ****—
just don’t try
to pick me up in it
if you ever catch up.

                      signed,
                                 ­ 
                               nobody


P.S. watch out for the fat guy in the diaper.

I suppose it doesn't feel so bad
after all
this is exactly what I always expect
a pattern repeated,
regardless of the reason
it's almost a relief, almost
comfort in the known, the expected
not a new home
just a road trip stop
pulling into a familiar driveway
even if all the lights are off

Your purrs, soothing .
Your whiskers, fluttering.
Your cheeks , rubbing.
Your noises, calming.
Your scratches , healing.

Oh I wonder ,
To not be for you ,
I might had laid alone .
To not be for you ,
I to question god.
To not be for you ,
I to cease existing .
As you gave me meaning ,
A meaning for all .

Oh my beloved cat ,
You hanged on tight .
So to make it right,
I hang onto you.
How you hang onto me.

Sick of each blade of grass blurring into the next, trees becoming a series of bushes, streaks of green across the skyline. Was that a cow?
“Look — some sheep!
Oh, wait no, they were just wrapped haystacks — sheep without heads.”
Speeding past flurries of road signs: ‘turn off at the next junction’
“What? The one back there?” Driving on for a few more miles before being able to turn back again.
Stopping
at the services
to relieve natural needs.
Except for rest — you can sleep on the road.
Except your sickness will persist through the night and
you could miss some significant sights
which will be gone by the time you open your eyes.
Sick of driving in the fast lane; life on play ready to entertain.
“Pass the sweets” trying to **** the sugar from the bitterness of passing time.
Sick of help lines dotted sporadically across the sideline but never quite
in reach.
Sick of this constantly churning stomach which only stops when
asleep.
Sick of momentary flickers of other passengers
before they too go on their way.
A lack of individuality; a wave of sameness
Comforting. Sickening.

One day Death came knocking on my door
But I was not ready for death

Please go knock on someone else’s door I yelled

As I struggled to take another breath

It was then that I had made up my mind,
fight like hell

Because I was not ready to leave everything behind

As I eventually pulled myself from the smoky car

Strangers quickly became caretakers that caught my fall

And I was not afraid anymore

Because Death had simply checked in on me then moved along

Sitting in the passenger seat
Driving down the highway
Cars passing us at the speed of light
The music fills the car
The sweet melodies
Creating vivid images in my mind
The figures dance across my vision
Like I'm watching a movie
I want to stay
In this trance like state forever
But then my mother speaks
And her voice breaks my reverie

and I stare out of the window
as the sunlight hits the car
see the shadows on the mountains
now they're closer, now they're far

In her eyes I was glowing
She thought I was a rare find
A diamond in the rough—
No, I am moissanite.

I am never that grand,
Even a thousand painters
Couldn't paint me as they can't
Get inspired with my abstract self.

It would be better to wonder
From a far like looking at that cool car,
Let it not be known
That it is lacking in parts.