“Jack, as a matter of fact, I lack tact.” ~~~Wm. Andrew Turman
“This whole fucking poem smells like bacon!” ~~~la Luna
His name was Bo Diddly
a 1965 Chevy Biscayne
the orignal lead sled
190 engine with a three-in-a-tree
Bought for $600
from Pope Taylor
a man who ran a
BBQ joint outside of Murfreesboro, Tennessee
It was the “Summer of Drugs”
As long as I had checks, I had money in the bank
Buying cases of Redi-wip
at the Piggly-Wiggly grocery store
We would take “Fear Trips” in the middle of the night
down and around the back-woods roads.
High on life and weed
Doing whip-its during the straight-aways.
Neon cow skull strapped to the grill
a cassette player dangling from the rear-view
squealing out “Pale Blue Eyes”
R.E.M. and Dead Letter Office
The night I killed him.
My best friend.
A missed turn, off the road
We crashed into a tree.
Blood streamning from a gash in my head
I passed out.
And later awoke in the hospital bed.
“He’s dead,” she said.
Your head bled
on the mossy dashboard
like storm-blown water over a bridge.
The viewing was held
at Jake’s Auto Storage
a scrap-yard outside of town.
The day was grey
as my angel eyes teared.
His death marked the end of an era.
I graduated with no honor.
The years have passed
but still I mourn.
I am torn.
Between then and now.
He was not my first
Nor was he my last.
My skull scars and bumps
are the road map of crashes I have had.
I still wake up
heart pounding in my throat
pressure on my chest
gasping for breath.
Night terrors, says my therapist,
Because they are not dreams.
My hopes, my fears
Lie in a field, crumpled like yesterday’s newspaper.
The doctors say that
the frontal lobe is the gestapo of the brain.
It is the part of us that shows restraint.
But mine is damaged from increased trauma.
When they take me on the gurney
into the operating room
to slip me into a deep sleep
to prepare for the 50 000 volt jolt,
My mind wanders to the memory
of a royal blue automobile
with wings instead of fins.
My best friend
and I killed him.