Collaborative Poem #1: la Luna and Zen— TMI as a result of TBI


“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.


Windshield spider-webbed

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.

I cried.


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.

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