Best Glove Compartment Poems
My car was broken into on the other night.
When I saw the damage it really looked a sight.
My driver window shattered and glass laying everywhere.
The nerve of some people who really does not care.
My book bag was missing with my bible
thrown underneath the car.
My cd’s were all missing and the
Glove compartment left ajar.
The owner’s manual missing now
what am I supposed to do.
My portfolio is missing to and I am feeling blue.
It’s hard to see the good in this when I am angry as I can be.
I must tell the truth because it is bothering me.
So keep me in your prayers as I look for a safer place to live.
I know within my heart I must also forgive.
the blood has turned to red sand
I look at the shape of my hands
and wonder about the day
when they, too, will revert back
to the red sands I marched upon
as a youth
on the table the grapes shine
with the afternoon sun
and shadows of the day draw long
and indistinct
as I look for some semblance of
the shadow that was mine
it's not that I'm dying
it's that everyone is dying
the graveyard is full of plastic bags
caught in the trees
fluttering a song in the breeze
the skeletons wearing rags
the crust of the earth yawns, simpers
content to be so saturated with the radiation
from our fragmented thoughts
that spill forth and spend
not a nanosecond
waiting for a response
centripetal force has drawn me here
and as I draw in
resembling an empyrean tortoise
I feel the oxygen that was once used by
someone I loved near the event horizon
now inflating my lobes
cold tea for made from shade trees
the apex of the womb has
moved to an invisible location
that's on a precise point upon a
tangled glove-compartment map
the road to higher skies
I suppose you may mystify yourself
in the wake of a near collision
as everything coils up around your talus
the pleasantries emanating from your lips
meant something
in a parallel universe
a little girl wants her ball back
and the dogs say
come and try to get it
their hunger makes them piercing observers
the sand needs more red today
as far as they're concerned
It’s late. I’m becoming paranoid. I can hear the thumping of bass from passing cars. Doors slamming. Screaming. My window shudders with me. To look into my peripheral- my irises must cross oceans. Waves crash. Everything blurs.
Life is now an abstract painting of the surroundings a young man sees on his way to make sure that his car is locked. The gleam of a cell phone shining onto the untended grass. A barren flagpole. A mossy wishing well that serves no purpose. The car door opens with a whine. I turn over the engine to make sure the battery hasn’t died. Sit. Waiting. Not sure what for. The radio’s red face shines. I turn up the volume. The music is static. I cannot feel its pulse. There is no throb of emotion. No shining agony. No comforting roar. The car’s engine begins its own song. Misfiring as if it were crying out to God. A last, tragic statement of attrition.
Everything is broken.
I turn off the engine, retrieve the keys.
Grab my gun out of the glove compartment.
Lock the doors.
Grind my teeth along the path that leads to the roof
under which I hide my sickness.
Wishing I could feel the beat of something other than
the hammer pounding against my crumbling resolve.
-James Kelley 2018
The man lept from our balcony row and landed directly on Tebow and K'Vnulash, who began to tongue kiss passionately, realizing their final moments were at hand. It was not a gory explosion, but one that inspired thirst. We stopped by the Liquor store on the way home, almost parking in the spot that nobody parks in because it's filled with broken glass. I crunched over it with my wooden-soled plaid crocs and entered the swill-exchange. The clerk procured one bottle of Popovs, but my eye saw an 8 oz. flask of Thunderbird nestled between a quart of Bailey's and the dirt-flanged walls of the establishment. I questioned the price, and found I was several dollars short. I returned to my vehicle and informed coraline of the problem, to which she replied with a most devious and predictably effective plan: crush up the bottle of aspirin in the glove compartment and hock it as coke to some dumb junkie in the alley. This alley was around the corner, a dead-zone of perpetual shade between towering concrete and steel dildos, ever stretching to the possibly homophobic sun. As I entered the triangle of darkness in search of a derelict, some stringy white liquid landed on my forehead from what must have been a very high point, as it stung with velocity. I concluded that it was a message from Zoroaster, who revealed to me that it was actually the product of a frittering stock jockeys mid-morning wank finished out the window. Thank Zoroaster. I quickly found an unfortunate and vapid urchin who gladly exchanged eight dollars for a paltry sum of ground aspirin. He snorted it immediately.
I said: praise Zoroaster
you are
happy.
like a cupcake in frilled paper.
skirts and pants.
c-_-s
fat and serviceable.
blonde dye job behind bathroom doors.
mama let the boys run trains on you.
fell down the stairs.
emergency rooms all too familiar.
everything is your fault.
stop whining. youve done this before.
d-_-s.
it doesnt have to be your world.
too often it is.
balding.
whisky in the glove compartment.
lost temper. lost self.
say sorry
to your
sister
wife
mistress
mother.
sex, gender.
the lines aren't well defined.
you are
sad.
alive.
corrupted.
an *******.
Pull down that window of that endo and let's talk a
while,
You blew right past me at one twenty with the biggest
smile...
I knew I had to catch you just so I could get your
name,
I wanna holla at you like I'm breathing octane...
I put the pedal to the metal Just to catch ur drift,
So I can pull up right beside you and see who you
with...
If it wasn't for the sunlight comin thru the top,
Id have to wait and see you if you hit a rest stop...
I'm changing lanes so insane just so I keep up,
Gonna yank a cable just to keep my throttle stuck...
It's the fact that you attract and when I start to swerve,
I know I'm gaining on you as I'm checking out your
curves...
It's not a coach that's on approach its me on just two
wheels,
I'm navigating every slope bcuz those 4 inch heels...
Has marked the spot for me to stop on as you guide
me in,
As I find the perfect slot so I can hide my friend...
Canuba wax all down the back around your tail lights,
I'm in luv with all the curves baby that chromes tight...
Just 4 inches to the road that's right below you,
With a spoiler and a skirt to keep a hold to...
As you slow down to a hundred in that hot ride,
All the wind that I was in has seemed to move aside...
We pull over on the shoulder for a walk thru,
Those pirellis gettn colder as I talk to...
Silky legs that seem to beg a man to grab the stick,
And put that sht right back in first and POP the clutch
real quick...
Way before you close the door I'm up to third gear,
All up in your glove compartment like they're
underwear...
As we bring it to a close I mount my chariot,
With a part of you so close that I can carry it...
As you pull off I can cool off and just stare in wonder,
Could it be ? But I will see till then she has my
number...
I’ve been driving around all night.
Setting fires in people’s front lawns.
Tiny notes clumsily scrawled with an old ink
pen I found in my glove compartment.
The wind will likely blow most of them away.
They’ll never be read.
But maybe.
Maybe someone will feel the warmth
of my arson.
Maybe when you check your mail.
You’ll find my torn out fire.
And know that someone.
Even though they never saw you-
Wants to make sure you stop.
Just for a moment.
Feel the morning Sun’s rise.
And appreciate the magic
of spreading a flame
like the one boiling so far above us all.
And how beautiful it can be
that we’re here, in this moment.
No matter how far I’ve driven away;
We’re feeling it. Together.
-James Kelley
Thoughts speed racing
through my head.
Engine exhaust caught
in my throat.
Hands gripping the
steering wheel firmly.
Screeching of the tires
in my ears.
Random papers from
the glove compartment
scattered about the floor.
My world is skidding.
I'm almost out of gas.
Windshield wipers scraping
without rubber.
Transmission
slipping.
Telephone poles
like a toothpick
fence whizzing by.
Flashing lights
through the windshield.
When will it stop!
When will it stop!
How about now?
HIS THUMB HELD OUT ON THE MIDDLE OF AN EMPTY ROAD
HE CAN'T STOP SWEATIN, THE SUN BEATS DOWN
HE TAKES TO HIS HEALS WITHOUT LOOKIN AROUND
HE LIGHTS A CIGARETTE CAUSE IT SEEMS HE'S GOT NOWHERE TO GO
HE'S WALKED A COUPLE OF MILES WHEN SHE'S PASSIN HIM BY
TIRES SQUEAL IN A CLOUD OF DUST,
SHE REVS HER ENGINES AS HE CATCHES UP
HE SAYS I'M FAST EDDIE AND I THINK I'M YOU'RE TYPE OF GUY
SO THEY DRIVE ALL NIGHT ON A BOTTLE OF RUM
AND HIT THE WHISKEY WHEN THE MORNING COMES
THEY PULL OVER FOR A LITTLE HUMPTY BUMP
TILL NOTHING MATTERS BUT THE MOMENT AND THE HEAT OF THE SUN
FAST EDDIE AND CHERRY GIRL
BREEZIN THROUGH RAMSHACKLE TOWNS IT'S LIKE AN ENDLESS SEA
THEY CAN'T STOP RUNNIN, THEY CAN'T SLOW DOWN
THEY GOTTA KEEP MOVIN TILL THEY'RE OUT OF TOWN
THEY DON'T WANT A LIFE OF OTHER PEOPLES DAMN DECENCY
THEY PULL UP TO A BROKEN DOWN HUT SHE SAYS YOU WAIT RIGHT HERE
FROM THE GLOVE COMPARTMENT, SHE PULLS A GUN
AND SAYS TO EDDIE, LET THE ENGINE RUN
HOW THIS THING IS GOIN DOWN I REALLY HAVE NO IDEA
SHE WALKS UP TO THE PLACE AND KICKS IN THE FRONT DOOR
SHE FIRES A SHOT AND FIRES TWO TIMES MORE
SHE JUMPS INTO THE CAR AND SAYS I'VE EVENED THE SCORE
THERE'S NO TIME TO SIT HERE WHAT YOU WAITING FOR
FAST EDDIE AND CHERRY GIRL
THEY CHECK INTO A FLEABAG MOTEL AND SETTLE FOR THE NIGHT
HE DOESN'T BOTHER HE DOESN'T ASK
ABOUT WHAT'S HAPPENED ABOUT HER PAST
SHE ROLLS OVER SMILES SADLY, CLUTCHES HIM, AND SOFTLY CRIES
THE NEXT MORNING FINDS HIM WAKING IN AN EMPTY BED
A SCRIBBLED NOTE, SOME CRUMPLED BILLS
HE GRABS A SHOWER AND WAITS UNTIL
THE WATER GETS SCALDING HOT AND TURNS HIS SKIN A BLISTERED RED
HE HITS A COUPLE HONKY TONKS A MILE FROM TOWN
AND POURS ONE TWO THREE WHISKEY?S DOWN
HE MIXES IT UP WITH SOME REDNECK CLOWNS
EVEN THOUGH HE KNOWS HE'S GONNA END FACE DOWN
FAST EDDIE AND CHERRY GIRL
I traveled almost everywhere, growing up. It took years. The landscapes, flora and fauna, the art, music, cuisines and curse words all seem to blend together in my mind.
Mount Fuji, the Rhine, the Himalayas, the Chattahoochee, Shenzhen, Washington DC, the Alps, and Appalachians, Moscow, Beijing, Dublin, Portland, Paris, Atlanta, London, St. Petersburg, Tokyo, Rome, Wuhan, Berlin, the Yangtze, the Mississippi, Saint-Tropez and LA - are all jumbled up in my brain, like old, wrinkled maps in a glove compartment.
My mom has total recall - she can remember every day of her life since her mama handed her a faded yellow and blue rattle when she was 6 months old - God gave me the glove compartment.
Still, some things are unforgettable, like an electrical storm breaking around Mt Everest, the lights of New York City, at night, from a helicopter, glittering on the horizon like a queen’s crown. The Danube, from a riverboat under a too-bright moon and the elegant poverty of Italy.
In some ways, I grew up like an exile because we moved every couple of years, and I’d have to start my social life all over again - usually in a different language. Every place we left seemed a lost paradise, and each new place seemed cold and harsh.
Speaking of home to harsh transitions, November recess is over and we’re back in New Haven - with two weeks before final exams. Welcome to exhaustion week (weeks).
This morning I started going through my syllabuses, and after a week of holidaying - they seemed like indecipherable relics from a different world, a world of papers, tests and stingy-fun. I’ve so many things to wrap-up, my brain can’t seem to contain them all, I’m a gadget that’s out of memory.
I used to take my books on vacation, to remain in the ‘game’ mentally and stay ahead of the grind. Not this time. Hey, growing up, I’ve had my moments of ‘developmentally appropriate’ rebellion - in this case - I wanted memories to hoard, like inoculations against the coming work and loneliness cycles.
When in the course of human events, issues, and circumstances,
one comes in touch with words that fit the reality of the situation;
and when we do, such words are assigned to the individual to explain
to us and our loved ones what ails us and what recourse or remedy
should be employed and pursued.
For the present theme, two words, one of which is a non-word,
come to mind. The non-word was quickly set aside when I learned
that it was indeed, not a word. The non-word was 'Apartmentalization'
which only came to mind because it 'sounded' the part. Next came
another word, 'Departmentalization', because it also had the feel
and the harmony, but was not the theme under consideration.
It was simply an exercise, not in futility, but in comparitalization;
Oops, did I just create another non-word? Let's just table that
figment of my imagination.
The elongated word and theme before us is the seven-syllable word,
COMPARTMENTALIZATION. As a noun, it is the act or process of dividing
something into separate and isolated categories, sections, areas, or
compartments. As such, I found it most interesting and useful in the field
of psychology. Dictionary. Com describes it this way: Psychology. the process
of mentally separating or setting aside one’s incompatible or negative emotions, beliefs, or behaviors: Coping with trauma entails psychological defenses—such as denial or emotional compartmentalization—that are inherently isolating. Wow! There is absolutely nothing figmental about this word.
This, in my view, best demonstrates the theme. It best defines both what I have observed in others and what I have personally experienced in my own life. Indeed, it is one of those 'survival mechanisms' that God has instilled in the human psyche. And whether it's halftime, timeout, or 7th-inning stretches, we learn to move ahead when we learn to 'label it' for a 're-visit' and 'set it aside', or to 'table it'. I can't imagine pants without pockets or a car without
a glove compartment. COMPARTMENTALIZATION. Don't leave home without it.
within' this present life ,
my self has been blanketed
by many selves , of past lives
yesterday is my today
until i can peel away
those onion layers of self
to find the true spark
of my true self .
like my bedroom closet
glove compartment
junk drawer in the kitchen
the past lives confronted in my mind
there is no disposal in the sink
no refuse container behind a door
no junk yard dog to help me release
for this is what i am
it's become the knowing and accepting
not the throwing and rejecting
of my self , where i find ,
the self now smiling brightly , saying ,
welcome home , it's nice to have you back....
home is where the heart is........
Fire is a jealous woman I say
I watch her angry, mean dragon way
Started with ten boxes, three of them small
Enraged, she is now spiking eight feet tall
Towering inferno, an orange black beast
These flames are hungry, the boxes their feast
One small light, and she took off like a tracker
Mesmerized, sits my cat, Mr. C.T. Paddywhacker
Neighbor called. Should she send the fire department?
I would like to push her into a tiny glove compartment
Fire is urging me to have feelings of anger and revenge.
A wild maniacal woman, and my best friend.