I dreamt I owned a 1939 Buick.
Later, I realized I did not,
but wondered:
could tommy-gun wielding
gangsters still be historically relevant
without running-boards?
A very cool car,
just ask Humphrey Bogart;
he had a 38 special
and knew how to use it.
I want to tell bogie, I understand
the need for running-boards,
the Fedora, the trench coat - the pose;
one leg on the board,
the lip-hanging cigarette,
the world weary eyes,
the choice of car - the whole works.
I dreamt I drove a ‘Prius',
a nightmare on a skateboard,
still a car is just a car, right?
Categories:
buick, poetry,
Form: Free verse
I dreamt I awoke in a 1939 Buick
as it sped into the 40’s,
a decade depleted of running boards.
I wondered
how could tommy-gun wielding
gangsters appear historically relevant
without running boards?
Running boards mark an era
the way hats do.
Then I thought, what the hell
I’m in a 1939 Buick
so every tommy gun toting punk
better watch out
running boards or not.
Some classic cars do that,
you take on their vintage persona.
The 39 is a cool car,
Humphrey Bogart drove one.
He had a 38 special also
and knew how to use it.
When you get to where Bogart has gone
(a star in a greater Hollywood story)
the right car is important.
You must drive the 39
like you’re in a movie
where monochrome fog
makes the hill roads
and their hairpins tricky.
When the road ends
stand with one foot on the running board
until a camera flash
goes off with a flare and a pop.
Pose
while you light a cigarette
tip your fedora at a slant,
and grin like a tough guy.
Categories:
buick, poetry,
Form: Free verse
When I was Seven,
Six of us piled in to a shiny
New Buick.
“A quick errand across town”
It was hot
I fell asleep.
I was awoken
By the screams.
A dump truck had eaten
us up and spit out our core
A heavy blow
Against my head
Made everything go dark.
I wake up to silence.
The screaming had
stopped but the blood
From my nose
was resilient.
I slink from under
My aunt’s unconscious body.
I can’t get the door open.
My little brother cries.
I find the strength to open
The broken door that trapped us.
I pull his tiny arm from the front seat
He cries out I’m hurting him
But I’ve seen too many movies
Where cars blow up,
And all I can do is keep pulling
Till I fall back with him
In my grip.
I look at everyone mangled
And unresponsive
Inside the tiny car.
I’d never seen
So much blood.
I hug my little brother,
His head, full of glass.
He points at my nose.
But I care more
about my shoe,
it’s missing and
People have begun to stare.
Categories:
buick, anxiety, lost,
Form: Free verse
I dreamt I awoke in a 1939 Buick -
the way it seeped into the 40’s
without the running boards.
I wondered
how could tommy gun wielding
gangsters appear historically relevant
without running boards.
Then I thought, what the hell
I’m in a 39 Buick
so every tommy-gun totting thug
better watch out,
running boards or not.
This is a very cool car,
just ask Humphrey Bogart
he had a 38 special
and he knew how to use it.
Tell him I understood
his choice of car
when you get to where he is.
Categories:
buick, poetry,
Form: Blank verse