Skinny kids
Wrinkled clothes
Crooked windows
Non-symmetrical
Snowman slightly off center
The “Olds”
Wrinkled fenders
A round-headed driver
A teetering toboggan
Hanging from its roof
The artists
Sipping hot cocoa
Fresh out of high school,
strong in body but dense in the head.
I once worked as a furniture mover.
The company was owned by a friend.
One time, he and I worked twenty hours straight.
At 5 bucks/per, I felt like Tony Montana in Scarface.
Afterwards, I was invited to a speakeasy
to play a little after-hours poker.
The warm beer was flowing for free.
Well, you know the rest.
I was busted in less time than it takes a robin
to preen his orange velvet vest.
My boss won all of my hard-earned mint.
Although I didn't have a license
Drunk bossman let me drive his sweet Oldsmobile '88 home.
Though smokey-eyed and flat broke.
I still was a happy little blue-collar pimp.
The 1970 Four-Four Two Oldsmobile was a spectacular beauty
I still like her today; she was owned by Mr. McPueuty.
He shined her up so often, her sheen was something to see.
He gave me a ride once in nineteen seventy-three.
She did not go as fast as I had hoped, but I felt like a queen.
Sitting in this brilliant red Olds, a marvelous speed machine.
I wish I had one today; I would shine her front and her back.
The 1970 Four-Four Two was a gorgeous car said my cousin Mack.
Two birds like mischievous teens
skipping, giggling as they cross
the pumps, dodging car scenes
through the oily and Oldsmobile dross.
Scoundrels living loud in their little world
chirping along, rippling through grime,
gabbling as they kick the can, twirling
and uttering in incoherent rhyme.
Oh the crime of poetic injustice,
those bobbing teeny hoodlums -
their imagery without substance.
No alliteration nor allusions.
But the human takes notice of the couple,
just too cute, their slim legs and beaks
skimming through the rainbow puddle
with sputtering tweets, puttering in the grease.
I am behind
the large white wheel of an Oldsmobile.
I am a page ripped from a Raymond Chandler novel.
Clipped words curl close to my lips as hot as ash.
Dreamy eyes are cold tonight, there will be death
at the side of a desert back-road.
Revolvers will be shaken until blood spills from a mouth.
I park carefully until the cars white-walls
appear at the four corner’s of the night.
I am on a case, another Hollywood sex scandal.
I sit there smoking until dawn mists
swim into the valley.
Speeding squad cars blast past me;
the City Dicks are tough around here
and most are on the 'take.'
I let the engine idle wondering where
this all fits into a half-written plot?
“Lets move” I drawl to my suit rumpled self,
easing the rim of my fedora over weary eyes,
heading now to where flash-bulbs expose
what we do when the stars turn blue.
We paddle through small talk,
I like her, she has style.
I imagine we have a history together
back in an old movie that I have yet to see.
I begin to construct a lost and anecdotal life.
In another place we’re a vaudeville act
wisecracking between meal tickets.
Our home, a trunk covered in Midwest decals.
We share the occasional Spam sandwich,
theater gossip and sleaze; we cuddle
as we trundle along
long defunct rail tracks.
We date in elevators,
make out in a battered Oldsmobile.
In Bangkok, we share a ride in a Tuk-Tuk
careening down narrow streets.
On any sidewalk, we meet regularly
as reflections in windowpanes.
Today you’ve gone to Guatemala
to fight for a right.
Marimba music plays
as you climb up my spine.
Time now to rent more space
outside these traveling dreams.
My 442 Oldsmobile was the hottest car around
No sexier red thing besides lipstick could be found.
When you pressed on the medal, that baby flew down the road.
When you were inside her, you were no longer a toad.
She had pizzazz and jazz, she was sleek and fine.
Red hot with thick black stripes on her hood, all in a line.
She was the utmost, the best, the prettiest ride in town.
This gorgeous Oldsmobile matched everybody's gown.
She was hot, she was fiery, she was fantastic, she was sick.
She was the best thing since beef and noodles, pleasant and quick.
When she took a hill, she showed you her fantastic traction.
When I drove my 442, I had immense satisfaction!
For General Motors, it must have been a difficult decision.
They decided to discontinue Oldsmobile as a division.
There were many Oldsmobile dealerships found near and far.
If they still exist, they are now selling another car.
the old jalopy...
manufacture Oldsmobile;
daily drove to work;
inside my garage,
also dad's 1915 Model J car;
old that jalopy...
that old jalopy,
manufactured by Lozier;
three-three horsepower;
slobmodel auto;
designed with rocket tail-lights;
that old jalopy...
my dad drove in style;
his nineteen-fifty eight Olds,
drove old jalopy;
7/12/19
The Old Jalopy Poetry Contest
80's oldsmobile wagon full of mormons
traveling at five under the speed limit.
a turtlenecked jesus behind the wheel
draws magnetically all pyrite from the
rural hills of zion utah.
gold so much glorious gold
and you can have it to.
just turn your tv dial to the trinity
broadcasting network,
set some plastic fruit out on your
coffee table as an offering
and send your prayer request
in to Plano Texas.
The sound of us breathing heavy, the windows of the Oldsmobile sweating as I worked my hands up your shirt. The beads you got in New Orleans. Venturing beyond the tan line. Feeling the softness as we slow danced, grinning, with my chin just off your shoulder. Buying you that scoop neck sweater for Christmas. Pressing my ear tight, listening to your heart. The off the shoulder dress that left me speechless; “My eyes are up here” you said with a playful smirk. Despite our deepest affection some things are taken; and yet, some are unshaken. As I caress and kiss your scars, it is you that makes me grin
(I got the idea for this poem when I was watching a TV show yesterday.)
Because of a roadhog, my son is dead.
He was only fifteen and now he has no more years ahead.
I was trying to drive my dying son to the hospital on that horrible day.
A man in front of me in an Oldsmobile wouldn't get out of the way.
I honked my horn time after time but he wouldn't let me pass.
I just saw his car at a diner and I'm going to kick his ___.
The doctors said if I had gotten my son there sooner, he wouldn't have died.
I'm going to go in this diner and invite that piece of trash outside.
He'll be in a wheelchair when I'm done.
He should be dead instead of my son.
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