Pulled over.

I was pulled over this morning. I was pretty late to my destination already because of some car trouble, and then while speeding my way to rehearsal I was pulled over by one of those bullshit don't-look-like-cop cars. Go figure. They never pull you over when you're speeding anywhere else in life, just the important things.

Officer: Do you know why I pulled you over today, ma'am?
Me: I'm guessing it's not because you want my number.
O: Do you know the speed limit here?
Me: Slower than I was going.
O: It's 45. Do you know how fast you were going?
Me: Nope, but probably faster than 45.
O: 62. You were practically racing me.
Me: Well, you shouldn't have been driving in my blind spot.
O: Where are you trying to get to so fast?
Me: I have a rehearsal with the Blue Knights.
O: Where is that at?
Me: Don't end sentences with a preposition. It's at Arvada High School, like 20 seconds down the road.
O: Well today I'ma let you off with a warning.
Me: Thanks, asshole. Have fun ruining peoples' days.

Mom and dad are fighting on a major holiday?!    Quick, everybody act surprised.

Los Angeles.

Wake up and rub your eyes

   look outside. Another morning

where the toxins from millions of

cars driven by pissed off drivers

creates a brown cloud that hides the mountains

until about 4PM.

There are kids on the basketball court 

maybe 10 years old yelling

fuck like they have any idea.

They tell me palm trees aren't even native.

Paradise can be tricky.

People aren't native here, either.

They move here.

I watched you move here.

Right after I broke up with someone who lived here.

People move away because they think

someone they love is living somewhere else.
No wonder the drivers are so angry;

this city doesn't know shit about love.

It just screams a collective fuck and has

no

idea

what it means.

English major.

Yes, I'm an English major.

No, I do not planning on being an English teacher, so stop asking me which grade I want to teach.

No, I do not plan on writing novels for a living, because I am not a novelist.

I also do not plan on publishing poetry for a living either.

In fact, I do not have any life plan whatsoever. And to be frank, I'm not that interested in having a life plan right now.

Happy?

So, I mean, yeah. Okay... love. (2)

(Same exercise as before. Just another go at it.)


I mean. It's just a social drug.
Nothing serious.
I mean, I've done all the reading, bro.
No recorded cases of death.
Well, not when you're on the shit, anyway.
I guess some people die from withdrawal.

Broken hearts or some shit.
But I mean,
dude. It's totally cool.
Just try it.
Just this once.

So, I mean, yeah. Okay... love.

(Writing Exercise: Use this title, from the poem of the same name by William Bronk, to create your own poem.)


You just know, you know?
No, I don't fucking know. And
quite frankly I don't think you
know, either.
I imagine that in order to
fall in love
you have to make a lot of it
first.

They say that you can drown with
little more than a teaspoon of water
in your lungs.
And I'll tell you, I've made a lot of love.
Maybe not enough to swim in, but
far more than a teaspoon.
But I just can't seem to fall in it.

I've been reading a lot of ancient literature lately...

"According to Greek mythology, humans were originally created with four arms, four legs, and a head with two faces. Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate parts, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves."  -Plato, The Symposium

Identifying Strange Car Noises

(This is another writing exercise. Take something you don't know anything about, and something you know a lot about, and incorporate them both into a poem. It also must contain found language.)


Somewhere between idle, first, and second gear
there are pots and pans that sneak under the
hood of my car and tango.
I do not venture there for fear that the blind dance,
once seen, would reveal itself a mad bar fight.
The pots never liked the pans. And the pans just
wanted to drink.


Now I am pretty good at sounds but
this manual is asking me to know the difference between
pop click whir hiss rattle squeal clunk.

Cars, like people, communicate when something is not right.


Escort could sing me Berlioz' Fantastique and I would know
why she were crying. She could pop me a beat, she could 
click side by side to the back-and-forth restlessness of
a 1940s metronome and I could answer her in 
two languages. English 
and harmony.
She could squeal a trumpet double G and rattle
the marimba's intestines. 


But until she learns how to
complain to me in a language I can speak,
I crank the volume and flood my
one-ton death trap with 
noises I can comprehend.