increased internal
pressure may cause the inflator to rupture
I return from work to find yet another notification
from the folks at Honda,
the fourth or fifth in several months,
and like the others
I don’t bother to read this one either
as I know it’s a recall
regarding the faulty airbag
in my 2003 Civic.
I rip the notice in half
and toss it in the trash barrel
beside the mail kiosk
then drive on in to my apt.
It’s not that I desire a devastating blast
of metal fragments
to my face,
rather I just can’t deal
with the dealer.
Sure, the new airbag would be free
but they’d surely find
some other mechanical problem
with which to charge me
far more than I can afford.
So I’ll just take my chances
out there
on the treacherous highways
and byways,
me and my Takata time bomb,
the reason
I wear my sunglasses
at night.
we all have our
dreams
Dr. King assassinated on a balcony
at the Lorraine Hotel;
Medgar Evers gunned down
at his home;
Trayvon Martin popped
by a trigger-happy white cop.
I think of such things while watching
White Trash Whore #36,
my mind oscillating between
hate crimes
and hot interracial sex.
This particular title features
a black on blonde gangbang;
the titular whore is getting pounded
by a group of sweaty Mandingos,
servicing them with considerable
vigor and enthusiasm.
Race relations in this country
still have a ways to go
but my new DVD
is irrefutable evidence
of improvement—
Next payday
I’m going to buy
Black Chicks Crave
White Dicks
and a big ass bag
of Oreos;
I’m going to camp out
on the couch,
settle in for the day;
make it a fucking party,
dude,
a party in celebration
of progress.
the motel 6 beside
red lobster
The anglers are back
for the annual tournament;
it’s a rather big deal
down here,
attracting fishermen from all over
the country,
a massive influx of competitors
to boost the local
economy.
But this year’s event
is a somber affair
in honor
of last year’s victim,
the angler tragically robbed
and gunned down
in a motel parking lot.
And watching
the file footage
on the ten o’clock report,
I think about my sole experience
at that very same
motel—
Several months ago,
a grim Sunday night
I tried to improve
with too much gin
and beer
and pot
and a blonde
backpage hooker
whom I couldn’t even
properly penetrate.
Driving home
on the frontage road,
$200 freshly flushed,
I felt suicidal,
yet strangely victorious
to have survived
that menacing place
with nothing worse
than a perforated ego,
that menacing place
with its royal blue doors
and quirky radio spots
about leaving the light on
for people like you
and even people like
me.
Ben Newell is a fortysomething library clerk in Jackson, Mississippi. He has poems appearing and/or forthcoming in Chiron Review, LUMMOX, Nerve Cowboy, Pink Litter, Yellow Mama, Your One Phone Call, and others.
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