Ben Newell- Three Poems

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.