Sunday, April 19, 2015

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,
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
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
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
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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