A Poem About A Car (The Final Installment)

The Chrome

 

 

 

She drinks a gallon of money

for another coating of chrome

topping her aging days

ramshackled under sky fire

and upheaval of the clay

 

A vexing of my nerve

to chrome she surrenders;

she takes me to ditches

filled with cobbles of hail

and the rest of the metal

 

I'll lead her to balloon,

blow-out, bail on

connecting yellow;

I'll make her human

three seconds upside down

through the smog of air

 

 

 

 

 



A Poem About a Sony Television Set (Now a Weekly Series)

Once, people said that television would take the role of the parent.  They were right. Here is my second weekly installment of brand anthropomorphism.  Enjoy:

My Daddy's Name is Sony

Daddy sits in one place

and beams his lights at me

as I lie on my side

to watch his stories

and hear his movies

Daddy's name is Sony,

a man of glass and plastic

He listens to his family

laughing at his wit

or something kind of sick

Daddy can go louder

when you press the button

controlling his functions

directing me to friends

holding their figurines

"Time for a commercial!"

proclaims the saintly Daddy

becoming not so saintly

annoying all the family

with his toys and food

From hair to feet,

we are Daddy's stories

waiting to be seen

at Super Bowl halftime,

millions in view

My never-ending Daddy

glowing from a perch

and always changing

his collars and jewels

for a new bottle of wine

Daddy burns mercury

into my bedtime yawn

and summons me to

rest my lids to wake

up to brand new glows

And Daddy will be replaced

at the calling of the year

with a Daddy taller and flatter,

a universe in his head

to make the trains run

(source: buffalo-newyork.olx.com)

A Poem About a Genie Vacuum Cleaner

I always felt like writing a poem as a blog entry.  Strange idea, yes, but it's something I just wanted to do this time around.

In the future, will human beings have legitimate, intimate relationships with household appliances?  Sure, it sounds like an absurd idea, but in this consumer age, there's a lot of absurd stuff going on.  We could be heading down that road  Anyway, here's my poem.  The idea is pretty clear: a man professing his love to his Genie vacuum cleaner.  Enjoy:

My girl's in the locked trunk

sleeping on the cardboard

and snug in her plastic gown,

polished and factory checked

on her way to home

The girl named Genie

is the girl who truly knows me

There is no perfect girl

made outside the skin

Perfection is born in the factory

Genie's all receptive

plugged into the socket

She's humming to the floor

a drone I've known for years

Rambling on and on goes Genie

Genie is my interpreter

of muscling thoughts and vibes

surging through my openings

and living in the cleaning

of fibers in a day repeated twice

Genie cannot make a baby,

but who needs the family

when all you've got is Genie?

Worth more than baby boys and girls

is Genie at $80.55

I will dread the day

when Genie catches fire

to the halting of her motor

and the fade out of her drones,

the dimming of her lights

Hello, my Genie

Farewell, Genie, my love

(source: icollector.com)