Amaxophobia, for those of you who don’t know, is a fear of riding in cars. Today’s Bobby’s birthday and he has complained that not enough poetry on Dizzy Thoughts is my own, so just for him, is a post of the poem I wrote about his driving. It is mean to be performed, but oh well. If Bob’s in town, stay off the road - it’s better that way
Amaxophobia
Driving with you in the car
is the closest I will probably ever get
to running with the bulls in Pamplona.
Except, you’re the bull.
Your mammoth horns protruding
from the snout of a mad beast
that huffs and puffs
with fierce spit flying after it’s prey.
Men try to get out of the way,
but they can’t move fast enough.
Your speed is determined
and you enjoy trampling all that stand
between you and your destination,
even if that point
happens to be less than a foot away.
You travel with the freedom
of the bird that you let fly
whenever anyone pisses you off.
The fierce upward flight of
the eagle that soars in the air
with a proud grace for all to see.
A warrior, your battle cry is heard
by all who inhabit the car,
an intense chant of explicatives
that only the fiercest road hunter would roar.
Your dominance of the pack is made proud
when the 80-year-old woman shrieks
to the side as you drive by honking
at the family in the minivan.
Hell’s chariot, a black Nissan 300Z,
is driven by the highway demon.
The wrath of hell is unleashed
on all who get in its path.
The God’s of the road shutter
when the black monster appears.
Praying that this journey,
will not require a sacrifice.
They ensure good parking Karma,
a sign of their foreboding -
trying to lull the beast.
The highway itself fears your name.
There’s a certain roughness
in ride of your tires on the road’s back
that it doesn’t feel with anyone else.
A power and dominance that can’t be denied.
The bots dots hiss as you drive by.
I sit in the passenger seat head down,
shielding my face,
praying we don’t encounter anyone I know.
Hoping that the road stays clear
and that the sun shines.
I try and hide my excitement from you
as we fly from 0-60 in ticket-writing time.
The sound of the acceleration,
echoes in my thighs.
I feel like a jockey,
Whip in hand,
Getting one hell of a ride around the track.
There’s a certain erotic masochism
in your need to master the freeway
I want to scream with abandon
Run the stop sign! What red light?
Faster! Faster!
A highway of floor play,
I want to climax on the ride.
Drop to my Knees and…
PRAY FOR MY LIFE
5/4/04 – 6/28/04
