BIRTHDAY POEM : MECHANIC GUNMAN / JUNE 12, 1997 (fixed)

723 Replies

 Daniel Lawrence Collins

.22 won’t kill a man won’t go thru metal whats the pt in ownin it when u can kill solid metal men in full speed faster than the one half ive been going on since they declared war on this auto shop / failed noon, failed sunset, failed standoff / and what does eviction mean? home isn’t a car can’t move garage to garage homes here in concrete slabs my grandfather poured out / wrench hands that palmed the skies for oil but he only got the oil in his blood / So I Stand Here / Collins Mechanic + Auto-Repair / because i don’t know what eviction means when the rug i bled on at 16 didn’t move when we starved the winter i was 14 or the time i was divorced but then i wasnt it kept the stains in blotter dots i understood / zero things i understood except that black / so they can crunch the numbers they want and say i cant pay rent – –  

i will climb atop cars for eternity past stain hopping cylinder volcanoes shooting this melted proud overall-worn mechanic, torques toward the garage open switch flicked up and barrel out         /  stained in the rug beside the toolshelf.

723 thoughts on “BIRTHDAY POEM : MECHANIC GUNMAN / JUNE 12, 1997 (fixed)”

  1. Rae Cobbs

    I Couldn’t Know
    for jib jobson

    On my computer screen, first thing this morning, this gift.
    Disturbing and enticing, like a dream. I was alive
    when this happened, but I never knew the blood, the pain,
    the noise. I was busy making an almost parallel life
    out of grease, of family, of familiar pepper trees
    fifty miles away. I practiced with a rifle when I was twelve,
    quit the first time we went hunting jackrabbits in the hills.
    My father made a bow for me of fiberglass, an orange
    streak like the sunset over the Pacific’s molten mirror,
    and I practiced till the blood rose from my wrist
    where the string hit as the arrow passed. In rage,
    I hammered an innocent elm tree instead of his
    shiny head. Still, I didn’t get to climb rock faces.

    People died nearby, bloodlessly, the news delivered
    in wives’ walking round the corner. Joe Abbott’s
    older brother suffered a divorce after a bullet
    scarred his handsome face, a policeman in
    the wrong place at the wrong time. His wife
    rebelled the only way she could. I wanted
    to leave the stinking neighborhood, the reckless
    life, the chickens running round without their heads.
    I wanted to free my heart to beat wild like that sun
    sinking over the ocean, so far away, so present.
    Of course, I never got away. It’s everywhere,
    violence gathering in a quiet, perfect storm.

    Reply ↓
  2. Rae Cobbs

    I didn’t know what to say until I read your poem for Daniel Laurence Collins and looked up his name. This just happened. Tell me, did you put the line breaks in with slash marks after you saw how the system always takes them away? I am very puzzled by this. Your poem obviously struck a nerve in me. Strong work.

    Reply ↓
  3. Jeb Jobson

    Great reply and poem!

    Yea I use slashes because formatting is goofed and I’m tired of how buggy a lot of online posting is. Also because I’m too lazy to not just write a giant paragraph.

    Thanks.

    Reply ↓
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    This submit actually made my day. You can not imagine just
    how so much time I had spent for this info! Thank you!

    Reply ↓

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