I got my car back a few days ago–a bad idler pulley is what caused the serpentine belt to come loose, so it was replaced. But the belt was unbroken, and in good condition (even I could see that)–so it was simply reinstalled (to save on the repair bill). Now the belt’s screeching again, just as it was before! I swear if my car looked good enough, it could be used as one of those bait cars!
The belt screeched before, for a very long time–and (exhausted from having to take it and leave it at the shop so often) I just ignored it. Held up okay too–I drove it to Mobile twice during the holidays, in that condition. So the screetch-mobile would probably hold up another year or so (the damned thing’s going to eventually fall apart for good anyway–it’s just a matter of time). But it’s a risk. So I plan to take it back to the shop again this week. I just hope I don’t have to leave it overnight–I really can’t afford to. When your car’s in the shop for a day or longer, you have to spend alot of money for taxi fares (got to get to the grocery store at least)–unless you can afford to rent a car, which I cannot.
And to make returning it more urgent, my writers’ group has its annual meeting (the one that matters most–when new officers are elected) Saturday in another city. It’s risky enough to drive a lemon in town, but far riskier to drive it out of town.
Anyway, I can’t take it back to the shop till Monday–so in this moment, it’s a non-issue.
Some of my poems are just rejects! My writers’ group doesn’t include these in its monthly newsletter–they’re too controversial, too offensive, or too confusing. And I don’t have time to bother submitting these to publications elsewhere, especially because they wouldn’t likely be accepted by those entities either. So just for fun, I’ll post these here!
I’ll start with this one:
Many are the feathers on a red-tailed hawk. Many are the factors that fell an empire. Many are the seeds on a dandelion bloom. Many are the islands in a hurricane’s path. Many are the children repressed by their own adulthood. Many are the freckles on a wondrous woman’s breasts. Many are the books we fail to read. Many are the days one loses to a year. Many are the tassles on an antique lamp. Many are the dreamers who never become stars. Many are the mythical beasts we hope to be real. Many are the soldiers and civilians slaughtered by politicians. Many are the technologies made obsolete for money. Many are the oaks on my lawn. Many are the dogs barking late at night. Many are the reverse-discriminators wearing badges of equality. Many are the ridiculous rituals remaining from previous eras. Many are the publishable works never published. Many are the unrealistic expectations of the opposite sex. Many are the workers who care not for whom they work. Many are the writer’s themes yet untapped.