I hit my mother,

I hit my mother with my car when I was 17.

She was in her car when yellow eyes cooked the carrion on asphalt morgue tables,

Shocked when the radio still played when the scrunching scream of metal rang out.

I regret not stopping,

I’ll catch myself pumping my foot in time,

Time to watches ticks and rubber coated steel as I sit alone and wonder,

Thing is I don’t remember yellow eyes turning red on the four-wheel beating road.

I believe my lie,

It still scares the shit out of me when the street screeches out,

Unless the backs of engine blocks and lost coiled copper stay far far away I am scared,

Useless but to shiver so far down in a car seat of leather and carpet covered needles.

I see the LED’s of tri-coated colors,

Is this the color I caution or the color I curse as so many of done as a foot slams down,

Victorious in our vox, our voice, our volition, standing vivified,

Visited by visions of swerving into the safe and soft earth.

I love that earth,

I dip my jerk off head into the dirt and inhale safety,

With the red dust and clay-smeared soot I still see yellow pebbles,

Wide-open mouth speaking apologies and empty kisses of heaven and praises to it.

I hear no praises,

I’d like to.

X marks the spot of my mistake,

X’s in the eyes of yellow light and two second sideway glances.

© 2014 Jared "I.J" Steinberg. All Rights Reserved.

#poetry