Please ... PLEASE! Get out of my car.

And take your poems with you.

Taking the angry poet home
On a rainy night after the Slam
Is not a driving experience
Recommended by the Chicago Motor Club.

No, it's more like
Paddling upstream in a wind storm
On a planet other than your own
In a dream that loops endlessly around
The relentlessly boring question of:
"What is, or what is not, real poetry?"

And it doesn't help
That this would-be captain of words,
With whom you have chosen to set sail
Subcompactly in your nearly paid-off car,
Has seen fit to balance precariously
On the dashboard
Two wounded sailors
From a crew of bottled blond boys
He massacred only moments ago
At the mass of the mahogany rail,
He takes a gulp from each

Then blows out his puffy disputation:
"THAT'S NOT POETRY!"

By-and-by, navigation proceeds
Through the seamy, rain-soaked Uptown streets
In accordance with abrupt directions
Belched out by this stylized Columbus of verse
As he gasps for air between diatribes against
The most malicious, malignant, malodorous,
Malpracticing poet leech
He has ever, ever seen or heard.

Which is, of course, you!
Who is driving him home
So that he doesn't stumble into the gutter
And perhaps die of drowning.
Or worse, for him, acquire lockjaw and tetanus,
Which would certainly kill him quicker--
Not to be able to speak his mind freely
Unencumbered by sense or sensitivity.

And as you approach a destination
You pray
Will be a spot he recognizes as his own,
You, all of a sudden, notice
A finger in the air
Punctuating phantom exclamation points
Which hover ghostly near your nose.

You are busy maneuvering down congested Broadway.
Headlights. Traffic signals. Pedestrians.
You mention
That it might be more conducive
To your common well-being
If the finger pointing would STOP!

This transforms his finger into a fist
Which he pounds against the dashboard
Shaking the bottles, making your eyes

Jump from the road to the bottles to the fist
To the face of this angry alienated poet.

And for a moment, you see yourself
(How many years ago? ) frothing at the mouth,
Assailing some other older poet you did not really know,
Reproving him for proving himself false in your eyes,
For not living up to your standards of real poetry.

Your muscles relax.
Your heartbeat slows.
There's a breeze in your soul
About to waft out of your throat
With words of peace and understanding.

When suddenly, a hand hits the horn.
The horn on the steering wheel in front of you.
It's not one of your hands.
Your hands are responsibly guiding the vehicle.
It's his hand!

Slamming down hard on the horn honking:

"HOW CAN YOU CONDONE THAT BULLSHIT!

THAT'S NOT POETRY!

NOT ONE WORD I HEARD ALL EVENING WAS REAL POETRY!

YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT A REAL POEM IS!

YOU WOULDN'T KNOW A REAL POEM IF IT HIT YOU IN THE
FACE!"

No, taking the angry poet home
On a rainy night after the Slam
Is not a driving experience
Recommended by the Chicago Motor Club.