Arguments with the car radio men:
Dashboard Twizzlers  
and my father playing guitar from 
the backseat--

My radio has the voice
of a room full of father-age men--
elbow into each other-- spill
coffee and crack diet sodas 
on my dash board-- the device has
refused music for at least eight 
months now-- I have to hum over their
chatter and pretend my
father is playing guitar
in the backseat--he's plugged into
the dash board singing some 
three-chord Beatles song
that I used to believe he'd written
for me and etched in vinyl--
Oh HEY JUDE-- HEY JUDGE
HIDE YOUR LOVE THAT WAY--
OH WE ALL LIVE IN A YELLOW
PAPER BACK WRITER-- most
of the time the radio men 
keep their discussions
to retortions and distortions of 
fox news headlines-- incantations 
to the beat of some 1980s pop tune
I never heard play from beginning
to end--keep grasping for the
the chorus 
of a song my father wrote
about sunflowers or was
it about his LITTLE GIRL
-- radio
chants
angry and impatient headline
fragments--
MOVE ON MOVE ON-- LEFT WING-- 
SYRIAN WHITE TENT HOTELS SING
IN A DESSERT
TRUMP FINDS WALL STREET HACKED
BY TWO BALLET DANCERS
IN LOVE WHO SELL LEMONADE TO 
THE RUSSIAN SPIES IN OUR
COMPUTER SCREENS
BECAUSE EVERYONE'S SAYING
THEY'RE QUEER NOW--
sometimes the men get bored and
inform me I've made a wrong turn--
merge right-- count the stop
lights until you reach 
Fleetwood where the porch to the old house
is still held up by a 2x4 plank of wood--
and the spearmint bush doesn't grow
candy anymore-- it's dried out
and ready to be burned--
the Twizzlers don't grow behind
the garage without my father
to water them with the quarters
in his pockets--
The men inform me 
that the Speed Way gas station has a king
size bag of Twizzlers for my father--
they had saved it for him all
these years to plant a new
batch in a red thicket like
bamboo on the floor the car-- 
in the back seat he's still singing 
out the window-- plugged into the dash
board of the car-- feeling
under the seat for a distortion peddle--
 doesn't notice his
LITTLE GIRL drives five miles
over the speed limit and ten miles under
if it's dark outside-- she doesn't trust
headlights-- hums louder now over
the voices of all the men sitting under
the hood of a car-- he can only hear
the spear mint leaves and the 
crinkle of grocery bags escaping
out the back windows--
strangled jelly fish-- running from
the radio men-- 
Sometimes they stop arguing long
enough to chant and advertisement--
voice-crinkled falsetto-- 

Pick up a bag of tasty
twisty ZANY Twizzlers open up
excitement--

You mean open up 'sugar
and red food coloring'?
I try to measure excitement
in something other than 
tubes of corn syrup 
and glycerin--

No we mean open up
a bag of your father's 
guitar strings and 
pick the last sugar spearmint
leaves from the air vents
in your dashboard-- that's
why this car runs so damn slow
Are you driving to Fleetwood tonight?
Someone told me it's snowing 
and all the streets and their
sidewalk filled up with white

Stop it! Stop it!
That's the song-- the
song with the chorus  my
father is supposed to sing

And the air vents turn up 
ALL THE WAY even though 
I flip the knobs off
and they shout
and they shout Twizzlers
and they shout
and they shout spear mint
and sugar crystal and 
my father finds the distortion peddle
and the men conclude

This is what happens
when LITTLE GIRLS listen to
too much radio and drive
at night alone-- 

And my father stops playing
from the back seat-- and we
stop
at the intersection on Franklin
Street in Fleetwood-- my father leaves out
the window like a shopping bag 
and the air vents spew candy all 
the way
to the back window-- red vine
rear view mirror--
I stop at a gas station I've never
been to and eat
the seats clean again--
before the men strike up a conversation
again-- and we drive for
eight months
and I buy a king size bag of Twizzlers
to plant in the back seat 
where my father used to play guitar--