backseat drivers --- 16 september 1999
nikholas “katana” f. toledo


this poem was originally written in red ink on paper, which accounts for
that really long line near the end.  i was more than a little stressed
out on the morning i wrote this, so there.  and  for those who know me,
try figuring out which of the six people inside my head is speaking each
line.  honestly, i can’t figure it out myself, as some of the lines were
apparently “co-written”.


sunlight across my eyes . . . .
my pager goes off, rudely interrupting but
the message isn’t for me --- it’s for my sleeping mother.
i haven’t written verses for so long,
instead pouring myself into half-truthed tales of teenaged excess and
sensibilities.
the voices in my head clamor for attention.  go figure.
perhaps i am going insane,
teetering on the edge between silence and speech.
there are so many things i want to say,
questions i’ve wanted to ask,
answers i’ve been searching for.
not that i’m complaining but i really just want to know:
why me?  why you?  why us?
it’s my rational side asking but the rest of me is as curious as hell,
seeking some semblance of truth in an often madcap existence.
it’s something i can’t escape either . . . .
i must seem like some strange bundle of contradictions to you.
they say i shouldn’t write with red ink because that means i’m angry at
whoever i’m writing to.
these are the same people who hail red as the color of love,
the primal passions of life,
what makes the world go around, so they say.
still making sense?  i can hardly hear myself think now,
there’s an argument going on inside my head.
six-part cacophony of chaos.
somebody keep their eyes on the road, dammit!