Daytona Nascar Crash Poem by Christopher J. Grasso

We round asphalt by straight lines,
make lanes for four turns of left continuous.
I pace on this cage of road,
bolted into the shell of sweating machine,
cornered into my prison of pitched-night fear,
but under day, this engine must transport me,
to the checkered flag, fluttering a win - & it will.

We hammer positioning which peels fisticuffs,
three inches from forward bumpers banging.
Petroleum flamed competitors mowed gradually behind,
they the pestilence, which must remain in my review,
& struggle hence, I struggle into the forerunner of front,
revving towards the flashbacks of the victory I never had,
revs velocity of hurrying RPM’s, I close in, shedding, laps.

My pit crew feeds its black gleaming leader.
Adjustments by my tinkers corroding other racers’ fortunes.
I set & speed eight gear shifts that wind up securing first place,
& to my constant right, the crowd, half a million, & surging vibrant,
they lust the speed of my firm hands on the sizzling wheel of winning,
this wheel is my challis, challenged in this centrifuge of drivers that suddenly,
slips like slick oil spilled onto a turn of out of control - hang on.

My gripping onto the wheel of crash, a tumbler suffering the fury of a vengeful road.
I smash, spinning back onto the lost Earth’s stick of disorder, flip on my left side’s
Wrath, which even break pressure can not halt these uncontrolled flings
Or the fragile death of my car, unselfish, its ribcage which absorbed me does not pour out
Never unconscious but stunned, outstripped by this progress of destruction
Flowing apart the finish of victor as we halt, ode to my car first, now last
I have burned failure into the faith of myself, I have lost the race, once again