No matter what you want to believe
we don’t all come just for the wrecks

(though some certainly do
they are in fact few)

We come for the pulse
of steel and rubber on asphalt

We come for the oil on the track
that can change the day from green to black

We come for the luck
that amplifies the science

We come for the threading of fluid holes
with one ton needles

We come for the physics
of spring load and banked tracks

We come for the unwasted motion
of tire carriers and catch can soldiers

We come for expletives and cryptic bursts
on the radio that sing focus over the scream

We come for the unbelievable noise
of precision in chaos

We come for the wrecks not for the wrecks themselves
but for the juggling magic of spotters — stay low, stay low, pull up, stay high, you’re good

We come for a faith in numerology
and for 48, 24, 18, 11, 29, 31, 43, and 3

We’re not all rednecks
and idiots

and if you brand us all as such
because of our enthusiasm

for machines and their extension
of effort into hard space and speeding light

for the play of numbers and sweat
that makes a race team a team

If you know me to be smart
and not easily impressed

If you listen to me rave about how this battle of engineers
holds me tight from February to November

and then say
I’m surprised you’d be involved in something so stupid

and
you’re not as smart as I thought

may I suggest or indeed affirm
that you are the bigot you claim to despise

If you don’t like it then simply don’t like it
and keep your opinions to yourself

Even though they say rubbin’ is racin’
just know I would never trade my paint for yours

My life’s such a mess
right now that all I can do
is watch a stock car race. 

Stock cars
tell me I’m OK right now,
that it’s far more than left turns
from start to finish
that gets you a win,
that taking the line
you can drive is a good strategy
unless something obvious presents itself,
that wrecks are survivable
though they can change the course
of the rest of the field,
that the win eludes you
more often than not, but that
finishing the race
is always a source of honor
and peace. 

My life is such a mess
right now that even if
I jump from my seat and cheer
for the number and the color scheme
I’ve chosen to support,
it will affect nothing once it’s over.
But I’ll do it anyway, to spite
my fuckups and betrayals
and as a way of praying,
hands gripping the wheel
and muscling through,
doing what I need to do
to finish, to stay clear,
to convince myself
that even if I cut a tire
and slide up the track
into the barrier, even though
my barriers aren’t safer
I’ll be able to walk away
and come back next time.

My life is such a mess
right now.  Bills and damage,
haunting unfinished business
and the scent
of what’s in the drain I’m circling
hang all around.
There’s nothing else to do
but watch a stock car race
and pretend I’m in control,
pretend it doesn’t take a team
to get me back on the track
and a spotter to say, “stay high,
stay high, you’ve got it, caution’s out…”

There’s not much to say
that can’t be said with a ton of steel
and eight hundred horsepower
tuned to run flat out
that is then manacled to finesse
and a chess master’s logic.  I wish
I understood the combination,
that I had bothered to learn something
about it before I got this far down
a slowing, excuse filled, clogged road.
There’s not much to say about that

except that if I ever get off this couch
I’ll know something about my rotten self
before I get behind the wheel.  I’ll try
something different.  Maybe ask for help,
maybe build a team, maybe
race cleaner, smarter,
find a groove that moves me forward,
stop cursing when I’m sucked back
because I screwed up my choice.

But today, my life is such a mess
that I’m just going to watch
a stock car race.
Maybe a couple. 
Maybe more.