Jason Phoebe Rusch: The Legend of Ricky Bobby as a Metaphor for Trans Time

Jason Phoebe Rusch: The Legend of Ricky Bobby as a Metaphor for Trans Time
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Nights in Talladega: The Legend of Ricky Bobby as a Metaphor for Trans Time

 

I am cuckold, eighties anthem, gold stars

a mother’s curio cabinet, slumber, waste

at middle-age bleached coral sapped of self:

puberty denied me, eating flaked skin,

 

licking dust mites from my childhood’s dim shelf.

Speed calls to me, road rushing blood, rubber

cock almost a live thing inside my jeans:

I’m electric baby, hear the thunder

 

my pheromone a secretion of shame.

If fathers weren’t false axioms, scalped tickets,

taking mothers in bathrooms since ’78:

a one-time deal, a painted yellow stripe.

 

What can I tell you, kiddo that’s been me

wrecked sides rolling fiery over my life

 

*

 

Wrecked sides rolling fiery over my life,

I’d let myself be crashed to remind me

my rising sign: failure. Side-tire blubber

grease stain on the sky, sent-back fast-food toy

 

these my tendencies in work, love and play

doomed hull-clinger, plankton, slow flagellum.

Each night I dream a stadium wet for me,

me legible anything, wanted fresh

 

and riding, riding bright blood down a track

I’d like to live to see myself perform

some adrenaline-fueled, miracle act.

To bare my chest, to yowl, scratch genitals

 

to crest some Arctic storm, grin all the pain.

I could live quite long watching strange TV.

 

*

 

I could live quite long watching strange TV,

in some paneled-off section of my head

like a room with heavy curtains, lotto

numbers before they are called, cheap beer

 

spilled on my underpants. A long nose hair,

a snore, a crushed Cheeto ground into rug:

that which persists the same each day after

next, and for what, and for what and for what

 

to paw after a person to soundtrack?

To look more suave and better on paper?

To stand in public grabbing my own crotch,

to dance fondling my own butt cheeks to praise?

 

For photo on hot-dog restaurant wall

For Day-glo revelation of mundane?

 

*

 

For Day-glo revelation of mundane,

for onion rings and gas station aisles

for the music the speakers sometimes play,

I have boringly soldiered through hours

 

obeying the imperative to be

rev whatever pistons we can obtain

my phallus hologram powered by fuel

oily and viscous, subcutaneous shot.

 

My blankness projecting into future,

a tunnel riddled with limbs, aphorism

makes for better press. I could speak to folk,

inspire them. An option: be professionally failed.

 

Make profit from the melting and the loss.

An embarrassment of flesh, blushing cost.

 

*

 

An embarrassment of flesh, blushing cost

my wife left me for a former version

I learned early men could not be wives

nor women husbands, nor could my body

 

elope with itself, far outside its birth.

So I hunkered down like creeping sludge trail,

stored decades of inertia in my bones

I gnawed my skin to sleep, cut axles loose.

 

I Shake-and-Bake and break my own steady

it looks noble but really I lost nerve

my arm like my willpower emerging

like an infant’s from a place before life

 

rasping it’s your time now, Ricky Bobby,

but never like you thought before, again.


Jason Phoebe Rusch is a queer trans writer from the Chicago suburbs. His writing has appeared in The Rumpus, Lambda Literary's Poetry Spotlight and Bust magazine, among others. His first book, Dualities, will be available from Hobart's SF/LD books this March. He can be found online at www.jasonphoeberusch.com.