P. L. Krahnke

Thousands of miles in a backseat

Sunk in the bench seat while 

The adults drive and steer

And yell sit down let’s play a game.

Sweet Jesus, why do we have to play a game,

I don’t want the distraction from my dream

Of a better life than an eleven year old

Without equal rights, complete autonomy

Over my body, and where it goes in a car,

Over there, over here, shit

Are we there yet?

They call me names and threaten to pants me, 

That mediocre hoard of other eleven year olds,

And I wonder, who is this lower level of being, 

these small humans who think so little of me

and

What is their point of conveying it in such terms? 

Mom always said 

her Mom always said

Above all be kind. 

So I took it, until I screamed in the darkened bus doorway

Such rage, rage, rage.

Bus Driver screamed back at me to shut up and

Sit the hell down, 

The first memory of my priceless girl voice being told

It was nothing, so I took it, but my head and I screamed

Motherfucker

And sat the hell down after fighting my way down the bus aisle 

through flails and sweats, the shouts and shrieks of these mediocre beings

Allowed to behave in such a way when I was not allowed to behave in such a way,

As I sought eye contact with someone, anyone else

Both silenced and wrathful like me.

I sunk in the bus bench surrounded by stench

As I looked out the window and wondered,

Are we there yet? 

Who was this guy driving that bus, some guy,

Just some ordinary guy, to tell me 

to shut up, 

just some random guy

Who got paid to yell at me 

to shut up,

Who got paid to keep the noise down but

Who didn’t hear the noise in my head 

From the merely average boys who threatened me in whispers

With pain and humiliation,

No one told them 

to shut up

But me. 

Bus Driver was a dick

But for some reason I imagined 

a world where all average mediocre nobodies 

would enter the distant future as ripened, mature,

Carefully spoken, kind in their actions,

Empathetic in their emotions, and generally totally cool. 

But if you pay close attention to rolling machines, 

such as vehicles and Earths and cubicle chairs,

It is clear they represent defined environments, 

claustrophobic interiors, 

for the playing out of such high dramas

That hint at a destination but never actually get there. 

Settle down on the bench seat, don’t raise a ruckus.

Ignore them and they will go away.

Here, play a game. 

What fucking game? I’m being serious, here.

Serious about what I see and where we’re going.

I’m screaming, it’s all real to me we’re

Stuck in the confines of borders and passports and 

moveable walls that may appear to change the inside 

but it’s still the same place,

Filled with mediocre nobodies 

Whispering pain and humiliation with

No Bus Driver to tell them to shut the hell up

And sit down

Because the Bus Drivers are in charge of the ride

And they don’t give a shit,

They’re getting paid to keep it down.

I scan the aisles and the confines, 

the atmosphere at the bend of the lens 

that looks out toward Mars, 

seeking eye contact with someone, anyone else

Both silenced and wrathful like me.

I know they are here. 

Are we there yet?