L. I. E.

L. I. E.

A drunk driver killed my father 
racing down the L. I. E., his body burst 
like a split seam, limbs littered the pavement. 


On a Saturday morning, after the bars quiet down to a desperate pool of sticky-spilt 
drinks, vomit and hair gel, I can hit 80 after crossing the WhiteStone. I play chicken 
with the curbs, the gravel pings like buckshot off the chipped gloss-back fenders 
of my Audi. I want the courage to scrape the "twin-turbo" emblem against 
the guard rail, scar the doors but 


a drunk driver killed my father speeding along the L. I. E., skipping across the median 
like a smooth, flat stone sent spinning across the flat glass of the pond at the cabin 
up on Brant Lake where he never taught me to fish. 


I like the Meth clinics on the island better. Island girls will spend hours talking 
in their low whisper drones about their daddies and their 18th birthday party 
with their long, flat blonde hair and their sunken eyes and their palm sized tits 
poking braless against their nightshirts. I don't need the escape like they do, 
don't need to explain how 


a drunk driver killed my father, speeding along the L. I. E. Leaving Manhattan 
for the weekend on a Saturday night, after the bars withered down 
to the desperate hustle. My father never would have driven drunk.

(01-02-2026, 10:45 AM)milo Wrote:  L. I. E.

L. I. E.

A drunk driver killed my father 
racing down the L. I. E., his body burst 
like a split seam, limbs littered the pavement. 


On a Saturday morning, after the bars quiet down to a desperate pool of sticky-spilt 
drinks, vomit and hair gel, I can hit 80 after crossing the WhiteStone. I play chicken 
with the curbs, the gravel pings like buckshot off the chipped gloss-back fenders 
of my Audi. I want the courage to scrape the "twin-turbo" emblem against 
the guard rail, scar the doors but 


a drunk driver killed my father speeding along the L. I. E., skipping across the median 
like a smooth, flat stone sent spinning across the flat glass of the pond at the cabin 
up on Brant Lake where he never taught me to fish. 


I like the Meth clinics on the island better. Island girls will spend hours talking 
in their low whisper drones about their daddies and their 18th birthday party 
with their long, flat blonde hair and their sunken eyes and their palm sized tits 
poking braless against their nightshirts. I don't need the escape like they do, 
don't need to explain how 


a drunk driver killed my father, speeding along the L. I. E. Leaving Manhattan 
for the weekend on a Saturday night, after the bars withered down 
to the desperate hustle. My father never would have driven drunk.

I try to understand why a writer chose to write what and how they did.  For instance you have very graphic scenes in here, driving by the scene I want to look and cant bring myself to at the same time.  You have some well done repetition that drives home a very blunt statement.  I dont know what the LIE is and cant help but read the acronym as if its any freeway anywhere.  Some of the POV trips me up.  At one point im a guy who lost his father to a drunk driver, at another I'm the drunk driver, I could be anyone in another.  The final line doesnt do it for me. My father is better than yours as opposed to a great man was taken from us vibes.  But the bitterness is real.  The long lines seem more aesthetic than functional but you make it work.  I look forward to reading more of your work

(01-06-2026, 10:18 AM)David_Kaine Wrote:  

(01-02-2026, 10:45 AM)milo Wrote:  L. I. E.

L. I. E.

A drunk driver killed my father 
racing down the L. I. E., his body burst 
like a split seam, limbs littered the pavement. 


On a Saturday morning, after the bars quiet down to a desperate pool of sticky-spilt 
drinks, vomit and hair gel, I can hit 80 after crossing the WhiteStone. I play chicken 
with the curbs, the gravel pings like buckshot off the chipped gloss-back fenders 
of my Audi. I want the courage to scrape the "twin-turbo" emblem against 
the guard rail, scar the doors but 


a drunk driver killed my father speeding along the L. I. E., skipping across the median 
like a smooth, flat stone sent spinning across the flat glass of the pond at the cabin 
up on Brant Lake where he never taught me to fish. 


I like the Meth clinics on the island better. Island girls will spend hours talking 
in their low whisper drones about their daddies and their 18th birthday party 
with their long, flat blonde hair and their sunken eyes and their palm sized tits 
poking braless against their nightshirts. I don't need the escape like they do, 
don't need to explain how 


a drunk driver killed my father, speeding along the L. I. E. Leaving Manhattan 
for the weekend on a Saturday night, after the bars withered down 
to the desperate hustle. My father never would have driven drunk.

I try to understand why a writer chose to write what and how they did.  For instance you have very graphic scenes in here, driving by the scene I want to look and cant bring myself to at the same time.  You have some well done repetition that drives home a very blunt statement.  I dont know what the LIE is and cant help but read the acronym as if its any freeway anywhere.  Some of the POV trips me up.  At one point im a guy who lost his father to a drunk driver, at another I'm the drunk driver, I could be anyone in another.  The final line doesnt do it for me. My father is better than yours as opposed to a great man was taken from us vibes.  But the bitterness is real.  The long lines seem more aesthetic than functional but you make it work.  I look forward to reading more of your work

Hello and thank you for commenting.

The LIE is the Long Island Expressway.  I find it interesting that it spells out lie.  My thought was to write a poem where it was essentially a lie.

While it seems it wasn't clear, the thought was somebody whose father died to a drunk driver which has led to some questionable behaviour on their part.  The end is supposed to reveal that N's father was the drunk driver that killed him.  Kind of irony.

Anyway, thanks for your comments, I will consider issues of clarity during successive rewrites.

Thanks