A poetic look back at all that makes Graffiti

The hum of a classic car engine might be described as poetry. In 2008, The Modesto Bee published some real poetry spurred by Graffiti. The poem reprints below:

If you unearth the body parts buried beneath G Street,

you will find a hot rod’s canary yellow doors,

the steel wings of a white T-Bird, the tire tread

of a ’55 Chevy still smokin’ like the Sixteen Candles

you let burn on the last night of summer, 1962.

These are not footprints or fossils.

These are the birthmarks of Modesto.

Rest your ear against the hot asphalt of McHenry Avenue

and you will hear Wolfman Jack spinning “At the Hop,” and

“Johnny B. Goode,” and “That’ll Be the Day” when cruising

meant living and death was a finish line no one saw coming.

And if you look closely at the exhaust curling

out of the tailpipes of yesterday’s vintage cars,

you might see George Lucas rising like a genie,

and your first wish will be to rewind –

turn back the clock so you can rock around it again

and erase every name in your Book of Love because you

were the fool who kept falling for great pretenders.

But you knew that every stoplight was a fresh start;

every turn could lead you to your goddess.

People say that “You can’t stay 17 forever.”

And you believe them, but American Graffiti

is spray-painted on the walls of your whole body.

The engine that roars loudest is your own heart

beating, beating. Do not wait for the checkered flag.

Do not look over your shoulder. Look ahead.

The fastest thing in the valley is life.

Don’t let it pass you by.

This story was originally published May 23, 2015 at 3:39 PM with the headline "A poetic look back at all that makes Graffiti."