Are you really this close?

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Are you really this close?

In the dim

You brush my elbow with your breast

and I think of the beach

and sandy elbows

I built a statue of myself at the breakfast table

Mechanically shoveling bites

Checking phone for signs of life

Your sweater wasn’t’ enough

as you mixed eggs and milk

Winter creeped up your stomach

Like a perve neighbor

who catches you unaware but doesn’t blush

with two granite eyes

I stared into that little box

Scrolling for salvation

As your hair brushed my cheek

And I thought of lines

Painted on the soccer pitch

And the smell of vinyl in grass

I noticed 

that you asked

If I noticed

and I said I had

But you didn’t believe me

And I tried to stare into your eyes

Tried to be so aware

Tried to push a memory

Of me noticing

Into your mind, 

but you wouldn’t have it

Instead you ate your eggs and wondered

Are you really this close?

FTW

The battery connectors are fastened with the gripping touch of the tiniest bolt. The choke is stretched wider than the breadth of the Grand Canyon. The ignition is pressed with an anxious thumb. Sooner than expected the sleeping giant yawns a breath of fire, shrugging off a long rest. Hibernation is over. A saddle is fastened as she purrs her song of jubilation. My confederate laughs and tells me he hasn’t “seen that shit-eating grin in a long time,” as I look his way before mounting the beast. I can only assume it’s quality is equal to the ear to ear smile plastered upon his mug. I’m in disbelief that our helmets fit over our gargantuan displays of teeth and gums, yet we are ready to ride. My rhythms take command as if I was crying giddyup on a molecular level. It’s been a long time coming. Lift off. I feel the neighbors’ eyeballs follow my tail lights as we set out to nowhere. I can only wonder why they aren’t already dancing their jigs between the lines of freedom the road provides. Here we are moving forward with no signs of stopping. The motion is met with a feeling of weightlessness. That’s a strange phenomenon with a quarter of a ton beneath your legs propelling you forward as fast as you want to go. It’s here that you realize there is no place for fear or hesitation. There is only joy and roads.

Despite my obnoxious amount of joy my breath is steady and relaxed, as my mind clears kinda like how you imagine the space beyond space on a starless night - void of thought, action, movement and being. A harmonious union is struck between metal, movement, and muscle. The wind crashes against my chest churning my soul. The violent grind produces electricity coursing through my veins and into the machine. Where I end and the bike begins is lost in translation. My slight movements fire with robotic precision; the shifting becoming so succinct, so slight it’s lost with a blink. My resolution for revolution hardens matching the steel I grip. May the road stretch forever, may the gas never run dry.

It’s here that I realize through my shades that the sky is bluer than I’ve ever noticed. I would be unable to gaze upon it’s beauty without the shades, the sky becomes a solar eclipse of freedom in its own right; should I gaze too long I’ll go blind. It’s then my gaze falls upon the road. The cars parked dash by as if trying desperately to get out of my way as I set out on a mission to here, there, everywhere, and nowhere. There is a grace found in that moment that can’t be contained in words, and a merciful moment every second I stay upward. It’s then that I notice not only is the sky more vibrant but the grass competes. As if to be the yin to the yang, the green shines brighter than can be captured in a photograph. In the midst of this I have arrived in a perfect moment carved for a weary traveller. The sun warms my skin to the temperature of my passion burning within. A furnace that cannot be quenched. I wonder in bliss if anyone can understand what I am experiencing in this moment. At once to my approval I remember I am sharing this moment with another. Though I cannot see his face or hear his words I know he is as happy or happier than I. This is better than any steak chewed, any whiskey sipped, any beer savored, any cherry red tobacco stewing at the bottom of a wooden bowl. Victory is loud, fast, and peaceful. It is a chaotic excitement that I find peace in today. Forever two wheels.

Untitled

Here is a series of questions you may ask yourself. I give you permission.

What is play?  Why am I not playing?

How are you?  Why do I care so little?

How much time?  How better to fill it?  How not to fill it with drivel?

Where did that feeling, idea, notion, unction, lubrication, go to?  How do I get it back?

Who is?  Who isn't?

Are you really this close?  Why do I rarely notice?

of sickness and health and middling

i am living in
short bursts
of edge-less entertainments
like a cloud casting her weight
ground-ward
without choice her lots
cast by matter's chances;
both a pure and confusing
calculus

i am sick in
long drawn periods
such as week's end
that found me
couch-ward like
a potato resting
in the cool ground
waiting for the the rain
and a fast and
purposed pull from
iron tines

and as i sick and health
the days asunder;
i am middling with
the least of these.
as a monk
out of cloister,
as a nun without
habit,
to be sans a right nor a left

"The Colossus' Glass" Diner Scene: Part Four

 Benjamin took the bite, leaned back and tried to swallow as fast as he could without chewing. While inwardly he was bracing himself for whatever sting his mouth may have to endure, outwardly he put on a smile as though he were enjoying a bite of warm chocolate cake.

Gulp. “Wow, those are so good.” Benjamin forced a smile.

“Are they now?” Crispin grinned knowingly with his eyebrows raised in anticipation. “Alright then. Jenny, would you be so kind as to fetch Oliver for me. I believe his shift is almost over and I may require his assistance momentarily.”

To Benjamin’s surprise, he felt fine. He felt nothing, actually, no burning in his mouth, only a smoky-sweet flavor. “Why do you need his help?” Benjamin asked.

“I don’t, actually.” Crispin replied, studying Benjamin’s face amusedly. “You do.”

“I do?” Benjamin asked. Jenny hurried off to the kitchen with a sigh. “Why do I nee--?” Benjamin stopped short, noticing that as each syllable poured from his mouth, so did a small puff of smoke. Before he could try to understand this, however, his vision began to blur and go yellow. His hearing, too, became muffled, as though he had water in his ears. He noticed beads of sweat had begun to form on his brow, and then beneath his eyes, and then in his armpits, and his feet. Then, it hit him.

“WATER!!!!”

“Oh dear.” Crispin sighed.

Angus heard Benjamin scramble for his ice water, and felt half of it splash up onto his arm as Benjamin tried to pour it all in one gulp down his throat. “Don’t worry, now.” Crispin spoke calmly over Benjamin’s seething breaths. “You’re in no danger.”

As Benjamin slammed Angus’s and Crispin’s glasses of water, Angus heard two pairs of feet approach the table. The first, which he figured were Jenny’s, were quiet and could hardly be heard over the second, which were spaced out much farther apart, and made a deep THUMP with each fall.

“A delicious breakfast as per usual, Oliver,” Crispin said to whatever large thing had just made its way to the table. “Though I’m afraid young Benjamin here didn’t exactly enjoy his sample.”

Oliver Gasped. “Oh no!” Angus was shocked that he both heard and felt Oliver’s voice, which was perhaps the deepest Angus had ever heard. “Has he—“

“Not yet.” Crispin replied.

“WATER!!!!!!!”

Jenny walked away to help another table, and Angus heard her sigh “Men…”

“Has he what?” Angus asked, his worried voice betraying to Crispin the growing concern for his brother’s well-being. “Is he going to be ok?”

“He’ll stop smoking in a moment—“

“He’s smoking?!”

“—And then he’ll go into shock.”

“SHOCK?!”

“WATER!!!!!!!!!!” Benjamin thrashed around, trying to reach for a glass of water in the booth behind them, but then stopped as he turned back around, dropping the water.

“Oop,” Crispin said. “here we go.”

Angus felt Benjamin slowly slide downward in the booth, pause for a moment, let out a sleepy-sounding groan, and flop onto the floor.

“Ben?” Angus waited for a response.

I break for cars.

These automobile dreams

Have broken my legs in their

Lifeless aluminum and greasy

Glass shinning at me

Shinning me back at me

And I feel so small because

My reflection is redirected

I cannot read about myself in time magazine

I do not see me on the TV

I am two steps away from the fame

I am one step and out of the game

The puddles insult my shoes

As the radio sings the songs

I might have wrote if I’d had

My pen ready, the ink is wet

Against another blank masterpiece

And the man with the camera

Is waiting for the call

Hold Fast

The end had a name
and it is forgotten
The end has an end
and it shall be called now