Born of blood
and raised on violence,
the life of a rider
it was all that he knew.

He was an outlaw of course.
The rabid son
of Harley Davidson,
living life faster than the law allowed.

Death had begot him
and he begets ****** in turn.
A temper hot as the sun,
a mind cool as the breeze.

Forearms like timbers.
Crisscrossed with train tracks
in and out of tunnels
drilled through tattooed flesh.

Cigarette smoke mingles
with the fumes of exhaust.
He drinks this aroma,
exhaling gun-smoke.

The law comes for him,
but he shakes them from his jacket like dust.
He is a wisp of vapor
escaping their clutch.


His days are unfocused.
And endless and brutal cycle.
Shots of tequila blur the faces
of the women of the night.

When he looks at his life,
the beginning is unclear.
When he looks at the future,
it is as certain as the tide.

Born of blood
and raised on violence.
To ride into the sunset,
was not in his stars.

His life was to be
no more than a pothole,
A nameless bump in the road.
Barely felt, then forgotten in time.