A long red light
Kick the kickstand down
Lift up your legs
Form into a lotus pose
Palms out to the sun
Kick up the kickstand
Quick turn left
Quick turn right
Into the lane
Graced by a handpainted sign:
california has a spirit
that makes you want
to sleep with motorcyclists
whose arms are rich browns
the air smells like warm lime
and the palms look like kisses
I could be giving. It's all very cliche,
but california has a spirit and it makes
you want to sleep with motorcyclists
are rich browns
with salt n' pepper hair
they would probably
know how to love you
everything in it’s place
the lawn mown
the grass left greener and fresh to grow again
as the sun rises and falls
the world spins in the hands of a toddler with a top
big eyed hopeful
round cheeks and belly
warm and humane
love is lost love is found
love is lost again
a whirlwind motorcyclist
yes, i will find myself one of those.
he will ask me to latch on to his leather-sleeved toughened arms
soft and hard
gripping rough and black
worn and weathered
take me into your heart and
into the stars
straight for the moon
sweet soft girl
tender hearted studded
rest your weary heart on my shoulder
no safety but my love in this moment
Destruction lies around like broken shards of glass that flatten your tire and direct you to a tree.
The bird with an injured wing awaits its inevitability on a 8 lane highway.
I hear the vigorous shaking of the ball bearings in a spray paint can before it explodes.
The motorcyclist at a red light with feet rested on the ground gets plowed into from behind by a drunk off duty sheriff.
Life is so fragile.
You piece of worthless shit
Hitting and motorcyclist a running away
Today and every hereafter, altered
Not my faltered driving
But your careless careening
Not screening the front of your bumper
That thump heard around my brains
Left to die
Fuck your existence.
Fuck your abandonment.
Fuck and positive luck that may EVER cross YOUR path...
The way you took my path away.
We have nothing close to an ordinary love, my dear.
An motorcyclist and a ballerina appear in mind,
But that’s not even that clear.
Our bond is better than anything I can dream of.
a chemical bond between two atoms,
we are extraordinary.
But you still have that “typical boy” in you.
You bug me like a tick in the ear,
I love the pain you cause me.
But you still have that “manly strength” in you.
Protecting me like a hand lays protected by a boxing glove,
our love is something that is unspoken.
A few feet of rope
Is all I need
A death defying jump
As evil as a motorcyclist
O'er a mountain
I'll purposely fail
I'll miss the mark
And fall into the dark
And as I fall
Into the trench
I'll hang on to the only bit
Of serenity I've ever witness
It seemed like plenty of minutes
Before my grounding
Of the situation
I'm placed in a displaced
Though I'm dismembered
My disfigured image displays
My inner being
I confront my discomfort
And end all thought
The final sight
Will be as is
Take me as I am
As I take away my life
I love it when someone’s thrown into the scene
Like a motorcyclist hitting a woman picking up her children from school
And before she can cock her head back to ask
How was school or
What did you learn today
There’s a helmet crashing through the windshield at 70 mph
Then the swerves and the tire tracks
And the screams and the noise
Everyone get up
Brush yourself off
And ask if everyone’s alright
But the motorcyclist is pronounced dead on the scene
And the mother will have to take counseling
Where she’ll start an affair with her shrink
To escape the boredom of suburban life
And the kids will think it’s cool but won’t realize
The whole affair will inspire one to write
Award winning novels
And drive the other into an early suicide
When someone’s caught off guard like that
I can’t help but to smile at
The helplessness and the look on their face
It’s the eyes
The same kind of look the mother has when her
Husband comes home early only to find her
Riding Dr. So-and-so in the same bed her
Two boys were conceived
Later the dad will say to his boys
It’s not your fault
And one will cry like a little girl
And the other will call his brother a little girl
Though in the middle of the night
He will wear the same face his mother wore
When she cocked her head back and saw
The man wearing the half undone tie she bought two Christmases ago
This man is in fact the keeper of some nuptial vows
She can still recite to this day
Expressive redux when she does a double take
And stares at the wedding ring on the hand
Still clutching the doorknob
We embrace order and schedules
But we need that spontaneity
That everlasting feeling that
We aren’t just cosmic specks against
A grumpy god
Deep down we all have that felling somewhere
That sense of small
The feeling the brother gets as he
Dots his i’s and crosses his t’s
On the suicide letter
But even deeper is the tickle in the back of the skull
Felt right before the rope or belt or Christmas lights or electrical chord
The feeling he is wrong and with it floods the realization
Of meaning in the absence of a reset button
Cashing A Check
I just saw this wonderful line
in a column in a motorcycle
"The mind writes checks that
the body can't cash".
The vision that many from the
old neighborhood have of me is
short and thin with a Pepsi in
one hand and a cigarette
in the other
Others will remember me as
taller and thin, hitting a jumper
from the corner or throwing
a "no-look pass" to a cutter.
Others will picture me at the
end of the bar in the Broadstone
with an open pack of Pall Malls and
a half-finished beer on the bar;
Don Gibson's "I Can't Stop Loving You"
on the jukebox.
"Pat, one more when you get a chance"
Age has taken the jumper
Diabetes has taken the Pepsi
Common Sense has taken the
cigarette and booze.
I am older and wiser and
hopefully more tolerant
I am satisfied with my life
to just be able to once more
fake the man guarding me and
go up with a jumper and
get nothing but net
To be able to, once more,
"cash that check"
”Milestones” by Robert Rasor, American Motorcyclist; March 2006
Copyright 2006 John F. McMullen