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
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
Deep breaths of autumn air
Sting my lungs but feel so good
I feel relaxed, at peace
Not a care in the world
Police sirens sound in the distance
Cold wind gusts howl
Leaves fall from the tree
A runner jogs by
The neighbors laugh with their children
A truck honks as it drives by
Flags sway in the breeze
A plane overhead waits to land
The sky is a brilliant blue
Clouds as white as ghosts
The smell of barbecue on the grill
Carved pumpkins everywhere
Birds sing in the distance
Dogs down the street bark
The runner jogs by again
As he smiles and waves hello
A caregiver brings the elderly lunch
Motorcyclists race by
Someone leaves for work
The mailman stops by
The sun shines brightly
There's warmth in the light
A nearby tree bares cherries
A squirrel digs for its treasure
I wish I could take a picture
Of all the beauty around me
But a pictures not big enough
So I have put it in words
The Chief of the Bali Police, Inspector General Teuku Ashikin Husein, has renewed his call for closer scrutiny and control over scantily glad tourists riding motorcycles on Bali's streets. The Chief told his officers, "for now is enough to give them a warning and give them a T-shirt to wear." The top policeman in Bali was quick to suggest his officers be on guard against unwanted side effects of his order. Smiling, he warned: "We'd be wrong if local residents all headed for the streets with half-naked bodies in order to get a free shirt. Let’s not have them happen, it could bankrupt us." - Kompas/4/2009
One can imagine the pandemonium that descended the morning after the free T-shirt proposal went into effect on our demure island paradise, dubbed by Jawarharlal Nehru as ‘the morning of the world’ for its endemic harmony and intrinsic order. A thunderous roar shattered the serenity of sunrise, sending bakso men careening to the curbs and macaques climbing to the tallest branches of trees. A seemingly endless procession of bare-chested locals on motorcycles clogged the major arteries of the busiest bule ghettos – sorry, I mean, ‘areas of tourist interest’.
Tourists, mistaking this for some sort of cultural procession, immediately took out their cameras and camcorders to capture the event.
“What are all those boys doing on motorcycles?” asked a blue haired American tourist, focusing the zoom on her Leica M8 digital camera, boasting more bells and whistles than the Walthamstow greyhound track.
“I think it’s a cremation procession,” answered her English companion, carrying her umbrella to shield her purse strung face from the unforgiving equatorial sun, not unlike Irene Dunn in Anna and the King of Siam.
“Ahh, fuck it,” said a young Australian in Billabong gear, large Bintang in hand, “let’s get bloody hammered. Woooooooooohoooooooooo!”
“Did someone mention boys?” inquired a middle aged man from Zurich, her eyes precisely searching, like Swiss clockwork, for local young boys to bugger.
“Look!” said the ghost of the blue haired American’s husband. He’d been dead for three weeks but nobody in Bali informed him, out of politeness and superstition. “The police are handing every motorcyclist a free T-shirt. Now, that’s an unforgettable image I’ll take to the grave.”
“Free T-shirts!!! Woooooooooohoooooooooo!” the Australian shouted, spilling half his beer on the Swiss-bugger. “Sorry, mate,” he apologized, spilling the remaining half on the English prune carrying the umbrella.
Meanwhile back at police headquarters, the General’s Pembantu Letnan Satu was pacing hysterically. “Jenderal, Sir. The entire budget of our department was been spent on supplying one million T-shirts to our half-naked people! We’re bangkrupt. Flat broke. Rugi!!! What shall we do? We have no more money to pay our staff their salary.”
The General removed his visor cap, a hat that would certainly impress any ten year old boy who had never played a video game, and tugged on the long hair protruding from the left mole on his chin.
“Salary! When has salary been a consideration for a policeman doing his sworn duty?” he sternly admonished the young officer. “Call all patrol cars to send up roadblocks at every major intersection from Jimbaran to Ubud. Tell them to check for helmets, expired registrations, broken taillights and to double the fines if they find durians stinking up any moving vehicle. Our dedicated officers know the drill. Tell them, ‘business as usual’.”
“And if that doesn’t work, Sir?” the officer meekly asked.
Tugging now on a mole hair coming from the opposite side of his chin, the General answered with ascetic calm, “Then, we do the same thing our bank directors do…we rob banks.”
“Yes, Sir!” the Chief Warrant Officer saluted firmly. “Anything else, Sir?”
“Yes. Bring me a dozen free T-shirts for my meeting with the Governor this afternoon.” Then, testily twisting a recalcitrant bristle emanating from a humongous mole on his nose, the General added, “And get me some goddamn tweezers!”
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