Taking my hands off the bull’s horns, I let the beast breathe for a minute to cool down. I can feel the steam pumping through the giant’s lungs. The animal shudders. It’s feeding time.

Jumping off the motorcycle, and landing at the foot of a high octane pump, I turn around and open the fuel cap, only to find it’s bone dry. Curses. Feeding the pump plastic, I convince it to share a dram with my mechanical gorilla.

I am like toast. I’ve been burned. Crusty outside, soft middle. You spread your sugar on me, and consume me. When you’re done with me, you look into the fridge and pull out another bag of bread.

The waiter looks at me with the cheese grater in his hand, he starts twisting the handle, making milk confetti shoot out of the bottom of the contraption like old faithful in the summertime. The server asks me to say the word  “when” when I feel like I’ve had enough.

Looking down, I think about how like the cheese, I am a snail grinding into the earth; spending my life away at petty work, only to achieve my end goal of being nothing more than a trail of slime and a worn down shell; my ground beef mess of a body pointing the way in which I was traveling.

What shape would reveal itself, if I were looking at my trail from a higher ground? A circle? A line? Perhaps from above, my path is so thin, that it blurs from existence at further distances.

I look back up expecting to see the waiter. He is gone. My salad is cheesed.

Dancing
Along the wild mountain road,
the smell
of crisp lavender
fills the air

Birds chirp overhead,
guiding me home
Rays of sunshine peek
through a tunnel
of whispering green,
A warm breeze
from the lake wafts over me,
Freedom

Trapped like a dog in a cage, I’ve gotta ****.

My water bowl is half full, and my bladder feels like it’s gonna explode.

I chug down the last of the water to empty the bowl, so I can fill it to the brim with my ****.

I feel relieved, and I’m glad that I won’t be laying in my own ****.

Hours pass, and I begin to thirst, and my bladder feels full again. Going back to the water bowl, I’m ******.

Slinging my leg over the mechanical horse, I crank over the starter and listen to the heart of the beast tick away. I tell myself I’m just taking it out for a tank of gas. No need to push it.

Winding my way down the twisties, I find myself heading in the wrong direction. ***** it. I’ll find my own way there.

Straight stretch coming up, I pull in the clutch, give her a little gas, and drop the lever; lurching the animal back onto its hind leg. Looking under the handlebars at the curve coming up, I land the front wheel back down, and power my way into the next gear.

Bike screaming out of the corner, foot pegs blowing hot sparks behind me, I twist the throttle down, and hug the gas tank with my chest; the raging bull screaming underneath me as we rocket into a locust storm. Chunk by chunk, they blast onto my body and face like war paint shot out of a cannon.

Looking an inch over the speedo and handlebars, my speed cannot be seen. There’s no time to look, and my eyes are crying fire from the raw wind. My ears roar with the sound of a jetliner crashing into the ocean. The tears are dry before they hit my ears.

Now in top gear, full throttle, I move my feet away from the brake, and shifter, back to the tail of the bike; gripping with my legs to hold on, as I rocket into the horizon horizontally.  Finally, I take my left hand off the handlebar, and tuck it between the gas tank and the radiator, so that I fly through the air like a shark.

I open my mouth, and a wind enema shoots its way through my sinuses and out my nose. I smell pure oxygen. My vision closes in, my eyes strain to see the road ahead. My chest is beating faster than the pistons on this death machine. I can see it. The edge. Forever tempting me.

Sometimes, you want a taste of your old habits. In the hot desert, and on the high seas, it pays to drink your own ***.