The knife cutter calls in the summer noon
on his bicycle he pedals his wheel
sharpens all that rust too soon
knives past prime too blunt to kill!
Glues his hair the sweat of roam
his cheeks bear long uncut beard
pray he finds a wanting home
that needs to sharpen not just word!
If comes his way a timeworn knife
he sits to roll the clunky wheel
works to feebly sustain life
bowing to the smallest deal!
He is no poet no skilled scribe
an old hand from a vanishing age
belonging to a losing tribe
that still gives knife cutting edge!
Will I see you swerve the curb?
You never were one for small talk,
your language was one of direct actions.
How your gentle hands found solace in the grey matter,
the complications between my legs.
How breakfast in bed resulted in a shuddering breakdown of tears.
I witnessed in horror over the deterioration of your beloved pet cats,
the stark realisation of just how raw your pain was.
Upon any visit to a hospital your own demons revealed,
baring your teeth, terrified and helpless,
like a defenceless animal unwillingly being poked, prodded and yanked around.
yellow basil leaves and obscene art meet the open eyes,
science equations make for bruised paper and
bicycle shadows cream wall,
students make good start.
sitting as a stranger
cook makes cornbread
These vans on my feet are dirty.
Dripped on by the blood of a won basketball game.
Dirt covered from the many mosh pits.
Torn on from my longboard grip.
Rubber grey from long walks.
Bled through tie die from lots of running
Brown stains from standing in the woods
Broken eyelets from a forgotten drunk night.
Missing shoelace caught in a bicycle wheel.
Only to be replaced.
Just like my love.
Like my summer.
Generous coasting of the west coast
leaves me tangled in roots from roads
intersecting with waves surfed by
long blond-haired beach bums and
babes who pant at a muscular man
that pushups on the boardwalk
next to towels drying on the
handlebars of my bicycle.
I ride and ride and ride
through weather thought to be
unrideable by most cyclists
even if million-dollar-prize
tempted them at the finish line
and a set-for-life sponsorship
was promised to any and all
who could fight through the storms
of what I stoically battle.
No gear or goggles,
just legs of toned steel from
nights spent heating them over
a log-lit fireplace on spit
while keeping intense conversation
with lover across my gaze
until she escapes unexpectedly
into dreams, unaccompanied by me.
My legs are on fire,
no rain can extinguish them
and no slick roads
will stop my going.