Foggy air in the half moon half sun sky
Wet concrete exhausted from the tire squeals of nightmare cars
Translucent to the human eye
I pitch my back straight like a tent seeing
No stars skyward, just a blank of dark and light blue awash
Penetrating my eye to my brain to my throat and
Down down down into my stomach
When the wind blows over me my legs start to turn with the wheels
Car honks behind me - I'm in the middle of the road - but I force them
To pass me and they say something, but I'm too tired
To say anything back and nod my head as if I'm a foreigner
We are all God's children until we choose to be otherwise
At the crossroad headlights flash out at me like wild screeching bats
I see their fangs and there's blood dripping from them
Yellow eyes and mouths that stretch five feet long
I've been leaning back, waiting my turn, wondering why they're here
It's 6:15 in the morning and the world is alive and moving
In front of me stands the building of the trees where dirt rests,
Men and women who've fallen from the motherboard camp,
Dogs bark at wild squirrels too afraid to remember what there home
Once was. At last, the cars have dwindled out and a small red car with
A faceless man waves at me through his window.
He says something but I can't hear him from the wind passing over
My ears. Whatever it was, at least I recognize I'm here.
My muscles begin to tight as they turn and turn with the gears
The day is a mirror looking in at itself
Still silence takes over and what once was a rush of many, is now a desert
Void of all life save the vibrant sands that stir from the faintest of winds
The forest to my right hangs there like the invisible moon above me
I can take myself for granted, but the forest, the life, the foliage,
The green, the flowers, the spread, the buffalo, the water, all of that
Can never be forgotten or done away with
There is a noble truth in nature and if we strip it away
We will be stripping apart of ourselves away with it.
I take the hill and my legs are throbbing.
I bend, manually change the gears, and feel my knees bend
Sweat starts in the middle of my back and others roar down the hill
Next to me as if evading a fire. Is there one? I think
The others smile at me, a few wink, and I realize - all is alright.
Atop the hill, I turn around and see the traffic start to build like a great
Flood of metal, meat, minds, and routine dreams.
Exhaust pours forth onto the street while old women with handbags
Cross the street.
They are going to morning mass.
It's a Monday, but still, they pray to pray and pray for something.
I think of an elixir to stop time as I peak over the *** holy hill
Acorns, twigs, branches, and beer cans line my path
If I fall, I think, At least I have an excuse not to show up for work
I dip down and the first thing I feel and hear is the wind
Rushing past me, then the blurred leaves of trees and the street
Just peaking through the broken lines through the branches
The orange street lights are still alight and their ghostly orange color
Runs down like a heavenly tube onto the fog damped street
I make my turn over the painted ground that states: NO BIKING and
Make the hard right turn and then left onto the small street that leads
To the main drag toward my destination.
Joggers whose faces are swollen with thought and fatigue limp by me
A dog takes his owner for a walk through the high, wet grass
Police sirens and trumpets sound in the distance, past the tennis courts
The sky has changed colors and is now a dark grey
It looks like rain but San Francisco in the Inner Richmond always
Looks like rain.
I wait at the light and see there are no cars so pedal forward
As I climb up the hill I pass crusty's too alive to live and deal
With the structure that is this times life
I've no respect for the ones who leave their lives behind and
Carry on. Their garbage and their memories should either be packed out
Or burned by the owner
Everything burns or can be crushed and should be to get the proper
Ending that all things - even memories and love - deserve
Another street, no more lights, and the parking lot holds scattered
Owners. I lock what is mine and run my hand through my sweat
Wetted hair. Someone says something to me over my shoulder, but I
Pretend not to hear them. Too tired for conversation I blink my eyes
And tighten my muscles.
They are worn from the previous day, months, and years.
One cannot think, How did I get here?
One must think, Where am I going next?
