the moon and silver.

the clutch.  after gloved and buttoned, legs thrown with tightly laced boots.  the leather conforms with a left foot placed perfectly upon the lever.  one up with two up.  off and trapped, the machine breathes as arms came and crept. distinguished and yet so cluttered, the night air turned to past.  the machine pressed on. splitting head winds and wound, thru the darkness and an old and odd past.  pins pinned and therefore signs blown, over and over again. with the future dimly lit and pressed up against the guardrail, some sort of destination appears.  appears further than i thought, but in sight none the less. press on, misleading.  frigid but worth the rip.  shift and straighten the bike up, out of the corner with a little more than necessary, legs press.  big inhale, big exhale and a slight tap. thumbs up? thumbs up. its over as it should have been months back.  just about everything i do.  the lanes narrow, the reflectors are passing faster and by the time we cross, six or seven cars are now behind.  split lanes. nothing behind my shoulders exists at that speed.  the city lights fall behind, the paint is peeled on the towers, the pain has peeled as well.  three hopeless singles as foot traffic, thats it and thats all.  the golden glow. its blackened and madness, its middle night.  up and over, past the clear, down and thru the empty lanes, she breathes, deep again.  grip tightens and wonder explodes. the throttle is of some sort of expression tonight. confusion, clear and conscious confusion.  north of everywhere, the night gets lonely and the impressions of lost seem to unravel. keep going.  leave it all behind. start a new.  forth gear, wound out. off the throttle, pull the clutch, flick the shifter, let the clutch loose and pull the gas, the sounds, echoing off the cold by darkened pavement.  a slight shift, the shiver creeping, lookin for warmth. primal and natured. to nurture.  pulled in and around, "its better when we're warmer".  kept.  the next road, exit, thirty five mph. a sleepy city that drifts, past the prison.  a little rip for those inside, finally, theyre warmer than i.  the temperature creeps back down as the approach of the water comes. ever so near.  this stretch has no lights, unwritten and not now.  some hidden cops parked on the side of the road, tucked under a few branches.  not tonight and no im not slowing down. cant. theres a mission thats happening and nothing could stop it.  on the water, the lanes mesh, one lane over another. two lanes seemingly underground yet one hundred feet up.  the empty and yellow lit roads are begging for more.  another deep breath, arms get tighter and a head is laid upon a back, exhale, still tight. in that order.  wonder escapes me.  the light, the cold.  tucked with feet up deflecting the wind. seemingly known when i needed more.  responsive and evading everything life has thrown. stories, short and wild. wanderlust.  tonights for a friend.  the bridge, two humped and shouldered.  the air as if winter and the middle west.  the smell fresh off the pacific, from the same place we were headed. circles.  the second of three bridges is now the past.  tried to slow down.  to prolong.  the light poles passed like nothing id seen.  to focus on the end of the road knowing nothing would come between.  inland, its warming up but not much. enough to notice. to turn south and nearly round out the rest of the ride. one more crossing, one more bridge and then last second, the last exit, west grand. off and out to where they unload america. tiny boxes upon boats. but passed that, we were off to the point.  id never been.  dusty foot paths.  a rusty fence. ten minutes of talk. conversation and avoidance. i couldnt. the views never been so clear, its never made this much sense, said with a few minor obstructions.  half moon, almost and over arching. cranes and curb hopping. locked in and worth it, a quick escape. never matter, this getting in trouble business. back to the basics. camera dropped and warmed hands above a flame. cursed with hunger and the desire to never stop moving, saddled up and at it again, the machine, never tired, kept us.  with a covered plate, and a toll both evasion, left deciphering code, the lights of cop number three, flashing, werent moving. safe for forward motion. one hundred and five. slow lane. too take twice as long would have been just as good. so a quick stop mid crossing was in order. for a view never seen, laid eyes.  on coming traffic, never mattered, but brief.  one more for the evening with some animals.  the city, the cold, the rocks.  after the island, the city opens her arms and invites us in. feverishly.  hours have passed since we left the same but its not. traffics gone, the homeless at home. asleep at the street. corners covered in piss, zig zagging thru downtown to find familiarity.  exactly how we left.  conclusive and direct.  cold and distressed.  just hunger.  a quick bite and a drink.  more understanding.  clarity and honesty at the same time.  the broadway tunnel at one hundred and ten with a friend. ill leave this earth, as we all will, another day. future and primitive.

1 comment:

WhitelinePsycho said...

Once will not be enough, to pretend otherwise is to deceive myself and reduce your intention . . . so much to consider outside of geography, motorcycles and two-up. Wow, thanks.