mornings i watch you chase rabbits
in your dreams. feet twitch, mouth chomps.
all day howl.
you greet me, your tail
a-going like a metronome.
how can i not be moved by you?
20090302
.uphill.muscles.
Presumably, you ride a bike.
I hope so.
And if you do, you may have observed a hitherto unnamed phenomena of the natural world, in which no matter which direction you are riding, and with utter disregard to the exhaustive dance of the weather(wo)man on the television, the wind is always directly in your face.
I guess in retrospect, it's nothing incredibly insightful, nothing profound. I will try not to dwell on the subject matter for too long.
Rather, we can maybe skip over any attempt to metaphornicate the situation into symbolic progeny of constant opposition, and invisible forces resisting your best attempts at propelling yourself down the road with your own weak legs.
They never seem strong enough.
"Which muscles do you need to get up hills?"
"The quads," I said, slapping the front of my thighs,
having no idea if that is indeed the name for those Sisyphusian muscles.
No, let's not whine. Too much of that already.
Let's look forward. Upwind even.
Let's think about about a Jesus bike, resurrected from a basement, pushing aside a boulder of dryer lint and cardboard boxes. It skims over water like a stone skipping over the surface like a schoolboy trying not to step on sidewalk cracks.
We'll put a sail on the Jesus bike, like a flapping robe trying desperately to hide our quads.
We'll point our handlebars at the Holy Land,
and sing a shanty as the winds carry us further into our unapologetic depravations.
I hope so.
And if you do, you may have observed a hitherto unnamed phenomena of the natural world, in which no matter which direction you are riding, and with utter disregard to the exhaustive dance of the weather(wo)man on the television, the wind is always directly in your face.
I guess in retrospect, it's nothing incredibly insightful, nothing profound. I will try not to dwell on the subject matter for too long.
Rather, we can maybe skip over any attempt to metaphornicate the situation into symbolic progeny of constant opposition, and invisible forces resisting your best attempts at propelling yourself down the road with your own weak legs.
They never seem strong enough.
"Which muscles do you need to get up hills?"
"The quads," I said, slapping the front of my thighs,
having no idea if that is indeed the name for those Sisyphusian muscles.
No, let's not whine. Too much of that already.
Let's look forward. Upwind even.
Let's think about about a Jesus bike, resurrected from a basement, pushing aside a boulder of dryer lint and cardboard boxes. It skims over water like a stone skipping over the surface like a schoolboy trying not to step on sidewalk cracks.
We'll put a sail on the Jesus bike, like a flapping robe trying desperately to hide our quads.
We'll point our handlebars at the Holy Land,
and sing a shanty as the winds carry us further into our unapologetic depravations.
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