reinventing the wheels

throttle forward. panic eliminates the brake. I'm up to my neck in hard yakka. fighting back tears from the policeman. swerving witches hats and my fears.

If zen is the art of motorcycle maintence I'm a long way from being a monk. despite my lust for the prophetics and my arrogant tendencies I struggle to keep my head up and on the horizon.

She wears denim and is a mid life crisis. He is still a terrified teenager at fifty, scratches on his arm.
We catch early morning coffee at McDonalds. I can't stop oggling the signs. As they discuss the details of dinner I am thankful every love affair I've ever had has ended.

The week holds more resolutions than a UN subcomittee. A list of practical things to do lies unattended. I lose myself in magazines about Arizona highways and dreams of postie bikes.