Wind & turbulence are not your friends. In the end they want to undo you, subdue you, make the ride a push of stream against bottom, holding the bottom down, the sound of push & pull, chains that guard your humanity; you are more to me than any simple machine.
I lean into the door, unlock & roar, lift & spin wheels, feel all the blood gather in phonetics around my heart as they speak to the addict I am, speak to my heart’s desire.
Time works, clocks strike, spokes speak the language of hitting it hard, large adventures where heroes break indentured servitude, & grease is crude oil that boils to burn all that we’ve learned from these fools.
Once upon an unspecified rythmic time I rhymed myself against a tree & see the scar it left for me? We are one, solid roots that shoot to earth & hold the gold of their nutrition. Fruition comes from grinding into dirt all the hurt you’ve felt, & the bicycle replaces belief, the bicycle is your underneath, the bicycle takes you to the other side, slides over the dirt path, hard grass, crashes & still fits between your legs.
In essence it is adolescent innocence that we sense as the whirr & click, stick shift over the deraileur & we gun down the hills made of years when we yearn for our story to be old, told to children on laps before they strap on the helmet & wobble into their freedom. I see them cruise down the streets in packs, attack the pavement & curbs urge their machines to be closer to their flight than all the might just a mind can muster. ‘Trust her’ they are whispering, ‘trust her’ we are gathering, rush into the oncoming traffic & swerve
with the pack & breathe the music of the muse who loses it when the horns blast & it’s a duck & dodge game of truck & car frames & the bicycle replaces belief, the bicycle is your underneath; sneaks across paths & cuts the ruts of old train tracks, cuts back a bird, a line of words, more verb than any thumping noun could replace — space & time are figments, figures of the ways we encourage another day’s ride is still coming.
Another day’s ride is still coming.
Lunging down & through the town the gear cables tell tales as the veins they are course blood back to the heart, art, starting apart the air & your lungs make love & sigh relief, the sighing relief of shifters shifting lovers under the covers of heat & complete exertion.
The bicycle fought for its independence, wholly warred against the tight fisted, rolled out the factories as those with greed also tried to stultify its nobility. One wheel big, frame too tight, light on rim, trim down the fat, eject this & keep that; over time it rhymed itself to perfection as the priests of pedal & frame fought the fame devils of engine who were gaining speed. Cities carved streets from paths & pushed you to the edge of extinction but in a blink them bold pioneers of gears & steel wielded the power of subtle beauty & the bicycle replaced belief, & the bicycle became our underneath, the bicycle took its seat in the halls of simple power & we ride to the unknown with muscles blown to balloons by wind & turbulence that in its aggression becomes the impression of our desire to fly, our desire to ride, our desire to collide with reality of spirit made flesh.