My Covid Moment

03222020

A dang stardate.

Geez.

Coronavirus (COVID-19)

Novel. Shovel. Grovel.

Killer of the elderly and those who have been harboring all sorts of conditions for years. Yikes!

Good god, get on the bandwagon! Get a delivery job! Delivering what? Babies?

Manipulate the system before it gobbles you up and your everything becomes all theirs.

Just moved to California it all just locked down.

Shutting downnn,,,…

Bread came back to the shelves but still no soap, no TP. Thank god for the BD.

(BiDet)

I have imaginary conversations with myself, have big mirrors on the walls, less is more interesting than what people think. I stare into my eyes and make up words as I go.

Apocalypse.

Television fear.

Gator lips.

Crocodile tears.

Few more months, it’ll all be back to normal.

Letters To The Devil

Saw you crossing the street, you striding, me riding, us both on the way to work. You knew I was there a couple blocks before our eyes even met, you gave a small smile and wave as I slowly revved by. I will forever be mystified by the borderline of your personality; warm, lovely, sharp and smirky. Amnesiac, soused, abrasive and terrifying. Attempted to drive my eyes into yours to discover any hint of where your head was that day only to realize how a mere glimpse of you makes me faint with adrenaline, eyes smitten and dizzy. Despite everything, the stupid love in my blood almost was, but by the slim grace of god, won’t ever be yours. 

North South East Beast

Phone maps tell me what to do and when to do it. I get it, but forget it and eventually I may learn it but it doesn’t trigger the same type of connection in my brain as if I were actually thinking about each move and LIVING IN THE MOMENT WITH ALL 6 SENSES PERKED. Because without the GPS, I am forced to use a part of my directional mind that isn’t accustomed to such spontaneous grease. Properly flowing and oiled, a half drunk wild machine yet a hyperaware ambitious beast.

Screams of Wings and Gasoline

MOTORCYCLES.

Why I love them:

They terrify the fun that runs rank in my blood. They speak in screams with wings and gasoline. They burn the dark emotions of my everyday, weaving corners, leaning, nudging everything away. They free this head from the routine guillotine, hundred miles an hour alive, unplugged, untethered.

Honda boy, Yamaha boy, always a boy with some sort of toy.

Wine boy, spirit boy oh yes, why say no when you’ll never guess? Why not STUDY this industry’s mess?

How many manly milligrams of gummy gums are worth the labor and lager it takes to forge this voyage gone awry? In my head knowledge becomes vast, impossible to put into words. The beauty and fun of love and life is lost in these trite words.

Gemini Tiger

Year of the Con Cop is upon us and my ever-changing face is one of an even newer, more beautiful stranger.

Began this life with big eyes and this curious mouth and little has changed since then.

I’ve been running away for so long, now.

Wondering where the end is, realizing there might not be one.

Every day lies a moment where everything I’ve ever done has led up to this wonderful, little victory.

Mayor of Motorcycle City

There once was a flat black Yamaha Fz8 that was stolen, got rolled right out on its own two wheels from its apartment spot in the middle of the night. Ignition lock quickly broken, slipped into neutral and quietly squeaking away into the dead of darkness in Union City, oh, so weird but also kinda pretty. I wonder how I just didn’t realize how rare my bike was down here in big ol’ Califuckinfornia. A valuable little piece of motored up, naked bad assery, now likely parted out across the bay. Either that or one day driving in my car, I may roll up beside it at some random red light.

UPDATE : 4 months later, Fz8 recovered by CHP in Emeryville, beat up, ugly, pipe bent and dented like a big chrome peanut. Poor thing was clearly used in sideshows but the motor still hummed and the solid parts were sound. Especially the brakes.

UPDATE : Six more months in and out of the shop in Redwood City, I’m about to register this bucket and burn some rubber. Hear ye, hear ye!

Junkfood Junkism

Oh my god the sugar! The seed, the poison the sweet growing emotion. The taste of these obsessions, a delectable commotion of overflowing serotonin driving my smile into some kind of heaven.

And my health closer to death.

Garbage diet junkie never done until we’re sick.

Fridgerator to the sofa then the floor like pigs.