Mother’s Day Motorbike

Today in March of 2017 is the first time I rode a motorcycle since I crashed one real good in April of 2016.

Funny how there is no life or death or bliss or pain that can measure the pleasure found on the back of a motorbike. Funny.

My mother’s birthday 20 days before her death day, two weeks after my brother’s suicide left us all in dark dismay. I’ll never leave you broken that way, never leave you unless you want it that way.

Ten grand and I can make you understand and we’ll ride until there’s nothing left of land.

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Broke But Not Broken

This right leg was broken. Tragically and frighteningly broken. Suddenly stricken and laid up for months.

The churning burn in this belly roiled imprisoned to the sound of moans, retches and grunts.

Bone wrapped metal, screwed tightly down like a wild patient, naked in restraints.

No magic in healing, but a rigid regime to never again be a slave to pain.

Live, Love, Laugh, Crash

A month laid up and a year gone off.

Here’s the lay of the land. The splayed wide openness of what I understand:

Horrendous separation and even more gruesome motorcycle crash. At least they were both quick in their bite despite being long with their resolution. All in a year’s work. In a year’s fight, a year’s struggle flush with pain and adventure.

Two dozen feet from point of impact to where my body came to a stop. On a sidewalk. Across the street. Two bones broken poking up through the skin like a splintered tree. Pup tent on a pant leg, picked it up and it was like a sack of broken parts, my boot twisted around like hands on a clock. Never lost consciousness, never forgot who I was or what just happened. Never not knew that someone just broke the law right before I broke my leg.

It takes a certain mettle to deter the depression that wallows in these hollows, this haunt of a beautiful apartment becomes a narrow prison if not checked. Injury that limits mobility and independence will always take the form of an angry, rabid animal that eventually wants to break through walls with its head and roar furiously to freedom. Sequestered from voices, vices, severed from the flesh of society, best leash that beast, boy.

This couch, no matter how nice the leather, there’s a blanket over it. Protecting what, I’m unsure of. Commanding this sofa into oblivion, resting, hurting, healing, watching great television.

Anyone who tells you that life is short are wrong. Life is long and full of beauty and madness. Unless you’re a child. That died. That joke was from Louie CK, who, hands down, has the most poignant and tragically beautiful television show in all of pop culture.

The dog knows. She goes slow, watching my legs, is calm and obedient in the face of my broken, wary gait. Waits as I finally sit down until she ambles up, begging for pets and play.

There isn’t any amount of gratitude that is enough for me to have for everyone who has and still is contributing to this certain convalesence.

 

Mom In A Camry

These new hills, corners, traffic controls and street dynamics are both intriguing and fearsome. My new neighborhood in Portland’s southwest hills are no laughing matter when it comes to vying for position and knowing exactly when to lean, when to yield, and when to open it up.

I took a short sweeper yesterday on the way to work and still relatively unfamiliar with the terrain, I dipped alongside and passed a woman driving her sleek, tinted Camry. I thought to myself that if I happen to low side because of these wet leaves or morning frost, this lady during her commute may just kill some idiot on his motorcycle.

Lose-lose situation for everyone.

Despite the real life fear of collisions or lay downs, these twisting, forested roads are like hard candy, single-laned Novocaine and bliss wrapped in violent revolutions of pistons and gross, unbroken horsepower. Mysteriously but helplessly fueling the greasy lust of a rider who relentlessly chases some yellow line that leads to an imaginary finish.

Why or wherever that may be.

Love is Love Whether Machine, Mistress or Madness

There’s a spot on the small of a woman’s back where a distinct divot slopes down like a smooth hillside, leaning into flesh like a sleek asphalt spine that hugs a sheer ledge, sweeping long and true against vast and incredible curves.

There’s patterns in the concrete and blacktop dressed in both broken yellow and solid white lines down roads whose rigid yet fluid engineering resembles a perfect French braid that lies down below the neck of a fearless and wondrous creature who is either leaning headlong into danger or hanging on for dear life.

My Bikey Is Broken

Crashed my motorcycle in the rain tonight. While riding to work, managed to get the front tire caught in a rut of an old train track that protruded from the pavement and as I goosed it to pull out of it, the metal rail proved too slick and it threw my bike down like a silly little toy. I’m fine aside from a sore shoulder but the bike was a casualty and now I’m bummed because I had planned on a road trip to visit an old friend that now may have to be rescheduled.

The charm of a 19th century trolley track that the city figured would be quaint and charming to have remain a part of the modern road became something hidden and dangerous. And now my stuff is broken. Wah.