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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Keep NW While I Convertibally Roadsterize

Look up. The phenomena of groups of people simultaneously looking down and thumbing their phones is almost so normal that I’m beginning to feel like a monkey in a zoo of  shackled humans.

I was politely informed that it would be in my best interest if I stopped going to my favorite coffee shop and pizza joint. How dare I walk the street on which I was raised, how dare I permeate and somehow soil the good names of those who are more concerned with me than with the sanctity of their own sacred institution…how dare I.

Keep NW. Keep Nob Hill, Westover, Goose Hollow, Burnside, Everett and Vista, I hereby surrender all land, delis, venues and avenues that have been laid claim to by the most advanced level of melodrama to ever walk this tree-lined neighborhood. Keep the tourists, traffic and transients. Keep the lifestyle, the drinks and the drugs, the nights of emptiness despite the money spent, keep NW, you’ve earned it (I mean, burned it).

Let it be known. I’m kicking rocks, hookerfish.

Can we protect Russell, please?

Can we eek into the playoffs, please?

Cubs? Really? Cool. (Go Mets).

The beauty and violence of suicide will always both weigh on me and lighten my step because those I’ve known who have chosen that path still stroll aimlessly inside my soul. Everyday.

I miss smoking cigarettes.  A lot. Waking up, reaching over and lighting a Marlboro before even opening both eyes, resting the ashtray on my chest and watching it rise up and down with each drag, cursing the hot sting of burning ash that always flaked onto my bare skin.

There was a day where I would spend all my money on intangible things and during the hangover/comedown I’d rue the decisions I had made with my dividends. Then there became a day when I would spend all my money on objects, things, random stuff and I would still not satiate the emptiness in my belly that usually a new pair of shoes would fill. These days I understand the term “sock away” because most my dough now gets stuffed into an actual sock. Not on a bottle or a bag, not on toys or couture. Not on anything…except maybe something for a girl. Maybe.

Have you seen this? Heard of this? It’s tea. It’s amazing. I’m sold. The industry in which I work sometimes shocks me with its ingenuity.

Kissing is the singly most underrated and underappreciated action two people can perform. The smell of hair and skin, breath and auras, laundry and product, all determine the aftertaste of a passionate embrace.

One day I’m going to bomb around in a little two-seat, convertible roadster, my white silk scarf will billow furiously behind me as my lady and I careen through the hills like happy bats out of hell and I will then surely be satisfied with how things in my life have turned out. Only then.

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.

Lovely Rita

Eating sushi behind a big street side picture window and after what must have been my ninth little plate off the cheapo train, I watch a meter maid walk across the window. She’s making her way down the street from where I’ve parked. Where I’ve parked without paying. Where I parked without caring. It was Sunday, for god’s sake. I continued to have a couple more plates because I was sure that she just wrote me a ticket a half block up just out of eye-shot. It made my unagi taste like “ugh-nagi”.

A week later the impossible happened. Twice. In one day. My luck is irrepressible, I almost don’t want to express my amazement in fear of somehow jinxing this sweet roll I call my sweet, blessed life.

Most of the times I park like my motorcycle like a normal, courteous human being, sometimes slick like a ninja in between cars already in spots but leaving plenty of space. However, there are times when I blatantly flout the law and put my motorbike anywhere I can find space, short of popping it up on a sidewalk (I hate those guys!) Usually on the pretext of being just a few minutes while running a quick errand or picking up a sandwich, I’ll slip into a spot and not pay the meter.

I was about to be cited by the fine City of Portland’s Parking Enforcement but I luckily arrived at the right time and by utilizing my uncanny ability to plead my case, was able to avoid paying some exorbitant fine. Did I mention that this happened twice in one day? Two times. Each meter reader seemed annoyed that I managed to interrupt their nabbing me and both reprimanded me like a parochial overseer, and each time I took my licks and promised to feed the meter every time I parked.

Luck has everything to do with timing and emotional reaction. Or maybe that’s just making your own luck. Whatever the case, my luck is like soft serve, every once in a while it’s totally awesome only because I don’t get it every day.

Ride Me

I measured my serotonin levels the other day and it turned out that I was a bit on the low side. Then I checked my dopamine count and it was also slightly pallid so I decided to take the ol’ scooter on the highway and hang out slightly to the right of the 140 mark just to make sure my blood is still percolating.

It is.

Sometimes when I blur down the left lane I think of the motorcycle riders that like to weave in and out of traffic at high-speeds on their crotchety rocketys and that type of riding gives my kind of riding a very bad name. I like to go fast. I like to go slow. I like to go so fast that the fear and loneliness that lies in the universe is left way back over my shoulder but I also need to languish in a ride and soak up the sights, taste the world, smell the air and gaze up into that sky I want so bad to be in.

Ride Me

I measured my serotonin levels the other day and it turned out that I was a bit on the low side. Then I checked my dopamine count and it was also slightly pallid so I decided to take the ol’ scooter on the highway and hang out slightly to the right of the 140 mark just to make sure my blood is still percolating.

It is.

Sometimes when I blur down the left lane I think of the motorcycle riders that like to weave in and out of traffic at high-speeds on their crotchety rocketys and that type of riding gives my kind of riding a very bad name. I like to go fast. I like to go slow. I like to go so fast that the fear and loneliness that lies in the universe is left way back over my shoulder but I also need to languish in a ride and soak up the sights, taste the world, smell the air and gaze up into that sky I want so bad to be in.

ain’t no good or bad or right

meteor shower in the midst of the moon’s summer glare and the deer that leapt the road watched us as we quietly backed up silent motorcycles to get a slower look.

motors off in the black of night with nothing but lunar light is the only way to ride breathlessly.

there is no good or bad or right when this moment outweighs death’s delights, so all decisions are essentially easy.