i have felt
the dusk of life
scrape deeply in
my skin's surface
as death attempted
his harrowing blow
when i fell off my bike
on rugged pavement

blood streaked sideways
on highway eight
like a crayon rubbed hard
on an old tombstone
i felt my eyes
begin to weep
my consciousness sank
into the deep unknown

life did not flash
before my eyes
it filled all my senses
in a mashed potato blur
i rocked old stunts,
and not just on bikes
i also remembered
the stunts of life

my fork launched sick wheelies
over grandma's apple pie
my ears did a stoppie
as uncle joe's stereo played a zz top song
memories gunned sharp corners
through my bleeding head
like bikes in a thrilling race
as i orbited death

i soon came to
on the highway's side
memories still swirled
in the robin's egg sky

but i knew i was alive

the mild might
of sleeping giants
hinted at in the cracks
of the desert dirt

the arizona air
whistles aggresive tunes
as the wind whips up
the rider's shirt

a dust storm blights
the greying horizon
as the rider's eyes
beam a wild glance

he licks his chops
and kicks the kickstand
guns it fervorously
to his heart beat's dance

the rider wipes
his moistened brow
his sweat skirts through
the glimmering air
a multitude of miniature rainbows
sparkle in his labor's dew
stunts of light refraction
rocked in synch with
stunts of dirtbike acceleration

the sun floats by in a
soupy bleached sky
as stunts are cut through
the fresh surface
of the awkening
arizona soil

the motor's many
rumbles crumble
the desert's pebbles
they shake like
pepper on a hot pan
coming off a hard stoppie
the wheel hits the surface
rubber sautees
applause sizzles
the recipe is complete

in deep night we sleep
but in the depths of soil
worms creep
digging thorough tunnels
through compacted earth
they rock the soil
with muted mirth

in deep night we sleep
but in the depths of soil
worms creep
enjoying the thrills
of miniature
dirt based feats

a mild resonance
skates across a cold electric wire
as a motor guns with
pizzicato combustive fire
the power grid
becomes the motor's lyre

autumn falls
a tire draws
a breath
of fresh
dirt
into its ribbed surface
crunching leaves and sticks
process perfect
roll into
roll unto
another day
another trail
autumn prevails

pellets of rain

pop softly against the

stale earth

rejuvinating the soil

into mud

it froths like latte milk

and spreads over the surface

of the arizona desert

a headlight beam

smeared

in the distance

its ray choked

by the wet air

a diminutive candle

meanwhile

the rider's hair is matted

fresh mud finds its way into the helmet

the motor purrs defiantly

and blazes through

the pellets of rain

they pop loudly against

the accelerating dirt bike's frame

zig zag

the motion of a bike

rocking down the wicked

hillside

barely in control

or barely out of it

one way or another

this will end

in mud and blood

hearts palpitate

in anticipation

the rider is thrown

the audience pays

a tithe of one gasp apiece

now

mud meets blood

bones crackle

like gnawed through electric wire

or AM radio

the rider crumples

in the muddy pit

a standard sacrifice

in the house of the

dirtbike holy

Dire Straits

wrote 'Sultan of Swing'

and now it blasts

on a portable radio

just loud enough

to break through

the gunning grunts

of my hesitant acceleration

it blends into an audio mesh

guitar George's chords

gasping against

guttural roars

a new composition

to resonate throughout

the Arizona air

whispering fumes

spell out “L E A K A G E”

the gas tank reflects

a subdued rainbow

which twists around its

strange shaped surface

the mechanic feels around

like a blind expert reading braille

he finds the leakage

plugs it with a special glue

the motor is healed

but still wet with the blood

of its former wound

which it wears like a badge

the sun sets on the motor

casting a pale maroon

it dries in the night heat

sun like a spur
spinning in the air
as the motor purrs
like a cat with warm milk
humidity 80%
but the soil is a crisp contrast
like a fresh brillo pad
waiting for the faucet's squirt
humidity 90%
i hit the gas
and the motor roars
like a lion with warm zebra
humidity 100%
i tear across the beaten path
and like a wet hoodie unzipped rapidly
water spits into the air
shaking mother nature to her senses
in the motor's wake
the rain pours down
...

ragged plants hang crooked over the cracked soil
puddles of oil form a dotted line across the arizona desert
at the head of the line
a bike limps slowly
an injured vessel bleeding
puttering what will probably be among its last revs
wheels churning painfully
their rubber pounding on
death's door

magenta sunset
sinks over the
flaxen desert

staccato stoppie
plants unto the
sturdy ground

radical dirtbike
dancing through the
radiant empty

starry eyes shoot charismatic glances
across the angled course
wowing the audience
on the other side
the rider puts pedal to metal
propulsing himself through the angular scene
gravity defied
the rider glazes across a muddy puddle
turning it to muddy wine
chemistry defied
the crowd cheers in unison
the rider guns it once again
the crowd gasps collectively
christ, the rider, performs his dirt bike miracles

mild exuberance exerts
itself across my face
the sun dashes the clouds apart
and sunlight rains down
on the sparkling mud piles

a dirty day for riding -
the best kind of day

like a skier faced with a pure white slope,
i hit the course assertively
gunning massive mud clods
up into the arizona air

they decorate the ground
in new configurations

scabs

scabs are like little
sewer caps
concealing paths to the dark unknown
where the inner workings of my body systems
chug along

stowing away my blood
from the dirt bike themed world above

scabs

helmet snugly frames
the rider's smug face
it inflates like a helium balloon
rising over the rim of the stadium

too close to the sun, it flies
the smile stretches into a frown
the balloon pops
the stunt flops
the deflated rider
slithers down

through the heat soaked air
to the humiliating ground

as a child
my regular bike
a huffy
pulled tepid wheelies
in the baking arizona atmosphere

as a teenaer
my first dirt bike
a kawasaki
rode intense wheelies
to hooting local cheers

as a man
my fifth dirt bike
a yamaha
rode eloquent wheelies
in the accepting summer air

as a ghost...

wet wind sweeps the mealy ground

tabula rasa, a pewter slate
a blue yamaha bucks onto the scene
like a paintbrush soaked in brown paint

and with an elegant gunning grace
a brand new scene begins to shape
happy accidents abound
i am bob ross to the mealy ground

spears of dirt shoot through the mist
a darkened cloud smolders
like a rumbling fist
pollution spouts like a volcano
from the devil's dirty bike
he beckons with a rotten finger
"ride with me tonight"

and like charlie daniel's before me
i bat not even an eyelash
revving at the engine
i hit the course fast
the devil starts up in the lead
but i am soon upon him
his peppery exhaust fills my eyes with tears
but i am soon beyond him

and as i crash over the finish line
and come to a squelching halt
the devil clenches his rotten fist
and summons up his vault
he throws the door ajar and wide
and reluctantly from inside
he pulls a golden dirt bike
now forever mine to ride

rings around my eyes
rings around the rink
rings of smoke in the air
sleeping not a wink
landing 1 wheelie
for every 10 i miss
if you want to be the best:
you have to practice

"brrnn

BRRNNN"

you understand!

because...

gunning it IS

the universal language

undersood by all

gunderstood by few

"brrn

BRRNNN"

smoky chalice
holding the dreams
of wild youth
in dirt soaked jeans

ride fast, ride far
drink from the chalice
of dirt and tar

a storm stirs deep in my gut
five dollar footlong sailing like a canoe
the sea shakes rapidly
as I rip bumpy stunts
and my gut gurgles valiantly
against the motors grunts

you clomp
with your many parts
failing in rapid succession
fire pours from your pores
and smoke from your engine
you have failed
finally, irrevocably
burned asunder by gunning it too hard
your death is your gas pedal vanity

the wind tustles
the many spokes
loose from kicking up
the rocky soil
droves of echoes
flock overhead
as the stunt is fulfilled
with sanguine grace

Gunning down the motor path
I came across another path
And being an adventurous young man
I wheeled across the dividing gap

The motor hummed, the tail pipe popped
The new path was filled with soil clods
The ground was raw and unkempt
And leaves of grass were lumped in knobs

I rode and fought the tepid ground
The motor whirled as it pushed the ground
I churned for balance with a steady frown
and fell down

down

Big city aspirations

Big heat perspirations

Big stunt perpetrations

in Madison square garden

there is only one present
but a multitude of pasts
a multitude of paths
on which to have gunned your gas

we all took a different one
to arrive at here and now
and so i sit and laugh
as all paths past become one path now