Alas, The Kid awoke to trouble. He could hear the heavy breathing of Big Wet Black Paw from beyond the saloon doors. A snort of discontent wafted into the dimly lit room and up to his place at the bar.
The men, who had been slouched over their drinks, parted like the Red Sea; their stools turned pale. The Kid was left an island amongst partially consumed glasses. He looked down at his own glass of cranberry juice. Rings rippled on the crimson surface with every step Big Wet Black Paw made.
Suddenly, The Kid was off his seat and bound toward Big Wet Black Paw. With swift strides and six shooters unhulstered, he broke through the swinging doors, broke through the flood of light-Pow Pow Pow.
Lucinda climbed the bumpy logging road like a champ. Out of bug shadows we ascended until we broke through the sun bejeweled crust, through an atmospheric ocean’s golden surface and could go higher no further. Atop our hill, I could see the surrounding Canadian countryside for miles. And how we were enveloped by the rich light, kissed and hugged and welcomed a thousand times.
I made camp here- pitched a tarp, built a fire pit and collected wood. Over the flame, on a tripod built of stone, I warmed a can of chili and water for coffee. I rolled a cigarette, threw some loose tobacco into the fire as tribute to Prometheus and the trees, and made some sketches, enamored. Under the stars and above the lights of a distant a town and around the rumble of trains, I fell asleep.
Ah, yes, happy belated Bloomsday!
[…] O and the sea the sea crimson sometimes like fire and the
glorious sunsets and the figtrees in the Alameda gardens yes and all
the queer little streets and pink and blue and yellow houses and the
rosegardens and the jessamine and geraniums and cactuses and Gibraltar
as a girl where I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose
in my hair like the Andalusian girls […]
— Ulysses, Joyce
Once upon a time, and a rather exciting time at that, a raccoon waddled into a campsite. After a few moments, it found what it was smelling for- a piece of potato, a golden morsel, a vestige of the meal made over the fire the night before. Potato in his happy little grip, he returned to the dense wood from whence he came.
Not far from this happy raccoon, the Kid pulled along the eerie canal, pulled along a black man named James who had a tackle box in his hand and $10 in his pocket and was heading to the casino. In the steel producing city of Buffalo, the Kid circled into an empty parking lot, downshifted to 1st gear and then back up to neutral, killed his engine. The purr came to a silence.
Bubbling- blop, blop- from the front forks of the motorcycle was a steady blop, blop of oil. He dismounted from the black and brown bike to have a better look. A blop blopped like a sick baby blopping down his chin.
Ma, Please do not worry
Thank you ol’ Bloodline, ol’ Friends, Heroes, Muses, oh Captain, my Captain.
My very best
Apropos of my plans to ride cross continent on a 1978 Honda Hawk motorcycle:
The Boy and His Horse
The boy courts the horse one day to play;
Once bound, hooves flake ground and he atop, attached
Hawk fingers gripping mane, legs press’d.
Through gulps of wind the boy whispers, Yes.
Four legs stretch over open plain,
Cracked marble columns at their backs:
Together they clear high above walls
And go as far as the beast and boy are willing.