If you ever fell in love with the leader of the pack, you would know that the back seat of a motorcycle isn’t all that fun, your butt gets numb and you can’t get off without permission.

The high speed grope has its moments, the tangled hair feels decadent and well fucked, but the basic thing itself of sitting on the back seat, holding onto reality and the distance between you and fast asphalt with thighs and spine and willingness is hard, harder than pavement, harder than rug burn, harder than faith, harder than healing, harder than saying look ma no hands, and know that your blood is running to a frightened place between your legs and you are counting on that spine those arms that head ahead of you to not let the road take you down, roll the skin off your body and bleed bleed bleed into the ocean off a cliff into the oily swamp down to the dry mesa and disappear in the mad March wind – no blood, no oil, no glory – just sand where you used to be and that’s a lotta pressure.

And that’s why I don’t like to drive that bike myself, letting you risk it for me, and when we lean and duck I turn face and shoulder down, back, in and over according to the shifting of your body, the shape of the road, and the speed with which we take it.


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June 2006
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