Bicycle Air

Hanging below on its rack
I’m afraid the bicycle has a lack
Of air in its tire.
Seriously i’m not a liar
Last I rode biding my time
I found it flat as a dime
After swapping a tube for new
Twelve hours later it was soft as dew
With pump in hand a few quick strokes
The tire was as tight as its spokes
I road real quick so the tire would last
Till I got home and then change it fast.
So tired and hot I jump to the elevator
To greet my lovely wife the motivator
Of most things in life not cycling
I work hard and keep practicing.
But I lay here thinking of flat wheels, and hills
When on the table is a large pile of bills
It’s raining out side, a blessing in disguise
Because now I can write about that ride.

This Sunday

The next few weeks will be

More void than the tree

Of leaves, the words undone

Left in the mind for latter

A pardon from you

I bid not adieu at so few

Quips on bikes in haste

That expand me beyond

What time I could waste

And wait to push a pen

Soon again

The Wheel Broke

The wheel broke, it didn’t roll

A numbness in the mind blinded

Stamping feet to no avail

It’s a wheel roll, dam roll

Bearings froze on a warm day

The eyes wide to the need of lubrication

Distressed of industry, foul, vital, dark

Spit proves the point.

To render fat or distill crude

In every sense of the word

The remnants, congealed grease

Petrified, purified, paleo dermis

How many more of us will it take

Till we can die and leave enough

To make grease oil and tar.

And then will there be a bicycle

Needing such gunk.



The feet chase the toes going round

The pedals stuck to the feet following

The toes going round attached to legs

Pumping and the heart thumping

Eye ahead eye aside, crane the neck

Look behind, rest the head down

Shoulders humped to arms pulling

Hands and fingers loosely gripped.

A measured cadence ahead to chase

Its only time, you know will catch

The draft, the invisible break your

Legs search for, your face feels.

A steady rhythm ahead is your goal

A welcome treat from lone pavement

Eyes measure the distance, speed, effort

Till the wisps of broken air tell the heart

Ease up, you’re there, one push two

The smooth britting sound of chain and gears

As the rush of wind diminishes in the ears.

To the sound of the wheel ahead

The road to short for mutual assist so hang

Ready, anticipating the train behind

Giving the pull to help in the head wind,

Someone slower not rushing.

A slow slog, for a good break

Steady legs can be seen before

The brand, the make, the bike.

A partnership on cold days.

Mark Time

Days have past spinning the words out for fun,

Bringing a notion of riding that has created a stronger

Sense of who I am besides a spandex fool waiting to crash.

Riding is not an effort it is what one does, and so to writing.

What storm could stop me, I made it when others were stuck.

And even if the pencil is a nub, the words stick in the head

Waiting to be put out at the chance of a scrap of paper.

A state of insecurity even commuting the same rate always early.

The floating waves of words crest and fly, become the spume and frost

Of all our hearts and rarely seen but we know the feel and pull of desire.

Between the lines is always the story of becoming and going,

So easy to see in others, until I catch my own reflection

Passing store front windows looking for a clock to mark time.


Spoke a friend a long time

Of times now and short days

Wispers faint on moods

No riding seas or trumpets

Spoke from an outer heart casing

Not mantel, a tie to the inside

Spoke on friends, memories of laughter

Some sadness a morphed reality

Again a radiating tie to inside

Yet, moving away circling back

Spoke to family rolling and missing

All the thought word connections circle

Like a wheel inside out, wobbling with

A hub indistinctly spoked to a tinny wheel

The wheel rolls through the world, dragging

A spoked heart piercing soft tendrals into

Forgotten ground still tamped infertil paths.

Spoke in tension at length, spoke in compassion compression

Honest retort, spoke to you spoke back spoke to me.

The uniform space discribing the form becomes

Wheel, becomes a record bouncing each nub

There is neither tension or compression continuous

rolling thumping each spoke infinate virtical variation

Falling forward and the next, orbiting the truth.

If I hide my truth the colapsing spokes flay about

Unspoken forms hurling towards friendly targets

Circling circling, circling forms circle past.

Unrimmed. Gathering the ditris of others.

Yet rolling on perfection hidden from view.

Small pebbles of steel, circle around

Ignorant of its load but sharred.

I am tired, rimmed, tread, spoke

A hub an axle to carry a load

Rolling along.