Early morning on a deserted highway approaching Taos, a sparrow lost its life when it hit my left shoulder, sending my left hand off the motorcycle's grip and into the air much like the pose of a bronc rider; had it hit my right throttle/brake side I'd have entered Valhalla with clean leathers and a birdie perched on my unsore shoulder.
Another trip riding 'tail gunner' in a group of 7 bikers, we wound through softly banked curves of Highway 60 by the copper mining towns of Globe and Superior enroute to Tombstone (the 'back way') when my right cheek immediate hurt and burned like that of lit cigarets that sometimes strike us in the face. I leaned toward my right rear-view and saw a bee's ass pumping into my cheek, just below the zygoid, his rhythm as if to say, "oh YEAH baby," and I ended his life with a smack...and was the only one not laughing when we stopped for lunch as I got hit with stares at the red, golf ball-sized knot on my face appearing like I'd taken a surprise punch.
Enroute to an annual biker's event, three of us were in pace with the 80-mph flow of a crowded I-10 West when what looked like a beer can came flying up from the left side of the biker to my front and left, striking the toe of my boot, careening up and over the quickly-ducked head of the biker behind me, striking a pickup's hood ornament and flying to a harmless crash landing in the grassy median. The lead biker pissed and moaned he'd lost a 4-lb footpeg he'd had since '73 and mounted on subsequent scooters refusing acknowledgement that he'd nearly broken my leg, killed the biker behind me and could have done the same to the pickup's occupants save for lucky ducking and deflection.
Lotsa UFOs hit us bikers--cups, bugs, bolts, stones, beer cans, small carcasses, big loogies, cigaret butts--and we know it's an assumed risk, but when a marble-sized stone flew through the open driver's side window of my car on the freeway and struck my flabby left cheek the other day, I regarded it as a sign and still seek its meaning.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Friday, February 26, 2010
Awaiting the Reprise
The tender touch of your hand raced my heart in the Spring of life, when youth was on us both and I returned from war.
Summers' passions melded sealing friendship with the love as we grew from scratch through fickle changing winds and howling storms of raising children to be remolded on occasion, stronger yet spirited.
Fall found us 'lone again, Nature changing us and leaves with colors floating onto earth we trod together then, but now a little slower stepped hastened only when our children's children danced upon our feet-tops.
Our love that's lasted to life's Winter baring trees and drifing snows has still not brought a single chill or stranded us in search of want throughout a home we built on love's foundation, with walls of understanding and forgiveness, patient teaching and order, joists of gratitude and thanksgiving, shingled and shielded with prayer.
Piles of calendars spent cannot stack up to your presence in this one day with me, our moments in the now, gifts of love's unshrouded simplicity that may not see another sunset.
The resting place we've picked among the stand of vibrant poplars can only, one day coming soon, hold just a bookmark in a history to be left behind as we go just one last level up to a Heaven already sampled these shared 62 years, to another life with you bettering mine past limitless imaginations.
Summers' passions melded sealing friendship with the love as we grew from scratch through fickle changing winds and howling storms of raising children to be remolded on occasion, stronger yet spirited.
Fall found us 'lone again, Nature changing us and leaves with colors floating onto earth we trod together then, but now a little slower stepped hastened only when our children's children danced upon our feet-tops.
Our love that's lasted to life's Winter baring trees and drifing snows has still not brought a single chill or stranded us in search of want throughout a home we built on love's foundation, with walls of understanding and forgiveness, patient teaching and order, joists of gratitude and thanksgiving, shingled and shielded with prayer.
Piles of calendars spent cannot stack up to your presence in this one day with me, our moments in the now, gifts of love's unshrouded simplicity that may not see another sunset.
The resting place we've picked among the stand of vibrant poplars can only, one day coming soon, hold just a bookmark in a history to be left behind as we go just one last level up to a Heaven already sampled these shared 62 years, to another life with you bettering mine past limitless imaginations.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Salty Tears of a Silent Mourning
A whale lost its friend and trainer, a trainer lost her life, heartbreaking and terrible to lookers-on, grieving coworkers and family.
The public outcry seems to be categorized to jeers of 'served her right,' and 'free captive animals,' and 'cruelty to animals.'
PETA gets the stage, despite their middle names of "Ethical Treatment" when: average-Joe out-criers probably don't have icthyologists on retainer to look-in on their home aquariums or zoologists checking their gerbils or herpetologists giving in-home iguana physicals; when 47 cats are discovered in a feces-covered house from a do-gooder saving felines from euthanasia for lack of adopting families; where lifelong consequences reverberate from parents whose priorities put pet care above that of child rearing and discipline in healthy, structured environs; complainers driving polluting hunks-o'-junk held together with bumper stickers often decrying PETA sentiments.
It's the same PETA who demonstrates and pickets rodeos, ignorant of the fact that rodeo animals (like SeaWorld's aquatic stars) are higher valued than their equals, with special diets and dedicated medical staffs and labs to ensure their best health, both physical and psychological.
I hope I'm not a PETA target for my mixed-breed Chihuahua because she knows about four 'tricks' and responds to a dozen or so commands to include 'singing' along when I burst into a certain song or howl at passing sirens to encourage her harmonies.
A whale lost it's friend and trainer and a trainer lost her life...a mammal that may well have been slaughtered long ago by countries who hunt them...a whale who couldn't give a shit about PETA during this majestic creature's own time and expression of mourning...a kind soul, perished and gone, who would probably have forgiven without need of understanding.
The public outcry seems to be categorized to jeers of 'served her right,' and 'free captive animals,' and 'cruelty to animals.'
PETA gets the stage, despite their middle names of "Ethical Treatment" when: average-Joe out-criers probably don't have icthyologists on retainer to look-in on their home aquariums or zoologists checking their gerbils or herpetologists giving in-home iguana physicals; when 47 cats are discovered in a feces-covered house from a do-gooder saving felines from euthanasia for lack of adopting families; where lifelong consequences reverberate from parents whose priorities put pet care above that of child rearing and discipline in healthy, structured environs; complainers driving polluting hunks-o'-junk held together with bumper stickers often decrying PETA sentiments.
It's the same PETA who demonstrates and pickets rodeos, ignorant of the fact that rodeo animals (like SeaWorld's aquatic stars) are higher valued than their equals, with special diets and dedicated medical staffs and labs to ensure their best health, both physical and psychological.
I hope I'm not a PETA target for my mixed-breed Chihuahua because she knows about four 'tricks' and responds to a dozen or so commands to include 'singing' along when I burst into a certain song or howl at passing sirens to encourage her harmonies.
A whale lost it's friend and trainer and a trainer lost her life...a mammal that may well have been slaughtered long ago by countries who hunt them...a whale who couldn't give a shit about PETA during this majestic creature's own time and expression of mourning...a kind soul, perished and gone, who would probably have forgiven without need of understanding.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Morning Rash Hour
I put my Goldwing's front wheel just off the track of the bike in front, a brand new, red BMW-1100 motorcycle as we both spotted the 405 freeway's brake lights and dove for the Sepulveda off-ramp because, even with its single-laned roadway and many stop signs, I'd arrive at my West LA office ahead of the freeway's morning worm sprint.
Now on Sepulveda and two bike-lengths behind the BMW, I could see it was so new that it still bore California's temporary, paper license tag from a dealer.
Out of nowhere, a Mercedes roadster with the top down roared-by crossing the double yellows to lead, driven by what could have been a starlet or Miss America, beauty that neither of us bikers missed peering into her rear-view mirrors from behind. 'Beamer-guy' was so taken that, for 4 or 5 miles, he'd pull alongside death-defying double-yellowed head-on death to flirt with her causing the heart-throbber's 'hottie' to brake or accelerate away.
Montana Street's stop sign fast approached where the road split into two lanes (one, a right-turner under the freeway) and--all of a sudden--'Beamer guy' slowed to a stop beside her flipping up his helmet visor to flirt until his bike toppled over from forgetting to put his feet down onto the ground from the bike's pegs.
The bike formerly known as brand-spankin' new BMW was badly dented and scratched as he climbed out from under to kick its saddle repeatedly, only to watch his dream girl (and I) speeding off, laughing at the guy who had fallen so completely, so fast and so hard for her.
Now on Sepulveda and two bike-lengths behind the BMW, I could see it was so new that it still bore California's temporary, paper license tag from a dealer.
Out of nowhere, a Mercedes roadster with the top down roared-by crossing the double yellows to lead, driven by what could have been a starlet or Miss America, beauty that neither of us bikers missed peering into her rear-view mirrors from behind. 'Beamer-guy' was so taken that, for 4 or 5 miles, he'd pull alongside death-defying double-yellowed head-on death to flirt with her causing the heart-throbber's 'hottie' to brake or accelerate away.
Montana Street's stop sign fast approached where the road split into two lanes (one, a right-turner under the freeway) and--all of a sudden--'Beamer guy' slowed to a stop beside her flipping up his helmet visor to flirt until his bike toppled over from forgetting to put his feet down onto the ground from the bike's pegs.
The bike formerly known as brand-spankin' new BMW was badly dented and scratched as he climbed out from under to kick its saddle repeatedly, only to watch his dream girl (and I) speeding off, laughing at the guy who had fallen so completely, so fast and so hard for her.
The Goosed Gander
Lovemaking in their bed ended by mutual abdication months ago but they lay on their sides, sheet pulled over lithe, bare midsections, his arms enveloping her in nude spooning, his lips close to Annelle's ear in the hi-rise condo’s master suite with hanging silence awaiting puncture.
She heard him sigh and inhale, as if ready to speak.
“Don’t,” she whispered, “I know…about the two of you…know everything,” and an awkward arm reached backward for the nightstand's lamp.
As careful as his timing and excuses and showers and visits to the Penthouse had been, Annelle had that clairvoyance a woman gets when her spouse has been unfaithful, but, how could she have…
“The very first time Tanya invited me up for coffee, she seduced me...got crazy wild and we’ve been lovers ever since, even laughing in bed at the videotapes I shot of you two from the closet when you thought you were oh-so-sly,” and her gutteral laugh surfaced.
Kyle unwrapped from his clinch, rolled away stunned as Annelle rolled over propping an elbow on his pillow to go eye to eye, wearing a wry smile as she delivered the quietus: “Tanya sold the Penthouse and we leave Tuesday for her new job in L.A.--Nite-nite,” and a lamp tumbled loudly onto the floor.
She heard him sigh and inhale, as if ready to speak.
“Don’t,” she whispered, “I know…about the two of you…know everything,” and an awkward arm reached backward for the nightstand's lamp.
As careful as his timing and excuses and showers and visits to the Penthouse had been, Annelle had that clairvoyance a woman gets when her spouse has been unfaithful, but, how could she have…
“The very first time Tanya invited me up for coffee, she seduced me...got crazy wild and we’ve been lovers ever since, even laughing in bed at the videotapes I shot of you two from the closet when you thought you were oh-so-sly,” and her gutteral laugh surfaced.
Kyle unwrapped from his clinch, rolled away stunned as Annelle rolled over propping an elbow on his pillow to go eye to eye, wearing a wry smile as she delivered the quietus: “Tanya sold the Penthouse and we leave Tuesday for her new job in L.A.--Nite-nite,” and a lamp tumbled loudly onto the floor.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Perfect Retirement: Old Soldier for Hire
I'll kill Somali-coast pirates for you or die trying.
You provide the turret and sighted, twin-50 caliber machine guns, a mechanic for their maintenance, and enough ammo for practice and sustained firefights.
All I need is a private bunk, 3 squares, good coffee, and just enough stipend monies for port calls to buy a bottle, rent a woman, and load-up on smokes and replacement clothing; satellite internet would have me scream, "BO-NUS!"
Should I perish in the process, heroically or from old age or the effects of said bottle and cigarets, you may wrap me in Old Glory, and commit me to the deep six with the playing of 3 songs via .mp3: Samuel Barber's Adagio for Strings (Leonard Bernstein), The Navy Hymn (USNA Choir) and any respectful rendition of the USA's national anthem.
My references succumbed to the accuracy of my handiwork, but you'll find my military record and commendations deptict a soldier whose actions "reflected highest credit upon his unit, the United States Army, and the United States of America."
Should my demise occur before the U.S. fiscal bankruptcy follows moral bankruptcy into the crapper, somebody else can have my Social Security while you, your crew and cargo enjoy the sense of security I provided for a mere pittance and my opportunity to feel worthy as I went out with a bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang
The Soft-Shoe Veteran's Parade
Eight or nine or it coulda been 12 men shuffled along the polished tiles of 7-West's lock-up ward in terry-topped slippers buffing those tiles as they slid along, my brother's own funky pair among them. The amount of daily Thorazine injected into a single one of the men could bring down a Kodiak bear, yet, kept them manageably in-check like chessmen.
Hollow stares sunk in ashen pallors of washed out skin from the lack of outdoor exposure added nothing to group's matched uniforms of faded-lime pajamas with wispy thin seersucker-striped robes barely moving in the slow parade to nowhere, a procession that would last more than 30 months up and down and up and down the VA hospital's generically-sterile corridors.
I was thirteen when he shipped-out to Viet Nam, remember him with 2nd Lieutenant's bars on his epaulets drawing salutes from the enlisted cadre of trainers following his commissioning ceremony, those bars the prize of any committed ROTC (Reserve Officers Training Corps) student.
The brother I hugged too long and so hard when saying goodbye wasn't the wounded one the military returned 43 years ago, for war would forever change him and find me struggling to get to know a guy I still loved without limit.
Through it all, he was my hero and knows he still is despite invisible scars of invisible wounds that still paralyze by day and haunt by night through a pharmaceutical haze.
Hollow stares sunk in ashen pallors of washed out skin from the lack of outdoor exposure added nothing to group's matched uniforms of faded-lime pajamas with wispy thin seersucker-striped robes barely moving in the slow parade to nowhere, a procession that would last more than 30 months up and down and up and down the VA hospital's generically-sterile corridors.
I was thirteen when he shipped-out to Viet Nam, remember him with 2nd Lieutenant's bars on his epaulets drawing salutes from the enlisted cadre of trainers following his commissioning ceremony, those bars the prize of any committed ROTC (Reserve Officers Training Corps) student.
The brother I hugged too long and so hard when saying goodbye wasn't the wounded one the military returned 43 years ago, for war would forever change him and find me struggling to get to know a guy I still loved without limit.
Through it all, he was my hero and knows he still is despite invisible scars of invisible wounds that still paralyze by day and haunt by night through a pharmaceutical haze.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
