Shaken and Stirred

Harley rides at triple digits in the summer rains, rolling hard, splitting lanes. I limp from age and carefully calculated riding missteps. My hand and arm have 21^st Century Titanium parts added to the old-school-calcium-components. Metal detectors cannot see me. I interpolate the weather from internal joint pressure. Patella and meniscus ruined, the most recent knee is me plus a dead guy. Cadaver parts allow my continued awkward perambulation with only a hint of pain - on a good day. My internal dialogue is louder than yours. I suffer from inopportune meetings with the pavement. Inarticulate strangers do not count. My eyes bleed water. Others cannot see me unless it is too late. Shift to 6^th, bottom out the speedo. I pass only as a black blur - no rear-view mirrors. I throb.

Winter storms, cold, wet, no ice. Shaken and stirred. Crank the Hog, freeze my ass off, who gives a shit? Leather clad, I drive hard into the North. I am close to comprehending the deeper meanings in the Book or the dictionary. Lillith, can you hear me now? Hopefully there is an afterlife. Never been in snow. Time stops. Scoot drives itself. My best friend, my brother, Tommy. He is dead right now. Neil Young provides the soundtrack.

I hear Billy Pilgrim. Vonnegut calls me - in my sleep. Click, Click, Boom. Time shifting kicks my ass. I am here and there and not here again. I choke vomit in my sleep. It threatens me with the introduction of the contents of my guts to the void of my lungs. Is this a dress I'm wearing, or a kilt? Rampaging buffalo might fear my next move. I have paddled with the river otters. Happily, they guided me to a drier home among the cypress trees. Taste like chicken. Nighttime. Crouching in the swamp swatting Cottonmouth snakes and gators from my sleeping bag, 12 gauge sawed-off shotgun in my right hand and a .357 revolver in my left. Sunup. Jody is there. We wait for Black Elk to speak. Elucidate the secrets. Castaneda, can you hear me now? Left with his boots on, they say, Hemmingway ate better food than us, fixed in the boonies with fire and whisky. I have starved like an anorexic existentialist.

Mutant Tree Frogs are my friends. They love me or not until they are eaten by bigger animals. I like the night and love the day unless it is the night. Then I reverse. What you got? Am I a Commie Bastard cause I know and like the music from Rage? How about Fat Mike? Stiffy yet? Bed down by eleven - sleep -'til 5 - wake in sweat - sun up.

Stopped the meds, can you see it? Time spreads out before me; a tableau on which I impose my will or time imposes its will upon me. Tell me the difference. I walk with giants and lie with the best of them. I understand the downside of the upside. My pecker gets hard at inappropriate moments. It is the best of times and the worst of times. Holy Shit. Repeat.