we were all out there today,
we were all out there,
and we were all damned well
some of us
as pissed off as can be imagined,
and some of us,
well just in a big goddamn hurry,
and still others,
restless --
tired of being stuck
in the middle of a
downward spiral
at 100 miles per hour,
into the pier of the overpass --
yes, goddammit,
like Buk, only faster
(he had it clocked at 85),
going out in one glorious fucking
bang, bang, bang, clang, clang, clang:
to nothing

the nothing that we deserved
the nothing that we observed,
the hopeless clustering of a big fucking lie
told to us by others
before they died,

and we raced each other out there today,
like nobody's fucking business,
and like usual,
the biggest dog got
the biggest bone,
and the happiest dog on the porch
was the one who got left alone;

and next to us, at a red,
two Harleys, cruisin' red,
a guy on one,
and a girl on the other:
bandanas, fuck the helmets;
all chrome and testosterone,
and the Cruiser clad in black,
leaves them behind,
no slack,
and you smile,
as I gun it,
four seconds in a quarter mile
PT stands for Punk This;

we were out there, baby,
going faster than any sane persons,
because we were crazy, baby,
we were crazy, enough to be
and we bobbed and weaved,
and we did as we damned well
and it felt so fucking good,
flying recklessly
from neighborhood
to no fucking good,
we were golden,
it was our hour,
and we understood
absolutely nothin',
and that was as it should
nothin' from nothin',
and it is always free,
free as the songs that
spring out of me,
as we drive,
feel alive,
take control,
go for a speeding stroll,
fly through the gates,
and flip a bird at the toll
takers, the soul achers,
tellin' the whole road,
to kiss our asses,
taking names,
and withholding passes,
suckin' up all those gasses,
and makin' love to people
who wear glasses;
just losin' control,
losin' control, baby,
losin' control.

August 3, 2009, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

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