May 14, 2018Strident screeching, slowly sinking—the cold slap of metal against grinding metal, feet adjusting in their stance, sound of crunching sand below them; blur of steps beneath: one,two, three, twelve…
It used to take me an hour, sometimes two to find a perfect spot…to carve out the carnage, to release the rancid resentments and derailing depression, and sweating and gasping, alone, the sound of red bricks that pit and patted underneath glowing hot-green gummy skateboard wheels—I was a fearless little fucker, stamina-sustaining-serpent extraordinaire.
And now at the fungal age of forty-one, I mount my black steed and tie the skate to the sissy bar and ride there. Ennio Morricone enters with menacing mallets and bending saws, and his music fills sticker-laden helmet on my hot voyage to wherever, with the cycle engine for the backbeat.
To you, whilst whistling whimsically on your cellphones and posting and posing for a world not real, the glowing screen is as it good as it gets.
To me, this is the Old West.
∞
