Monday, April 26, 2010

The Edge

The Edge

(2017 ed. -- to H.S.T.)


At night on longish sweeps of coastal road,
As fog and dampness coat the graveled path
And ocean winds caress the broken shore
In summer mists that wash the evening clean.

The engine roar ablates an icy steam
As man and bike now drift to catch an edge
The drop-off deep, its concrete railings worn
The centerline now vague and mostly gone
The engine redlines, clutching up a gear,
As silence screams the loss of grip beneath.

On meaty beast of iron polished bright
Soft helmet flapping loose against the wind
Hunched in flex to seat him for the slide
His fears a focused symmetry of time
As hours tick the seconds yet to ride.

With speed, the secret gift that god allows --
It bites in chattered twisting as it pulls,
And hops, and jerks, and burns the ground in touch --
As wheels begin to catch the angered thrust.

It snaps upright and scatters broken rock
And leaves the point of an edged razor cut.

As he rolls his chair through stagnant kitchen heat
The wordy bastard stops and lifts his gun
To turn the engine's key to off he shoots
And picks the spot he slides from road to death.

The edge a place we seek to measure self,
To seize the flame in dance before it’s out
The way to fight the coming of our end
The way we carve our names among the dead.

Mike Brady 2005/2010

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