by 
Two years ago, I bought a chain
fattest chain I could find at Bimsco Hardware on Stone Avenue.
Tonight I did the same thing I’ve been doing
three nights in a row, and that is
yin within yang: sitting by the woodstove
listening to BBC World News
and chain smoking from my mesquite pipe.
But this time I got something accomplished.
I pulled that chain, smoking, out of the used motor oil
a hellish stink swirling in the cool wind.
I said:
“Harden the fuck up, chain.” and I laughed.
Protect the Landshark [“never get out of the boat”]
Absolutely god-damned right. That’s my BIKE.
but MY bike is going in a box, and then in a trunk.
(There is your wife, and then there is your rose rouge)
That perfect lover, that perfect fit
that fitted with me, and loved me –
I had her for only five weeks. It was sweet.
But this bike – this perfect fit masterpiece…
I get to keep her forever. And I will.
“Harden the fuck up, mate.” [remember: “The mountain is my woman now and she beats me.”]
“Right.” Turn the cup [Your love is in a box].
Opening it will be softening into joy; into a spring ride. [liberation, strength, the way]
And I’ll say:
“GOD DAMN what a sweet bike.”
Yang within yin: gathering wood.
Yin within yang: sitting by the woodstove.
by 
littlejar,
I salute you.
I thought I was crazy.
You have shown me the error of my ways.
This shit makes as much sense as ice cream on cement.
my BIKE is the bike that everyone notices, the flashy bike that has more personality than me, it owns me.
MY bike is the red one you see, fits perfect, never will ever be for sale, and with it I become one with machine. MY bike.
Does that shed any light?
the ice cream on the cement just melted