Tripping
The bike rolls up mountains,
thunders forward on the revving edge
of orgasmic storms.
Trip-taking is boring,
flying nowhere on a Harley,
like urgent sex,
is hard core
also the way a dandelion seeds
on the breath of the wind
is hard to the core.
The bike gets lighter
as the biker funnels through
narrow tunnels of speed -
danger-pleasure -
verge riding.
Leather and oil
mixing it up,
fumes
gulping daylight
down
into the cast-iron engine
of a throbbing moment.
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