At the End, You’re Just Going to Feel the Good Breeze of It
Forever is composed of nows. -Emily Dickinson
Like fools, we drag the bikes out of the basement in the last week of summer. Their chains are all Stage 3 rust and the tires are flat and they seem dead and forgotten. Like people get. Out in the sunshine at the top of the steps that lead up out of their dark tomb, I drag them into the yard. The grass is coming back after a dry spell. There is some natural lush to this weedy lawn again, so that’s nice for them, I think to myself.
That’s kind of nice for them, I say to myself. You bikes are having your resurrection on a damn fine day. Good for you. Good for you, you sad pieces of neglected shit.
The whole deal with why a lot of our bikes have been leaning up against a stone wall in the dank basement/ breathing mildew/ pushing silent screams out of their repugnant bad breathy bike mouths like the twisted basement people of the worst kinds of serial killers: the ones that keep you alive in a tiny piss pool of your own horror for a time before that special evening when they dress up in a pair of big old Thrift Store heels and come down there with a plate of squirrel shit that they make you eat before they gouge your neck veins out and push their junk up against your fluttering eyeballs.
I don’t know how I know this. I just do.