THE PERFECT FOLDING BICYCLE

July [26] 2008

   (Poem)                        

While discussing with Peter

the missing of a certain Reydeen Brooks,

my euphoria assembled

into a shiny, spiraling image

of a folding,

highly portable,

(and convertibly suitcased) 

bicycle,

no doubt the final freedom for my wayward fantasies–

wheels to go anywhere,

so little fuss,

the possibilities were staggering.

 

Whereupon a point of comparison occurred to me,

specifically, that we have the engineering capacity

to send pig-fed astronauts from Norman Oklahoma

on star voyages beyond the rings of Saturn,

but we can’t build the folding bike.

Peter asked if this related to the missing

of Miss Brooks?  

And then I saw it–

young Reydeen herself,

her firm, sleek wheels a delight to carry,

so well-hinged for convenience and gyration

and, all in all, some sort of wild,

sprocketed adventure!

 

Peter commented, bodhisat that he is:

“Quite possibly sending stinking astronauts

from Norman Oklahoma may very well be

an easier feat than the folding bicycle,”

and THIS from my very own friend–

it was coming perfectly clear now:

How truly grand was

Love…

but then again, 

how supremely lame is Man?

With the perfect folding bicycle

our lives could be forever changed, 

imagine this my friends–

The Quintessential Free Ride!

 

Somehow in all this pedaling,

the image of Ms. Brooks herself,

in,  of all places, a hot steamy shower, 

took hold of my fleeting mentations.

 The detailed beads of running water

cascading off her muscle-toned flesh,

I strongly suspected in some meaningful way

related to the folding portable bike, but

when I looked up and noticed

that my wise friend

Peter,

(God bless him),

had fallen asleep,

I was quick to concede that

as with all large and insurmountable ideas,

the mind fastly tires

in close proximity to grandeur.

 

But then I hesitated briefly–

(and this is somewhat embarrassing to admit)–

with the ridiculous afterthought

that perhaps this mirage,

this folding bike  thing,

was simply my own hallucination,

and quite inconceivable to others–

maybe even

a spoonful goofy?

 

But fortunately, this did not last.

The perfect folding bicycle is everyman’s desire,

and I, for one,

will never settle for the rings of Saturn.    

                                                              1987

          

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