Dance of the Wild Monkeys
She was the kind of woman who cartwheels into your brain at the most inappropiate times.....like when you're staring into the vacuous eyes of a pretty little blonde with barely a synapse fireing or when the food you used to love tastes like clay in your mouth.
And its strange....and sad, and amusing all at the same time. Like a joke that no one gets but you......
And you smile and try to look interested while you savour your tasteless meal and pretend to be caught up in the moment when you're really a million miles away......and you suddenly realize how envious of the living the dead must be.....
It was twenty years earlier and I was kicking back, enjoying the staccato melody echoing off the asphalt from the staggered shorty pipes of the V-Twin engine under me. I had put 1,300 miles behind me in the last 48 hours and the redhead with the bad attitude was fast becoming a memory. 60 more miles to go before seeing Kay again, the cute brunette who had been a friend for so long I could barely remember when she had been my lover. I was in the zone. Crusin at the Panheads optimum speed where rider and machine trancend the laws of physics to meld in bizarre symbiosis. The crystal meth dancing inside my brain adding its own spin to the equation. I was King Kong. I was Leif Erickson sailing back from the New World, I was the Black Knight returning from the Crusades ........and I was going home.
Rolling across the G.W. bridge at 3:30 on a tuesday morning with Jersey at my back, I suddenly realized how much I missed this city. Lit up so brite that you could barely see the decay laying right beneath its opullent facade. The paradox a testement to the city that never sleeps.
