Just got off the phone
with my Uncle Jim
2 years, 11
months, and
14 days in FCI Memphis behind
him. He’s
the one who taught me how to play
drums. Spent
thousands of rounds failing to get me interested in
guns. Took
me seriously as a
teenager, listened
patiently expecting
I might eventually have something to
say.
Sold me
the Kawasaki
KZ 750 that he bought off the floor in
1983 then forgot about
in his garage,
among the bikes
he liked
better
and the bones of
grandpa’s old Volvo sedans.
500
oh-riginal miles on it.
Tennessee via Greyhound,
blue streak back to Austin.
I never
felt like such a badass than when I was on
that bike. Perfect
age, immortal, but
cognizant of crippling
disfigurement ahead
as the elderly motorist
makes a left on my green.
Motherfucker
has prostate
cancer. Getting
his balls
radiated 5 days a
week. He’s
tired. And
his roof leaks.
