XII: Bicycle Works Stl Mailer

“Nothing compares to the simple pleasure of a bike ride.” --John F. Kennedy

Imagine if our president today, our nation today, felt this way about bicycles. This simple pleasure JFK felt then is still felt by a select few, the green, the naturalists, the money-savers, the competitive, the thrill seeking, the commuter. But in a nation ruled by immediate gratification, using your own power to propel yourself to a destination is not common place. Cycling, in a sense, is the worlds most widespread underground sport, if simply for the fact that “I hope my pant leg doesn’t get caught in my chain,” is not something most people think about on their way to work.

“When I see an adult on a bicycle, I do not despair for the human race.” --H. G. Wells

The world is in a strange and scary place at this moment. Oil is being used up by the millions of gallons, America is dependant more on oil and war than any other nation in the world--which may be slightly contradictory to our remaining a superpower--and the most popular car of 2007 was the 19 MPG Toyota Camry. Ralph Nader once said that “If, during the Second World War, the United States had retooled its factories for manufacturing bicycles instead of munitions, we’d be one of the healthiest, least oil-dependent, and most environmentally-sound constituents in the Nazi empire today.” While we are not a part of a Nazi Empire, and most believe that this is a good thing, the first part of Ralph’s quote rings true. If as many people rode bikes as arms were produced for WWII, America would hardly have any dependency at all on foreign oil. As a side note, it couldn’t hurt during the whole “obesity epidemic” either.

“Consider a man riding a bicycle. Whoever he is, we can say three things about him. We know he got on the bicycle and started to move. We know that at some point he will stop and get off. Most important of all, we know that if at any point between the beginning and the end of his journey he stops moving and does not get off the bicycle he will fall off it. That is a metaphor for the journey through life of any living thing, and I think of any society of living things.”--William Golding

We can keep the man moving on the bicycle (metaphorically, of course) and we can keep this world alive through the hard times ahead, with your help. Want to stick to your 11MPG SUV? Donate your old bike to Bicycle Works and give someone else a chance to make a difference. Want to ditch the gas guzzler and ride to work or for recreation? Come in and find something you like. But keep in mind, these things will be handy to have when gas prices hit $9.00 a gallon.

XI : Dual-Author Poetry.

"These days are passing easily
and I can feel the weight of things I once knew
falling across my chest
these days are falling lazily
and I can see the places that I once passed
the time on my wrist
catching my eye as i count
the time it takes for me
to breathe again
taking life in contest
fighting through the arguments, between my
eyes, and logic, and blindness
i find myself fumbling
searching for an outlet to arrest you
someway to pull closer to today
and out of tomorrow
anxious and worrying, at times can be
so taxing
the frequent frantics of passing memories
of you standing by the sea
with fish in your hair
sand in the air, a foreign place for
it to be, mingling with passing dreams
closing my eyes, the lids are mine
I project onto my present
resting in things I know, silent consistencies
dormant lies the time, when nothing's
moving, perhaps the ideal, the idea withheld
in its prime
these days are passing hastily
and with it come my thought
the extinction of you and me"

"Pull back the summer set
frequence and wonderment
deep arrest is not your best
and sunsets upset
this space between
unoccupied by anything, anyone
i can feel it more than our distant touch
theories and thought paths
bend through the recent past
familiarity apprehends
I try for something else
a hand that I can handle
I try for boots and leather belts
a wealth that I can wear
and I can hear the sounds
of people moving in their coats
moving across my mind, a scraping thought
or two
the snag of the irresistible
at least to some one the scratches
are irreversible
but are at least tangible
your eyes my everything
at least all of me that I can find
everything to me
nothing to see
perhaps somewhere in between
the space that echoes back
our distractions
the incompatibility of forever existing
the hospitality of never persisting
so passive, so aggressive, aren't we?"

-Justin and Lauren

X

Moments ago, you finished the final page of a novel with no conclusion. The familiar feeling of accomplishment that comes with the task of reading never surfaces, and you feel empty, confused, and inquisitive, but alone in this place you are free to endlessly contemplate the meaning of a work intentionally crafted without. It is well rehearsed to you the saying that art imitates life, but life has a beginning a middle and an end, you wonder, and this book, Junior, possesses none such qualities; at most, you think generously, it had a middle, but what's a middle without its companions? Perhaps you remember incorrectly, and life instead imitates its art. In this case, life appears to be doing a lousy job.

Outside dark windows, a man of undeniable age enjoys his machiatto. You are uncertain of what this particular beverage entails, but he appears content, swigging deeply from a ten-percent-post-consumer-fiber cup, between drags of a cigarette that looks tiny in comparison to his fingers. This kind of person , you hope, could provide you with closure, an end. This man has seen the beginning and the middle, and morbidly, you think, the end. You step out into the snow to join the man.

"Its fucking cold out dude," he says in reply to your arrival.

There will be no conclusions had tonight.

IX

"Kick back, against the wall
watch -- life falling fast
like a ball
rolling across -- planes
and i can -- a --
-- in from a part ---
you left open
for everyone to --
the -- moment
--the sun
and the days are getting longer
close your -- baby
-- them but --
see for once
I've told you once before
that love you
but I'll take it back
with no apology."

The place is apprehensive. In McKirney's words, you are not th kind of person that would be at a place like this at this time off the morning. The burgundy couch you've found refuge in spins and spins, opposite the carpet floor, a feeling that is familiar as of last night, yet no more unsettling.. You flip through the pages off your notebook, journal she called it, and come across a poem, scribbled between the lines just two nights prior; the reading of which is difficult as whole words appear written in languages entirely foreign. Now is not the opportune time for the analysis of such a work, but in your current state it seems as good as any. Fumbling through her words once more, you're snagged by the closer:

"I told you once before / that I love you / I'll take it back / with no apology."

Your company this afternoon is docile. The night's events hang heavy on your eyelids, one of which has been swollen shut for the morning, perhaps longer, you don't remember. Your chair is uncomfortable, your book entirely dull. She's here, and you're quiet.

Are you nervous?