Angol
Dear Reader - I acknowledge the arrogance in titling this collection The Motorcycle Poems Vol. 1, but I have every intention of writing a Vol. 2 if this goddamn world will allow it. It is also somewhat nonsensical to call these The Motorcycle Poems, considering the general lack of motorcycles herein. It's as good a name as any, I guess. Besides, The Last Night of the Earth Poems was already taken, and Quiet Jeers, Wet Tears, and Bum Steer sounds a little too dreary, even if it's a better fit. Take heart, dear reader, at least it's not total bullsh*t. These poems were written on a motorcycle, which is the best way to chase down the mysterious spark that I'm after. Maybe there's some connection between the rumble and the spark that makes it linger just long enough to catch. Of course, the cruel paradox is that once you catch the spark on a motorcycle, you need either acute dexterity or an elephantine memory to record it, and I have neither. But I did manage to remember these brutish thoughts long enough to write them down at the nearest gas station, rest stop, or road shoulder, and now I leave them with you. God help us all.
"Like a bullet to the heart: compassionate in their swiftness and accuracy, but brutal in their effect"
