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September 25, 2021

Riding Into The Butterscotch Sun

riding my motorcycle takes me away

my bike leads me to the black abyss known as the open road

didn’t matter what road - famous route 101 

some anonymous road in colorado; doesn’t matter

anything that curves into the butterscotch sun sweet and tasty

that sensation of being free

buy you’re never truly free of course 

you’re free to kill yourself 

but then you fall into the clutches of death so you’re not truly free

that’s to think about for another time though 

get back to listening to the growl of the engine

the roadside restaurants offering $3.99 breakfast specials 

gas stations I haven’t seen in years—- Sinclair*** with the green brontosaurus 

Conoco, old barns painted with ads for stuckey’s 

faded and relegated to the pages of history 

mom and pop hotels with door chains and wall stains 

campgrounds, farmers fields surrounded by wire fencing

all passing by in the corner of my eye 

stopping under an overpass to get out of the rain

watching it pour and slap the asphalt 

like the asphalt said something out of line

riding again—-cooler now 

like someone left the refrigerator door open 

the clean fresh smell after it rains

road almost empty except for the county sheriff passing me by

giving me the evil eye

like he’d just love to pull me over for something 

getting late, I find a mansion for a few bones a night, a kfc next door

television doesn’t work*** toilet runs all night

turn on the a/c full blast

I read some Lao-tzu on my phone

before long I’m dead to the world