Subaru's Potion Number 9

tracing the contour of the hill side
windows down, music up
around curves I glide

second to third, third to fourth
throw forth, then back
release the clutch

slide the crest

and punch it

hedged bets on razors edge
tires caressing an alchemy ledge

pistons churn
fuel burns
intercooler cools
turbo spools

released from the apex
centrifugal force pulls

rubber grips asphalt
asphalt wears tire
screeching meets ear
at the crescendo of
a sixty five hundred
rev quire

redwood and pine frame the motion
whipping left and right

I unleash, the
highway 9 potion

Cease Demur

Namely through resilience and ongoing vitality towards progression and amelioration of self and relationship to others in the face of chaos, uncertainty and even adversity brought about by nature's everlasting impedance amidst the hurt and grief we're all capable of inflicting on one another.

disco inferno

moments pass, doused in gas
disco-flash-dark, ignited by a spark
night transpires, emotions on fire
trance induced daze, dance floor set ablaze
rhythmic churn, passion will burn
too hot to tame, blue, blue flame.

RPM’s fade into thrash metal backdrop… conserve with Mozart?

Last month, I consumed nearly 250 gallons of petrol products not counting the replacement quarts of carbon heavy lubricant coursing through the veins of my motor. Mostly I racked 'em up by taking the "long way" home in conjunction with a steady stream of weekend jaunts.

With gas prices knocking at the door of $4/gallon, I'd like to feature myself doing my civil duty by throwing my hard earned cash towards the pumps, supporting the economy as one diligent gas guzzling pillar of society. But the reality of it is, I'm only fueling an abhorrent American stereotype and making steady deposits toward a larger issue which has to do with the other 'e' word that typically takes the backseat to "economy". Which of course, all rides shotgun.

And really, who in the hell knows where the cash I throw at the pumps is going anyway?

Now before you go resting your kitten pattern mittens at the contour of your money-maker, whilst shaking your biscuit-block in disappointment toward my direction, I've already begun taking measures to correct my indulgent ways. Save the rebuke for someone who voted for the incumbent administration and demonstrates nil compunction.

So here it is, as an act of correction I've begun listening to Mozart, Beethoven, Dvorak and other maestros of the sinfonia while taking to the streets, roads and highways. I know that sounds, well, a bit pretentious. But I believe it's exactly what I need to achieve the city and highway gas mileage boasted on the window sticker of my vehicle.

I've since revisited a whole other RPM range that I've ignored after crossing the break-in threshold. And not only that, I've noticed an increase in my tolerance levels for idiotic participants competing for common roadspace. Perhaps the aesthetics of symphonic compositions have a way of translating into a heightened level of being attuned to the grand symphony playing between the dashed and double lines, all the while, as we cruise down the highway.

Chipotle (taste of heaven)