JAN 6, 2016
Start with a breakfast burger:
egg, bacon, mushroom, rasher,
toppling thick toasted buns.
First paying customers
in a dream realized.
because they haven’t ordered beans.
Next up is green apple and
sludgy peanut butter,
annihilated in the grass under shady trees.
Feel fructose hit your veins like speed,
and protein fill spaces the road has carved
into your ribs,
your black hole bellies.
Ride to the beach, a carnival in full swing.
Taste ice cream before your ass leaves the saddle.
There is nothing that matters but ice cream.
Your cone is whipped chocolate deliverance.
My black currant, briefly housed in lightest waffle,
gets evicted, then demolished.
Nap in the sun,
then ready the signature calorie engine
of tortilla-rolled tomato, avo, pesto and cheddar
for the freeway of our throats,
the smooth one-way atreeta
no fad diet,
concern for animal welfare
can possibly close for maintenance –
at least not while we ride.
Bike to a pub
(you always need an evening beer).
I know fries will surf well
on waves of sudsy brew.
Munch stumps of salty gold,
into tiny blobs of red and white.
Sigh with pleasure.
Lick fingers clean.
step inside the nicest restaurant in town.
Another free meal exchanged
for stories and smiles.
Gulp wine and beer, flowing
like water through a canyon.
Crunch paua fried in pistachio crust
lying in opalescent shells,
snuggling spheroids of wasabi and sesame
that alley-oop their fishy flavor.
Then, the main event:
whitefish in creamsauce over greens and risotto
the tenderest steak atop smashed potato, beetroot, au jus.
How can this have happened?
Two-ingredient feeds over
lonely gas canister flames
seem very far away.
Still, (how?), drink lakes of wine,
oceans of rum and coke.
Abandon the truck and loaded bikes,
walk to a donated bed,
Before dropping into darkness, think:
I could probably eat some more.