Wednesday, January 22, 2014

Adorno Pattern

This is not the scene I'm seeing right now:

And I somewhat wish my bike looked like this at the end of the ride:

It was dangerous out there this AM. The daily heat up and nightly cool down means that we've gotten to the point now where even the trails are coated in a layer of ice. Even though it is textured, it is slick as can be. I ended up almost going down twice this morning.

I've no budget for studs, so I'll stick to just riding slower and choosing my lines carefully.

That said, the riding in the valley is actually pretty prime - for road riding, anyway. The wind has ensured that there is not much in the way of water standing on the route I take. I've read some reports that my local single track isn't faring so well, though. That bums me out, but it might be some prime time to ride the Matanuska river bottom again? I'll need to figure out some place to ride this weekend. Hopefully not on the road.

Two men.
Obviously drunk
on cheap malt shuffle-slide
across the ice glazed
downtown street. They pass

the bottle, brown and
rotten fruit scented, making their way
to the fluorescent and neon
flooded brightness of the
transit center with it's
by the slice pizza joint and the smell
of piss, alcohol, and vomit in the corners
looking for a place to warm up or
a corner to piss in.

On the street the buses come and go,
puking waves of humanity from
morning to night and the hangers around
huddle in the halls for warmth,
exiting to the parking ramp to sneak a smoke or two
or hide in the alley for a toke
of something a bit more powerful
and illicit and away from the eyes of the
rent a cops with their attitudes, uniforms, and
haircuts borrowed from the troopers they
idolize and who they want
to be, but never will.
The shoulder-mount radios
not as impressive
as a side arm, but for minimum wage
they have to be pleased with what they've got.

Two men,
obviously drunk on cheap
malt slide-scuff
across the rutted Anchorage
street and spy a plastic bag of clothes
hidden against the
wall, someone's stash of every
personal possession.
Their clothes
and jackets. The things
they need to keep warm
while living on the street.

Like characters from an
apocalyptic sci-fi film
they tear into the thin
sheen of polyethylene,
strewing the assorted debris of someone else's life
on the snow packed asphalt
of the alley, holding
jeans, shirts, jackets, and underwear
up to their bodies to judge
possible fit, discarding some
while keeping others.

I stood there, across the street
watching, not sure what to do or say.

Anything left on the street
is fair game.

What if this bag
was the only thing left in the world
to its owner?

Does it make me horrible that
I never said a word?
Does it make me terrible for not
shouting to drop it, for not
running over and gathering up the scraps
stuffing them back in the bag
and standing guard until
the owner's return?

Instead I just stood by and watched
two men.

Obviously drunk on cheap
malt selecting scraps of clothes from
an abandoned trash bag
as if shopping in Macy's,
tossing aside the unwanted, taking
a deep drink from the brown bottle
before disappearing down the throat of the alley

with their new wardrobe in tow.  

At least the view from the window is decent. 

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