amphibi.us

I am riding my bike down the biggest hill in my neighborhood. With no hands. They are up in the air touching the specks of moon slicing through the late night fog. My fingers are stringing the spaghetti and meatball mush of a fog and I swear I can smell the marinara sauce soaking in my hair. I’ve mastered the art of controlling the balance of my weight on the bicycle; so I stand up on the pedals, still rocketing downhill. I want to eat the fog. I want to open my mouth, close my eyes, and swallow the misty lumps of invisible meat. I want to smell the slivers of moon as they cook in boiling water. There are no cars on the road. I am the only movement. There is someone making food, too. I smile because it is me. I am the chef of the evening. And I am taste-testing the low-set cloud instead of concentrating on my bike ride. It doesn’t matter, though. I’ll be just fine.  I pull into the driveway and chain my bike to the gutter. Knowing I can enjoy life on my own is all that is important to me. So, I walk inside and start preparing dinner. I’m hungry and I can still taste the atmosphere on my tongue.

© Glen Binger, 2010