Geared Cramps

I have geared cramps on the backshwallah. Nearly there after years of recompense and gnarly going. I heard it through the pipe rigate: purity is the essence of damnation. You can’t have one without the other.

Then I hear the song I hate through Mildred’s toes. The snarl of the bass line transports me to a cloudier tomorrow—full of geomagnetic storms due to massive coronal mass ejections. The aurora borealis has the quality of a sodden gray cloud, which is soon obliterated by the city lights.

As we enter the city my geared cramps dissipate. There’s hope for another day. We made it through this one after all. And after all this, the tang of oily metal on my tongue and in the air.

What I’m Reading:

Every time I got on my bicycle after a long hiatus it was like riding back to myself, the only way there.

— Kate Harris / Lands of Lost Borders: Out of Bounds on the Silk Road