Twin beat of tire spokes braid night air
into set of rapids a canoe would fall upon.
Creases of energy propel me deliriously
forward, folds of force comfortable as pillows,
wells of gravity like muscles from beneath.
My legs pound the circle of bicycle pedals
through night soft as sweater, dark, brilliant,
a night when you feel buoyant, lucky

It’s not about the biggest car.
Not about being first.
About indulging the urge to kill
in the name of privilege and wealth.

Valour defines its arena one way:
deny fate, envisage what should be.

Today, I pretend everything is fine.
The lake is calm, weather hot,
the great blue water stretches
to kiss the wide blue sky uninterrupted,
and the lake beckons,
spreads its arms wide, says,
“Swim with me,
“Remember.”

1,000 lives.
Each one never perfect,
undone by the weakness of living.
One life as an aesthetic only to hate more.
One life as an addict only to suffer more.

Jarret is in a Miro
because I say so.
If I had a camera with me
I could prove it.
Look, the lines, squiggles
around him and he looks
a little like a squiggle himself.

skates crystalline, pass
of sunlight to the corner
zigzag impossible bank shot
direct to rods and cones
eruption of white noise
as light crackles about you