flush.

loud, fresh, and hard.
(you know it.)
that's the type of day it looks to be turning into.
it's cold. bracing, even. and it's wet, too. sopping wet.
and the metal roof is keeping true to it's name-
with drip-droplets of death metal drumming hammering out
some psychotic wake-up call rhythms from top to bottom.
and there's a loud, fresh hard rain falling down to cause all of that.
bike week?
pedal paddle boat week is more like it.
woooord.
ma nature just can't hang out with bikers too tough.
that's all i'm sayin'.
in fact,
it seems as if she may be trying to rinse away all traces
of the two-wheeled tourist turdbangers.
that's cool, i suppose.
whatever happened to bikers?
i mean biker bikers.
where are all the david mann art, 1970's easyrider,
iron cross, grease-stained scooter tramp bikers?
they can't ALL be dead by now, can they?
i suppose if they're out there,
they aren't hanging out with the trailered-in hog-smokers.
after all,
i think it used to have something to do
with passion before fashion, duders.
and that's a hard style, for sure.
unless, of course, you're talking about the 'staches.
because everybody knows the only real main ingredient
is proper chin-whisker grooming.
i still can't figure out when the hulk hogan handlebar moustache
became the de rigueur facial hair option for 40+ year-old fat dudes.
say your prayers and eat your vitamins, brothers.
you'll need 'em both this week.
***********
so, anyway,
it's been about six months.
and today's the day.
six long months...
six long months of making due with only two toilets.
but three is the magic mutha-lickin' number, ninjas.
now guess who's poopin' in the downstairs bathroom?
yeah.
everybody.
and that's good news.
it doesn't take a whole lot to make each day a win-column statistic.
obviously.
but still,
a victory is a victory,
even if it's by forfeit,
even if it's pyrrhic,
even if it's a toilet.
we take what we can get,
and give nothing back.
mine all mine all mine;
never quiet, never soft.....