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This Life.

 Somewhere in daydreamery I'm pedaling my furious bike down a
street that isn't as steep as I think it is, pedaling toward
nothing as big or fascinating as I hope it might be, and don't you
dare smile at that, or understand
 . I don't yet fathom it myself, see? And I was there. The grit of
last winter's road sand washes down in April rains, forms
street-corner deltas for a boy to sideswipe at full tilt, then wipe out
spectacularly. What he was pedaling toward turns out to involve a hip
cast, bandages, and lots of morphine. Bad case
     of road rash
, he'll call it in his later, cool phase, but then it was
apocalypse now, bombs reducing daydream-land to smoking rubble. There is
no self-pity like his. Or maybe there is, but he'll never know,
locked as he is in his cowboy bedroom with Get Wells tacked to the cork
board and a mess of comic books splashed across the bedclothes.
He'll remember it all, but vaguely, quite possibly wrongly, those
being the days before sex, before Thoreau, before roach clips, before
Hendrix and The Doors of Perception creaking wide. Long before his glee
that Hot Tuna is really Hot Shit, and that Steely Dan's a dildo. It
was all quite previous and hitherto, yet also shifty as to tense, as
you've seen: akin to dream or daydream in that regard, yet
otherwise brutal and gritty as no dream can be, this ongoing vanishment,
this once-only show, this life. 
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Title Annotation:Baby Boomer Issue
Author:Graham, David (American educator)
Publication:Prairie Schooner
Article Type:Poem
Date:Sep 22, 2009
Previous Article:Which Is to Say.
Next Article:Pirated Music.

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