Whiplash.

It’s the spine of a dog while he sleeps back to back with you.  It’s a strong cup of coffee and a beam of sun ripping across your typewriter.  It’s the first look at the inside of a beer glass during the first long drink.  It’s the spot of green grass holding a ripe plum.  It’s an unforgettable passage by Celine or Lorca or Hamsun.  It’s the blood that drips exactly on time with the music, the grips of your handlebars and the smooth turn of the pedals.  It’s the slightly overweight counter girl at 7 Eleven who looks at you like she wants to take you in the back and fuck.  It’s discovering that your favorite actor or writer or singer has a tattoo and has done time.  It’s a drive down the freeway with the beach set to the right and the sand glossed with heat.  It’s in the eyes of squirrels and deer and cats and pigeons that don’t take off at the sight of your approach.  It’s being behind the computer before noon, the light upon the glass of the room, Kill ‘Em All blasting through the speakers around you while you sip a beer and wonder and don’t wonder.  It’s where it lives, in the creation of us, the road and the heroes, the sunlight and skin, engines and rubber and the landing of flies upon your neck, the bars that reach across the night and hold us together, paused alive.

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About Jeff Stewart

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2 Responses to Whiplash.

  1. Jeremy says:

    Or maybe it isn’t.

  2. Victoria says:

    Love. This.

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