i did it. 40 days without a beer. 45, actually. i waited until today to drink my six pack of turbodog. bought some kicka*s speakers and woofer for my laptop and i’m rocking tunes, drinking beer, the windows are open, the breeze is cool and clean and it’s a beautiful day. i hope it is for you, too.
T U R B O D O G
f**k is a good word
all those motherf***ers follow bikerMetric on flakebook and so i made them a purty poster about their bash for losers and wannabe cop killers.
be there for the funness and glorious body smells.
one dead cop at a time | fast biker
“swear to me you’ll never wear a lawman’s badge.”
– from the place of dead roads by william s. burroughs
+ + +
his name wasn’t jesus, it was jack. his mother loved him but was afraid of him. she never understood.
i’ve walked into this empty bar. it’s dark but i keep on my sunglasses, light a cigarette and begin to weep. i can levitate. i i i i can walk on water. i’ve turned it into malt liquor and wonderbread to stone. i’ve got an old guitar it’s red and a book by einstein, that frightened *******, quit when it started gettin’ good. i do card tricks.
jesus was born to a virgin mother, said she was known by the spirit of ***, jehova, yahweh, the unpronounceable name and forbidden answer. jack knows. mary and joseph were essene jews, strict sect with three marriage ceremonies: first, nine months of celibacy; second, to conceive a child; third, to commemorate the ripened promise. lie. they weren’t traveling to save the life of the child, they were hiding from their elders. punishment awaits those who violate the law. jesus, born to a mother gave in to **** before the second ritual. sacrament lost. joseph had a ***** and mama knows what ails him.
jack experiments with perception, belief, safety. he’s an unknown accidental master of quantum mechanical mystery. somewhere between here and there he acquired a gift. at 21 he rode his motorcycle into a red light, a car turning left in the intersection. many fractures, arm and skull. severed his carotid artery. straight from heart to mind. the symbolism makes him smirk when people assume some violent altercation caused the long, deep scar on his neck. he died. rose and saw. people crying, holding his head, holding theirs. no fear of it. all is as it should be. higher. roar to soft whisper speaking, “come. but not now.”
i keep dream journals. often lost in a large building, a house, a hotel, empty factory searching for her. a girlfriend, she’s hiding from me. i remember the first time i flew.
in the street he was awakened by paramedics telling him to stay awake now. asking their questions, cutting his clothes. the stretcher is raised and as he enters the ambulance he sees her, peering into him was it the face of the whisper? the face of his sister. dead since he was 15. it’s two months before he can speak again.
i don’t have any friends. don’t like most people, myopic fools. i prayed for death today.
“hey don’t you do card tricks?” a sloppy 20-something with red cap and torn shorts asks. he’d just come in with a friend, identically dressed.
“yeah. my ex-girlfriend says you’re bad, dude.”
“i’m a magician.”
they stare uneasily. jack knows better, smiles and pulls out a deck of cards from inside his leather jacket. he takes off his glasses. they both turn away as jack realizes, quickly wipes his eyes. they sit down at the bar next to him as jack lays the deck upside-down on the bar.
“pick a card and show it to your friend.”
“don’t you wanna shuffle the deck dude?” asks the second. the first is nodding assent.
“of course,” putting on congeniality, “why don’t you.” he slides the deck between them. they’re shrugging and taking turns to make the deck “chaotic man,” as jack lights another cigarette, the first one having burnt out in the ashtray.
“okay, man.” the deck is beneath him.
jack nods, “go ahead.”
the first one painstakingly picks a card from the center of the deck, covering it with his hand, he shows it to his friend who grins the secret. three of clubs. they turn.
jack takes a drag and blows the smoke out his nostrils, “put it back and re-shuffle.” with great care the first guy does so and hands the cards back to jack. he sets them back on the bar again. he stares at them, then at the deck. the bartender, a pretty japanese girl, is watching from the far side of the bar. jack takes another drag.
“the top card is your card.”
they both reach for it but the first elbows his friend and glares. he picks up the card and stares, shocked. he turns it to his friend who takes off his hat to run his fingers through his receding brown hair.
“you’re not as good as people say, dude.” he puts his hat back on as the bartender walks over.
the first hands jack the card, “sorry.” the card was king of hearts.
“okay,” jack says, “the next one for sure.” nervously he finishes his stale beer, hits off his smoke and stabs it out in the ashtray.
“jeez, dude.” the second guy orders a beer from the bartender. she shakes her head with disapproval. “can i see your id?”
he knows the ritual, fishes in his pocket for his wallet as the first one stares at queen of diamonds upside on the deck in front of him, wishing for a lost minor miracle. without looking, his pal gets out his license as he stares at the bartender’s **** behind her tight, white t-shirt. he holds it out to her smugly.
wile e. coyote jaw drop. he can see it in the mirror. number one looks up, then at jack.
“what the f**k! how’d you do that?”
his partner drops it and turns to jack as the barkeep picks it up, still wide-mouthed.
jack smiles joyfully, “three of clubs,” and extends his hand to the one next to him. “what’s your name?”
“good to meet you, peter.” he reaches to the other, now looking at the card in the bartender’s hands and forgetting that he wants to screw her.
“oh, i’m joseph, man.”
they shake. “hello, joseph man.” jack tries not to smirk at that. he gets up and reaches for his sunglasses, “i’m jack aspect.” walking away, “have a good evening, gentlemen.”
“hey dude, what about your cards?”
“keep ’em.” jack mutters as he passes through the door.
he reaches into his jacket where he keeps his cards and pulls out joseph’s id. 1540 balboa, #5. “guess i’ll mail this in the morning,” he says out loud as he returns it to his pocket. “that oughta pucker that f***er’s little sphincter.”
laughing out, he walks east, crossing the foggy street against the light.
as much as i like to rant about hurting bankers, lying politicians, the police state, and all those socio-economic factors that drive me to madness as if i was an angry preacher with a bullhorn on the street corner telling you the end is nigh, today, let us rejoice in simply knowing it’s true, and party. motherf***ers.
buy silver now. lots of it. seriously. it’s going to hit $500 an ounce in the next 18 months.
“all that we are is the result of what we have thought.”
because i don’t care how it’s supposed to be done, or how others do it, and because today is a celebration i’m inviting you to participate in, i’m going to lay out the nine best bikes that have been on bikerMetric in the past year. spring to spring. spring unsprung. it’s organic. january is the name for a measure of time and time is a concept humankind devised to keep from going insane. i am unbound. i am trent reker.
there is no order of importance and i am not going to do this again at the end of the year or whatever or whenever. i won’t do it next april. schedules are for corporations, cubicle lackeys, and angry timeclockers with inner rage growing…. growing… i do as i please and i like to stick it to the corporate man.
i’m mad enough doing as i please.
it’s barely started. can’t wait for some vlad the impaler reenactments. remember, chicks dig five things: scars, guitars, tattoos, motorbikes, and vampires. an element of each of those five is power, and reker the impaler has a nice ring to it.
take heed, bilderberg bankers. your greed will be your destruction. your education informs you that throughout history the downtrodden rise and often brutally exterminate the lords, the kings, and even the well-hidden money changers. we will crash your gates and eviscerate your control with words like bullets that become your toasted flesh over fires started by the hungry and consumed by those you seek to enslave.
okay okay! i’m really trying here! i was working on a fart joke. i swear!
here are the best bikes to appear on bM since whenever. according to me:
robbie’s nsu chopper
shoe’s kz1000 chopper
bill twitchel’s bemmer bobber
speed shop design’s beezerker
greek mofos copper and leather beemer bobber
lucky monkey’s cb550 bobber
lucky monkey’s kz750 monstrosity
darizt design’s cb100 bobber
el solitario’s sr250 machine
old swap meet stuff. nothing special. pieces of s**t nobody cares about. i have no idea what i’m doing here.
there are no accidents. there are no coincidences. what you perceive is a fraction of what is. do you see gamma rays? they are there. does that make you blind? yes. blind to certain things. do you realize there is more relative space between the nucleus and the electrons that swim around an atom inside of you and all you consider solid than the distance between end zone (nucleus) to end zone (electron) of a football field?
you are more empty than full. what you cannot see passes through you. light. radiation. words spoken at creation.
this is some crazy metaphor i’m not going delve farther into…. tonight. come back later for more.
thanks for playing. *** bless us all.
“what country can preserve it’s liberties if their rulers are not warned from time to time that their people preserve the spirit of resistance? let them take arms.”
– thomas jefferson letter to john adams, november 13, 1787
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