The Feral Poet doesn’t care much for Daytona Bike Week, especially the last weekend, when good weather like we’re having makes A1A a thunderous spectacle of overheated faux machismo.  He dropped off this one poem before splitting for the Gulf coast.

Bike Week

Do-rag and safe little
neatly trimmed beard
twenty-thousand dollar cycle
straight pipe decibles
and a practiced, menacing look
to assure the others
in this horde of fakers
that you’re deep down bad;
don’t mess with you Mr. marketing guy,
car dealer, sales rep, cop, fireman, bozo.

Hide the women and children
lock the doors,
insecurity has money now
and loves company;
the epitome of individualism,
the realization of the American Dream,
Angels and Outlaws spinning
in their living graves.

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