not my hog

yeah, it's hard to stay buoyant in these times. but i'm trying. like founding my street skating club for oldsters, like me. anna came up with the name for the club, SKEEZERS, an amalgam of skaters and geezers. i've not been on a board for years and i'm a lazy fuck by nature. i don't have a skateboard but i've noticed that there are a couple of older dudes i see skating thru midtown on these long boards with big, fat wheels. that's the kind for me. something easier that rolls over cracks and rocks and shit people throw out in the streets and is more forgiving on the knees.

i think it's high time that poets embrace skating culture anyway. okay, i know some have done just that, but i'd like to see skating get the same kind of cred that biker culture does. it's not unusual to see poems and poets whole-heartily embrace them hogs and the uniforms that go with riding those cycles [correct pronunciation should be, according to harvey lembeck of the 1960s beach movies fame, sickles]. why not the same for skating, dudes and dudettes. and if we happen to become a swarm on the streets imagine the oohs and ahs and gasps of the younger set. talk about blowing minds. then write about it, fer crissakes. poems, blog posts, pics and visual art and vispo. talk about more minds blown. think the next time you read you skate to the venue, set your stick on the podium and have at it. let's skate!