I DON’T RIDE MOTORCYCLES
Final scene, “Dr. Strangelove” Major Kong, madman on a megaton hobbyhorse whooping—not being one to shriek in horror like the audience that still feared Death from the Skies. The missile the bomb the barreling aircraft— Lower Manhattanites have witnessed the latter Too many poor lands too often have witnessed the others Death from the Skies… but usually not like that first time these eyes beheld it The first time I saw Death the first time Death saw me seeing Death it too came hurtling from the sky …Less than two years later Hiroshima, Nagasaki No greater Death from on high… The first time Death fell from the cold winter sky toward my upturned face it was a bomb of internal combustion. Death was a machine Dead was a machine and the man clinging to it… A man praying to handlebars that a motorcycle could glide like a seagull When Death got close enough for me to see his face I saw a Christmas doll a toy motorcycle a leather helmet and goggles… Oh, to have seen those eyes! And the mouth. I remember most the mouth of Death stretched oblong into an impossible O… unable to believe that he was Death himself Great facial chasm sucking Death air into a flattened heart A comical slide-show memory. A small child would never sense the irony. Hell, I didn’t even know what Hell was. Hell was the bridge on the East River spanning over the park that was new then And it’s name is Hell’s Gate. Yes, there was a cycling path high up, to the side of railroad tracks that carried only freight trains. And, yes, you could use it --at your own risk (Don’t forget, pal, there’s a war going on) It needs repair, the barriers are weak. Ride at your own risk. From one hundred feet over my head Death from the Skies. Death wore goggles and a leather face and had no features but a gaping maw… and he had not come for me or anyone else on the chilly promenade Death came for himself The fireball on the bank of the river— that last slide in my memory show was his bright farewell. No “ews” no “ahs”— A crackle a flash a sound. A spinning toddler stroller pushed fast by my auntie. A horror to my eyes? Trauma? But I didn’t even know of death. The only long-term effect? I don’t ride motorcycles --art gatti