05-29-2016, 11:48 AM
EDIT 2
THE FIRST TASTE
12 years old and chasing adolescence,
skimming bikes across the pavement
with beer we stole from Dad's garage,
we rode into the woods
and sat below the pines
then checked the path behind us.
Convinced by silence no one followed,
I opened up my backpack,
revealing golden cans to friends.
We cracked the cans, (which burst),
--bike-ride-shake-beer-rain--choked down foam,
pretended drunkenness,
with tripping steps to lurching bikes and slurring words.
And as a man without the courage to pretend,
I swerve these roads still looking for an end.
EDIT 1
THE FIRST TASTE
Warm outside below our piece of sky,
12 year-old boys chasing adolescence
on mountain bikes skimming neighborhood pavement
with beer from Dad’s garage stolen on the sly.
From pavement to trails, we hid in the woods,
sat below the pines, checked the path behind us.
Convinced by silence we weren’t followed,
I unzipped my backpack and unveiled the warm drinks.
We cracked the cans which exploded
bike-ride-shaken-pressurized-fizz-shower,
and choked down the foamy rest, pretending drunkenness,
tripping steps, swerving bikes, slurring words.
And as a man without the courage to pretend
I serve these roads still looking for an end.
The First Taste
Warm Virginia pine trees reaching the sky,
mountain bikes on the neighborhood pavement,
beer from dad’s garage stolen on the sly,
twelve-year-old boys after adolescence.
Into the woods we’d take a path to hide,
and sit in a ditch near the railroad tracks.
From a school backpack, we tore open wide
unveiling cans cooling hands that instant.
The cool fizz blew open the can’s insides,
and showered out a fit of shaken spit.
Dumb, I glanced at my friends with no reply
and drank the rest, a half at best, half fizz.
Pretending drunkenness back swerving bikes,
we pretended the adults of cursed life.
And now, without the courage to pretend,
I still swerve the road looking for the end.
THE FIRST TASTE
12 years old and chasing adolescence,
skimming bikes across the pavement
with beer we stole from Dad's garage,
we rode into the woods
and sat below the pines
then checked the path behind us.
Convinced by silence no one followed,
I opened up my backpack,
revealing golden cans to friends.
We cracked the cans, (which burst),
--bike-ride-shake-beer-rain--choked down foam,
pretended drunkenness,
with tripping steps to lurching bikes and slurring words.
And as a man without the courage to pretend,
I swerve these roads still looking for an end.
EDIT 1
THE FIRST TASTE
Warm outside below our piece of sky,
12 year-old boys chasing adolescence
on mountain bikes skimming neighborhood pavement
with beer from Dad’s garage stolen on the sly.
From pavement to trails, we hid in the woods,
sat below the pines, checked the path behind us.
Convinced by silence we weren’t followed,
I unzipped my backpack and unveiled the warm drinks.
We cracked the cans which exploded
bike-ride-shaken-pressurized-fizz-shower,
and choked down the foamy rest, pretending drunkenness,
tripping steps, swerving bikes, slurring words.
And as a man without the courage to pretend
I serve these roads still looking for an end.
The First Taste
Warm Virginia pine trees reaching the sky,
mountain bikes on the neighborhood pavement,
beer from dad’s garage stolen on the sly,
twelve-year-old boys after adolescence.
Into the woods we’d take a path to hide,
and sit in a ditch near the railroad tracks.
From a school backpack, we tore open wide
unveiling cans cooling hands that instant.
The cool fizz blew open the can’s insides,
and showered out a fit of shaken spit.
Dumb, I glanced at my friends with no reply
and drank the rest, a half at best, half fizz.
Pretending drunkenness back swerving bikes,
we pretended the adults of cursed life.
And now, without the courage to pretend,
I still swerve the road looking for the end.