Monday, November 12, 2007


(start at the beginning)

Part Three:

He called her Black River. She snaked through the night, like liquid. She hugged the the road with a steady moan and broke through the atomic universal current with rhythmic clarity, smooth as the dark silky breath beneath the wings of the paradisaical raven. With the age of industry she moved like the glide of water over terrain, unencumbered by obstacles and swallowed the night with a soft purr. She moved like the echo of a shadow, naked as amatory desire beneath a bed of stars peering down with winking vision. When he sat with her nothing affected him with such transcendence, nothing awoke his vital senses with such clarity, communing deeply with the rhythm of his soul. She alone defined his existence in this world.

She came from his thorough wisdom and creative spirit, sprang from his vivid imagination giving her the purpose that was indelibly written in his heart. He longed to touch the complex beauty and intuition that gave humanity the dark pleasure of the road, it's dusty ambition spreading across the map until it reached the edge of coastline east and west and everywhere in between with the consuming heat of asphalt. He became the engine that propelled humanity forward with a leap that left time dwindling in the rear-view mirror. He built a medium, swift and light as the antelope, but also strong and timeless as the fierce voice of nature so as to commune with the perfect harmony and poetry of the road.

What he built became Black River and she was loyal and true and never failed him. The unspoken shudder of helplessness never descended down his arms from where he held her guidance with tight caressing comfort. The harsh diseased cough of collapse never rose from the depths of her oily heart. The wicked steamy sigh of premature death never escaped from her hooded lips. She simply responded with a contented growl every time the ball of his foot pressed her for an answer and shifted into gear with firm potency beneath the palm of his hand.

She spoke to him in that way as the image of a woman with her arm raised high above her head, red bandanna clutched in her hand, reflected from his eyes onto the cool green glow of instrumental control. He never wavered, steady as the pulse in his wrist, focused only upon the woman and the black path beneath trees and stars that lay beyond her quivering shoulder. There was the rise of excitement climbing in the woman's eyes and he settled into the deep bucket seat ready to set Black River into motion. It was coming, this moment of truth. He knew where to find it in the erratic tinge of adrenaline that shook the human body until it could no longer sit still, until it could only act. That was when he sprang into action and discovered the most profound pleasure. A rhythmic gentle symbiosis with Black River unmatched by anyone or anything.

And then he saw it, the woman who stood before him paused for just a moment, a brief hesitation in her posture and a shadow of terror caught in her eyes. That's when she gave him reason to smile.

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