The Bicycle Thief

Anarchy never worked out, since the people who led us to paradise immediate declared themselves leaders for having led us there. Paradise needs borders to protect it from the Wastes, and who better to enforce the borders than the strong, an A in a circle like a scarlet letter sewn onto their jackets. Bicycles are more sincere than cars, since those legs are pushing you there. (Normally the feet are running and the nose is smelling, but these days the feet are smelly and the nose is running) It's like the golden rule applied to Fixie gears: you get out what you put into it, though didnt we have those when we were five years old, riding circles around the Powerwheelers in their rattly three wheeled vehicles? If any high school kids protest, emulate the Hipster King of the Springs: get off your bike and ask if they want a piece of you! Maybe they called you 'faggot' because you wore bike shorts and a helmet for a simple errand to the local coffeehouse. Do we really have to support local businesses when the owners are snooty, mean people who would rather be alone with their pointless degrees? (Take note, bitter graduates!)

The bicycle thief approaches the pick up truck and waits until the family is inside, then snatches the prize from the back. A nice mountain bike worth several hundred dollars. All that is required is a new coat of paint and nobody will know, except for the victim, who will have a sense of loss of course. But that's his fault for subscribing to the capitalist plague: find yourself the prey of the idealists. The idealists with limitless dreams and vague realities. The Bicycle Thief, officially graduated to capital letters, flaunts his bike all the way up Pikes Peak and back, well, it is a scenario visualized in a pot cloud floating between Manitou and Old Colorado City. Actually, every time he walks by the pawn shop, he notices the supply and the demand. But don't call him a tweaker, he doesnt do speed, just a little crack in the van parked outside Bar Bar. It's okay, didnt Johnny Cash do all that too? Any drug featured in a song title produces a ghostly soundtrack that calms the conscience and reinforces the riffs.

Bicycle Thief, full of free vegan dinners, speeds around corners like a messenger, with no message to convey of course. Judge a man by the food of his feast, chewing on the plants and sparing the beast. Of course the animals receive the kindness, and fellow humans can handle the scorn. Backyard of stolen bikes, couches of sloppy girls combing the lice from their legs, amateur musicians who get into drunken rages after a half hour of unsuccessful tuning. The family in the pick up truck gets a little disappointed and quiet. What do you expect, this is the Jail City. Everyone has been to prison, or is preparing for the cell. Can you pick your cellmates? Can you pick your nose? Can you pick your cellmates nose? Whiskey and crack on the end table, I am the biggest victim of my own addictions. I could write a song, but on the other hand, the songs of open mic are easily transcribed. The nice girl in the kitchen can sew patches on pretty well, but sewing up the holes in your jeans isnt a good idea when you want everyone to see the bruises always translucent and open, and speaking soft songs of blood everytime you get up to chase away the dog.