Scene; that is correct?

Scene; is that correct?

The arrival set to a ring of fire diner door chime, the first of all the drives, to quake the untrusted asphalt, claiming comfort till the end behind that truly pitiful white flag. Zephyr moves dunes, temple greets the sunshine; morning, was I out long; lets out an aroma wave, and a cry that only certain damned souls can spasm step to, feel, touch, wade through no matter the solidity, like nothing phasing the solid body; where it go? Maybe a tickle in the hair if the strands are long enough. Mind reaches for the black moonlight; no questions; hint: The cool braids.

Solo psychophant, enchanted heart grown, planted in the depths. Reset happening in the neurons, updating the passage in ways, these days, to phase through in the untuned, unsaned, UNDER untangled; no, stop looking for THAT dimension; and feel the cranial lead, now, down the left arm. I find the direction in the first bail of the forever evening. Stark cross into the outro where the pavements road-rashes because it does. Board sits inches from where my ‘face’ planted, with one of the wheels still living the dream as my alarm to return to form, punk. Back to the bomb. Start the window shopping once the oooos and ahhhhs of infinities light bright wonderment settles to ‘neat’ toss it backward or forward with advance postage—either way, not done, let me ride!

Speed is key, is all, only in the carve from lane to lane. Introducing the sensation of clinging toes around the grip and 7 plies. New stage loads, land where it’s needed. Being handed clues I didn’t know I needed but understand in the loose amalgamation of a Kick Pushers cruising altitude helmet-less; as the gods intended, damnit; Reaching sights up the hills with no incline for the messages, received, now sleeved, re-retrieved; close one; sparking up the coping. All stomped bolts and combo bonuses, and not self too put off from the self-curb-stomp if I check out this rhythm one more time. So what if I ‘do’ pain? What if I do…

Across the bridge, not quite Valhalla because fuck that forever war shit, although, give it a second and a battle will commence again, and the seats are impeccable. Trust the gut knowledge; to what god could any homage land when in the flow of unity, they are blasphemous to the Kick Push community, beast’s retreats, kill from sheets to streets, the run that bath that make the hot coat hangers welts melt in the haze of that bubble bath. Then again, where else would the disembowelings surface, take notes on the defilers in perpetuity, strive from?; Jesus Chr--; Not this plain, this path, unless the El Toro calls my name for another slamming. Note: don’t fall for the wrong flame. ‘You’re in one hell of a flame!’ Fuck Yeah! Another Kicker—or well, that’s one bitchin’ moped. HEY! Do a wheelie! Noice.

Heavenly; whatever; sunlight missed dearly. Although the red suits the panic; don’t but kind do; speed wobbles, guess these roads need more lanes to displace the competing wavelengths, widen the swerve in a sense. Accept the fear. It moves through me, never mine. Endure the conscious violation from the Scarlett Solar Gigantous and gap foot plant to fakie into that Arrayo. Stay ABOVE the water line this time. Ride the lean, let it steepen to a wall. It makes no damn difference you’re not supposed to get the deck wet; this time; forget the pushing plan if you must. The San Fran Death Hill is—Heelfip, NOW!

In a nasty twist, borderline bladder material, white drops me into a drop-in on the Ultra Massive Ramp. Quarter loop height cuts through blackness until it greys the sweatsuit. I roll on to the other side. Naked in the right way—don’t you say? You don’t say, blood-covered succubus unwrites the mountain pass—boulder-dash! Come with cash. The dolphin flip slips me past the cravass. Ollie, light, trust the speed you have no resistance. Concede to the momentum, self-made, quantum what—quit dreaming; it’s not that; I  passed another Pusher. SIKE!! Through the mist, risk the volley setup for the spike, down the back-alley mountain roads, ignore the collapsing, manual through the cracking yellow lines, everyone needs practice.

Wall run over Tartarus, the ring of fire is now made of briars—let’s call them green fire; don’t get caught sawing your board in half. In the cycle, there will be an orange, 180 off into the acid drop. Let the unknown be the unknown when you’re done. Lightning always flashes; so;? Haven’t noticed in a hot minute—do you smell that—this is the lotus ride, untied until the gardener returns. Darkness fades, light becomes the one.