by Daniel Davis Clayton

Gritty, dirt faced warriors... Guts pumping the bile of vast insurrection against that of organic transportation. A rumble in the bowels creates emissions evaluated by the ride wardens of state regulations. I crack my knuckles.

Visor muddied with body parts: brains, eyes, legs, abdomens burst into vehicular insecticide. Automated blades wipe and smear, wipe and smear, creating a thin resin which blurs images slightly enough to make them glow in their own halos of self righteousness. We wait on red.

Flash green and I mash, dipping through New Jersey streets where the laws bring Class A violations to be discovered. I'm a pimp! I'm an adrenaline rush junkie. Close call collisions are daily. Ignore horn honking; it's simply an expression of thought instead of a warning. My warming steed revs with go-stop-slow anticipation. My participation in the magmatic flow of Turnpike/Parkway volcanic ruptures attests to concentrational skill in its most paramount form.

Cars close like pyramidal bricks; can't slip a slice of papyrus between. Resting beasts swing open their doors and spill their human contents before relentless judges. And every time those doors open, it's right in front of your front end. Hazard lights. I'm stopping in the middle of the friggin' street. Foot soldiers jaywalk, tempting Jaguars to preemptive strikes. And monolithic busses thwart peripheral uprisings.

Let's ride, Baby! Foot on the gas means brakes are for suckers. Remember Red Light, Green Light? Here, the rules of the game are not maintained.

Green! Hold up, look around. Look around, wait a minute... Now put your foot in it. Yellow! 99 yards or less... Speed up! 101 yards or more... Speed up! Red! If they can see you coming... Speed up!

I feed my beast Italian sausage octane from Jimmy Buff's in West Orange. Drain the fluid from the top of a Tina's pie into my automatic transmission. Substitute the antifreeze coolant for the green-bottom-of-dumpster-water. Drip old coffee for break fluid and piss into my power steering.

Go time, Baby! I'm a Jersey street warrior. I blow my horn for no freakin' reason. I spit out the window. I try to hit old ladies walking. I try to avoid old ladies driving. I've earned my stripes, Baby! I've risen in the ranks of wreck shop riders.

I'm Mad Max's colored cousin. I shot the sheriff and ran from the cops. Found a rave and popped X into the tank for extra nitros. They say I've got to slow down. They say my engine is going to burn out.

My exit is Bloomfield Ave., Baby! I pay twelve tolls daily, awaiting my Red Badge of Courage. Dents and scrapes on veteran soldiers. No one escapes unscathed. Danny Boy, the pipes are calling... A mother sent all of her sons off to war. Only one returned. The pipes rev and tremble, emitting New Jersey exhaust, generating the piper's song. Danny Boy, the streets are calling.

One day I called for a man, but he wasn't there. The wife said his ashes were spread from here to Jesus. Said he met demise when a plane kissed the face of towering twins in destructive matrimony. Red light. Hold up. Wait a minute. Foot in it!

Pedestrians flood into the streets. Back taillights streak as if my eyes have prolonged exposure times. Electronic green 97.1 digital FM radio rock hip-hop.

LET'S RIDE, BABY!