I live at the top of a mountain in the Blue Ridge. I ride a dirt bike. Street bikers think I’m nuts. But who needs a helmet anyway. I am thinking America in my hair. When I ride into a city, someone tries to steal my bike. I have caught two of those someones who did have fists, but my fists were bigger than their fists, and they have this tendency to run. I hit the road. I try to go around places where I would be shot on my way through town. I am autistic. Sometimes, I rock. I try not to. I try not to see the America I zip through in quantum analysis, looking for the small things like how many of these people around me, are packing. Guns. I have my own. I shoot signs that say: No motorcycles. I ride a dirt bike, not a motorcycle. Cops do not seem to care. I get the whole family thing. With kids (I avoid kids, they’re trouble). The Have Van, Will Travel thing. But the motel thing is too comfy. Motel rooms cave in on me. Try explaining autism to kids. Today, I just tell them I can disappear. Then, I disappear. Americans hang out. I kinda like Homo sapiens for about five minutes. I have no idea what they are talking about so I smile and nod a lot. I ride right through riots. Joined Antifa. America is a fake country. Polite Americans inquire as to where I live. It’s irrelevant. Please explain the meaning. Americans like it mentioned in books, too. Back cover. It’s like Nevada. I sleep on the roof of my cabin if I can in a sleeping bag so I can still feel America in my hair.