Fresh off the truck,

I did not want to know how Dane stole the Harley-Davidson Low Rider. Since HIV, Dane has had one killer disease after another. He has an infusion port built into his forearm. An implanted venous access port is a device used to give treatments and take blood. It may also be called a central venous access device. The port is a small container that is placed under your skin, usually in your upper chest. A port can also be placed in your arm or abdomen. The port is attached to a catheter that enters a large vein.

I am quite good at tearing them from my arm so I might escape the hospital. The long line of people lined up in the hall are all the people who want to put a finger in your hole. You know the one.

Run.

How could I blame this kid for wanting to drive this extraordinary Harley-Davidson before he died. Dane knew. I knew. We all knew.

Everything is swollen. Everything hurts. I have it coming.

Brandon asked how much the bike cost. Dane ignored him.

Quick Inspection.

No VIN.

Dane was about to say something. I put my finger to his lips. I don’t want to know. I seriously don’t want to know. 

However, I did want a ride. What I want, whatever I want, can usually kick my white ass into the Land of Troubles. The Land of Troubles is not in Ireland. Okay, sometimes the Land of Troubles is in Ireland. The Land of Troubles is just wherever I happen to be.

The Low-Profile backseat is a bit tight. The only way you can be comfortable riding two is if the driver likes a cock pressing into the butt of his jeans. Hold on. You’ll need to.

It started to rain. Lean into the curves.

Two days ago, it was raining in the Land of Troubles. I could feel Dane freeze. Never freeze up in fear on this fucking horse of a bike. Never. The curve was slippery, and down we went.

The bike turned head over heels into a steep ditch.

We ate concrete.

Not another fucking hospital. This one came with cops, and two of them were stationed outside the door to our room. Dane was still unconscious.

It was my fault but not according to the cops. They had had Dane in their sights for a while. I would be allowed to leave. Dane was going to prison. For a very long time.

I was bandaged up tight as a tin of blunts.

This was more of a trauma hospital than I am used to. I wear no less than seven (white, green, and purple on the right wrist, and red, black, blue, and green on the left wrist) DNR wristbands, meaning they’re hard to miss. So is the DNR dog tag I wear around my neck. Maybe they just can’t read.

I tore the infusion port out of my arm. I have done this numerous times.

There is no truth to the old street myth that says insurance companies will not pay if you leave against medical advice. This is laughable. They do pay. They can pay. They will pay and pay and pay. Fuck them.

I never stay in hospitals. I have taken hikes time and time again.

Why. I just hate being touched. You have no idea. The hospital is not a riding around on a Low Rider and never will be. It is an institution and I deplore institutions. This is where paternalism lives and breathes.

There is usually some blood in tearing out a port.

There will be a blanket in the room to slog it up.

The cops did try to stop me, but they had no warrant. They had no directives. But I did. My directive is to get the fuck out of there.

To me, a port of call comes with wharves, ship containers, bars, whores, nut, nut, where’s the nut, Life is a shell game, and I always know what shell the nut is under. A game of chance. I invented it.

Burner phones are sometimes necessary. I’m going to call the hospital to see if I can talk my way into facilitating them to giving me dish on Dane. My money (pathetically limited to dimes in a wine bottle) is on Dane being where he wants to be which is quite safe inside a coma. Ports of call are not unlike the way those dwarf stars far outnumber “normal” galaxies.

Everything needs revision.

This was a suicide attempt.

I am so pissed at him. But I am the one who wanted to recapture my biker days. It was more glorious than anyone can know.

We should have made that curve as easily as July.

Dane is somewhere in the Land of Troubles. It’s always dark and it rains almost every day. If it’s not Ireland, it should be. I would bet the ranch, if I had one, that Dane has no plans to come back home. The life is just the life.

I know Dane. I know all his trembling fingers. I have opened the old screen door for Dane. There will be cool nights in September.

It was my fault for not giving Dame a full head-trip inspection.

“Are you suicidal.”

He did have the bike to prove it, but I said nothing.

This time, the port of call is death. Death fresh off the truck. It’s what he wants. Let him have it. This time, my own port of call has a front porch populated by kids and dogs. I am writing this sitting on the porch swing. I now realize that the sun does not set. It folds. The local dwarf galaxies have been counted in the dozens. 

https://medium.com/@timotheebarrus/i-opened-my-eyes-80939561c66a