I live in Dirt Bike Town. Where the saw dust and the oil and the bales of hay and all the old men (younger than me) lean up against the fence to feel just a bit of it, not unlike the wind through the creaky oaks, the mud, and I customized my baby with lights and the full nine yards. I can go anywhere you can’t go better. I can go anywhere better than you. Yes, I can. Yes, I can. Yes, I cannot take it anymore. Go to your window. Lift it up. Lean into the night, and repeat after me. There’s a person who lives in this fucking apartment and it’s a dump. I’m not gonna take it anymore. They all want me to be someone I am not. Hooting and shrieking such men are dangerous stirs wind, and dance. I am a communist. I live in Dirt Bike Town.