Daniel Romo
2nd Street Baptismal
For the Long Beach Rippers
It’s the same as when clouds refuse to behave
the way they’re drawn and the front half lifts,
points, and floats a little more towards Heaven.
And the back half can’t be mad because what
body wouldn’t want to stretch itself to weave
its way in and out of stars yet to be navigated
and named? That’s my point of view when the
bicycle pack highjacks the boulevard and riders
laugh and wear motorists’ honks like badges
doubling as bandages for impending falls.
And though they swerve down the street in
between raucous and reckless, I imagine how
proud their parents would be watching them
wheelie all the way from one part of town to
the other. Because there’s inherent beauty to
one being so careless yet careful at the same
time. To be so young and bold as to zigzag
amongst oncoming cars like they’re stationary
cones requires a sensitivity and stamina
enhanced by the soundtrack of each spinning
wheel. Traffic is forced to follow as if trailing
a parade not longed to be a part of, but who
can argue with this type of takeover when
children stare from backseats of their parents’
cars and what they witness contradicts
everything they’ve been told about wearing
a helmet. We savor moments like this because
we know our bodies won’t always be able to
travel the direction we want them to be steered,
and the day will come when both tires must
stay firmly on earth and we peddle a more
sensible line, remembering how we offered
our hearts to the pavement and our front
wheels to God.
It’s the same as when clouds refuse to behave
the way they’re drawn and the front half lifts,
points, and floats a little more towards Heaven.
And the back half can’t be mad because what
body wouldn’t want to stretch itself to weave
its way in and out of stars yet to be navigated
and named? That’s my point of view when the
bicycle pack highjacks the boulevard and riders
laugh and wear motorists’ honks like badges
doubling as bandages for impending falls.
And though they swerve down the street in
between raucous and reckless, I imagine how
proud their parents would be watching them
wheelie all the way from one part of town to
the other. Because there’s inherent beauty to
one being so careless yet careful at the same
time. To be so young and bold as to zigzag
amongst oncoming cars like they’re stationary
cones requires a sensitivity and stamina
enhanced by the soundtrack of each spinning
wheel. Traffic is forced to follow as if trailing
a parade not longed to be a part of, but who
can argue with this type of takeover when
children stare from backseats of their parents’
cars and what they witness contradicts
everything they’ve been told about wearing
a helmet. We savor moments like this because
we know our bodies won’t always be able to
travel the direction we want them to be steered,
and the day will come when both tires must
stay firmly on earth and we peddle a more
sensible line, remembering how we offered
our hearts to the pavement and our front
wheels to God.
Hypothermia
Survivalists compete to see who can live isolated in the wilderness the longest carrying
only a backpack and a Slinky. The winner gets a million dollars. The losers come home
with a new appreciation for Mother Nature and appear on morning shows promoting
cookbooks with recipes for sautéed crickets. The loudest insects are richest in protein
and lipids. Isn’t life most often a case of man vs. self, man vs. nature, or man vs. the
amount of salmonella the body can withstand while continuing to build a makeshift
log cabin? Many have mistaken a gut check for endurance but failed to see that being
alone with your thoughts and bowels is the ultimate in intimacy. All the contestants
have to do is push a button and a camera crew will sail out to the dwelling they’ve
made and return them to the security of their lives. But who doesn’t want to see how
far they can push themselves in the name of personal challenge and reality TV? I
observe all of this while spending the day binging the series in my bedroom. And as
I finish the last episode, I feel so cold. So hungry. So alone.
only a backpack and a Slinky. The winner gets a million dollars. The losers come home
with a new appreciation for Mother Nature and appear on morning shows promoting
cookbooks with recipes for sautéed crickets. The loudest insects are richest in protein
and lipids. Isn’t life most often a case of man vs. self, man vs. nature, or man vs. the
amount of salmonella the body can withstand while continuing to build a makeshift
log cabin? Many have mistaken a gut check for endurance but failed to see that being
alone with your thoughts and bowels is the ultimate in intimacy. All the contestants
have to do is push a button and a camera crew will sail out to the dwelling they’ve
made and return them to the security of their lives. But who doesn’t want to see how
far they can push themselves in the name of personal challenge and reality TV? I
observe all of this while spending the day binging the series in my bedroom. And as
I finish the last episode, I feel so cold. So hungry. So alone.
Daniel Romo is the author of Bum Knees and Grieving Sunsets (FlowerSong Press 2023), Moonlighting as an Avalanche (Tebot Bach 2021), Apologies in Reverse (FutureCycle Press 2019), and other books. His writing and photography can be found in The Los Angeles Review, Yemassee, Hotel Amerika, and elsewhere. He received an MFA from Queens University of Charlotte, and he lives, teaches, and rides his bikes in Long Beach, CA. More at danieljromo.com.