I always wanted to be a biker... I always wanted to be a biker. I wanted to explore the ultimate sense of freedom these bikers wax about, "Out here, it's you, your hog and the road. Nothing to clog your mind." I loved the myths: Brando, Easy Rider, the Hell's Angels in The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, Hunter Thompson's near death experience with the gang, the endless string of reruns where biker gangs invade towns, terrorize the straights, corrupt the youth and ride off with a middle class sweet young thing in the bitch seat of the gang leader's hog. I always wanted to be a biker, until last weekend. A nearby town held a Charles Dickens holiday weekend replete with carolers in period clothes. Scrooge prowled and glowered along the cobble sidewalks (He told my wife and I to, "Get the hell out of my way.") I always wanted to be a biker, until we walked past a large clot of bikers gathered in one of the parking lots. It was then that I realized I no longer wanted to be a biker. It was then that I realized that real bikers have enough problems on their hands. They have this wannabe rabble of proctologists, circuit court judges, insurance company executives and attorneys donning their leathers and bandanas every weekend, parading on the interstates, stopping for lunch at little country cafes, eating aspargus and tofu wraps, drinking microbrewed beer and sparkling mineral water. I always wanted to be a biker, until I realized that real bikers have enough on their hands, they do not need a cowardly poet type like me trying to be something I am not. I always wanted to be a biker, until I realized I have already found a different way, a less deadly way, my own way of terrorizing the straights, corrupting the youth and careening into the sunset with my sweet young thing riding in the passenger seat of our rusted, failing Isuzu Trooper. My hog is poetry. Bolt the doors and hide the children, I am coming to your town.