By Thomas R. Flynn
On September eleven, 2001, journalist Tom Flynn trigger on his motorcycle towards the realm alternate Towers now not figuring out what he used to be driving into. Bikeman is one man's trip again to the horrors of that day and to the humanity that by some means emerged from the dirt and the demise. either heartbreaking and haunting, his phrases will stick with you're keen on that 'forever September morning.' —Meredith Vieira, NBC's Today
Tom Flynn brings to his topic 3 worthwhile attributes: the attention of a pro journalist, the soul of a poet, and his attractive, first-hand adventure of that awful day.
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Additional resources for Bikeman: An Epic Poem
Morning’s easy, now afternoon with its sense of sand leaking from your fist: holes in prayer everywhere you’d already filled them. Breathing out, you think not of the Psalms but lazy dogs as sunlight forks and darts across the floor—ambiguous flashes of oak roots under water or, lacunae intact, a scroll from Qumran, swallowed by a bunch of passing clouds. A superior knocks at four, speaks the sound of someone else’s name, leaves a small meal by the door. ), into repeating yourself—you who have been called 28 Three Days “this onward trick of nature” —Emerson 1.
40 Predestination Watched, so watching A helpless slouching, settling in as on a long train Clicking by, a square of sky The same or changed clicking by 41 The Truly Fucked (after Horace) Who is that skinny boy trailing musk clouds, Duane Reade roses in his right hand, who follows you around these strobe-lit basement parties, Pyrrha? While you finger your platinum bangs and tilt your head to the downbeat, who is it that you picture standing behind you off to one side? Emotions (you know this better than anyone) are fickle, they swap shapes fast as the gods.
33 Sacred Harp Sing, Bethel Primitive Baptist Tufts of dust dislodge and make to jump among the floorboard cracks as the tenors, abetted by a redheaded clan up from San Antonio, drag their nasal, wavering line towards the chairless center of the room where the caller stands and each sung part collides, like flocks of starlings seething a wider cloud. Fifty left hands chop at the downbeat until what began as a sexual moan fills in, turns, reluctantly, into a tune: Farewell vain world I’m going home away to New Jerusalem and I don’t care to stay here long.
Bikeman: An Epic Poem by Thomas R. Flynn