Retired Speed Freak Chopper Rider by Jesse Sensibar

Nobody knows it but you weep at the drop of a hat. You weep holding your five year old nephew to your chest. The tears stream down your hardpan face. You go to the movies alone so you can cry silently in the dark to yourself. You think to yourself that without knowing it you may have reached the maximum level of pain one can absorb in a single lifetime, that now to absorb anymore you must release some, but you cannot simply empty that deep swimming pool of hurt, sorrow, and regret all at once, cannot pump it out of the pool and across the yard into a Tucson gutter like a minor flashflood of regret. No, you can only cry it out one tear at a time like single drops of water evaporating off of the desert at dawn. You will cry at any provocation, all your life you worked to feel nothing, like a desert, and now like a desert in spring you cannot stop feeling everything. Sometimes you speak of what you have done and what you have not done, what you have not felt and feel, and you begin to weep silently as you talk. You cannot control it. The tears squeeze out one drop at a time like bleeding. And you could laugh without a sound at yourself, watching yourself, feeling yourself, feeling yourself feel completely alone, and you laugh because you know that finally you are wrong, finally you are not alone. And you hold that five year old child to your chest like the desert in bloom and you weep silently but finally.


About the Author: Jesse Sensibar loves small furry animals and assault rifles with equal abandon and still has a soft spot in his heart for innocent strippers and jaded children.  He retired in 2010.  He is currently trying to make sense of his past while working on his MFA in creative writing and teaching Freshman Composition at a large southwestern state university in the mountain town where he has lived since the late 1980s.