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Kalikiano Kalei

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Member Since: Jan, 2008

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· U S Chemical and Biological Defense Respirators

Short Stories
· Saddam's Toilet, Part 3

· Saddam's Toilet, Part 2

· Zipping Flies with Papa Hemingway

· Searching For Haumea...

· Farewell to Sherlockville

· Down in the Valley--Chapter 1

· First Class, or Guaranteed Delivery?

· The Fruitcake King of Riyadh

· Maile and the Little Green Menehune

· The First (Near) Ascent of Heartbreak Hill

· German Wartime Ejection Seat Developments

· Luftwaffe Air-Evacuation in WW2

· Creating an authentic 2WK Luftwaffe Aircrewman Impression

· The Luftwaffe 2WK Aviation Watches

· German aviator breathing systems in the 2WK

· Ritter der Lüfte: Chivalry in 2WK aerial combat

· War From the German Perspective: A Matter of Differential History

· Recreating Luftwaffe WW2 History

· Film Review: Final Approach (1991)

· Cafe Racing of the 60s: Rockers, Ton-up Boys and the 59 Club

· If women had udders...!

· More dirty climbing limericks

· First ascent of Broad Peak!

· Sawtooth Haiku

· Somewhere in my sleep

· The soundless temple bell

· Hearts and minds

· Rabbit gazing at full moon

· Koto-kaze

· Hara: Reality as fantasy

         More poetry...
· Local Writer Not Slated to Receive Steinbeck Foundation Recognition

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Books by Kalikiano Kalei
  Five Up, One Down...
by Kalikiano Kalei
Friday, August 05, 2011
Rated "G" by the Author.

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Recent poems by Kalikiano Kalei
•  If women had udders...!
•  Of Rose, as sunset floods the room at dusk
•  More dirty climbing limericks
•  First ascent of Broad Peak!
•  Sainted Mother Teresa
           >> View all 59

T.E. Lawrence had a great love for his Brough Superior SS100, in the 1920s and 30s one of the truly great motorcycles of that era. Lawrence lived his life always just one step ahead of uncertainty, which should be the seasoned, disparate path into cataclysmic oblivion we might all consider with more unbiased regard. Lawrence, as most know, died in 1935 on his last Brough Superior when he unexpectedly encountered two youths on the rural roadway ahead as he crested a rise at speed. He was not wearing a helmet, of course, as no one did at that time. One of the physicians who attended Lawrence immediately after his fatal accident was a neurosurgeon who thereafter began a campaign to encourage the design and development of protective crash helmets for motorcyclists. The irony of that final contribution of Lawrence (although inadvertant) to vehicular safety today is immense, yet worthy of no small amount of reflection, I believe.



Wassup wit speed?
Youthful flames with white hot tongues
Still flicker out to stroke erogenous memories of days long gone
When passions flared and dared to accelerate life to limits unknown,
Now lost beyond recall that assumes insanely wheeled vehicular
Velocities down recondite pathways towards mature boredom.
Age brings forbearance, tempered by fear, now that
Recollections of motorised hormonal  impulse fade,
Oddly muted by the squeak of bones and failed

The universal male drama:
Every living act aimed at recapturing that
Which once passed, can no longer be regained,
No vibrating echo of perfect physical energy unleashed
By two-wheeled constructs of energy-fed metalized emotion.
Looking back into the dim past of hippocampic neural connections
I vaguely perceive a one-time urgency to feed this beloved monster
Whose name may only be uttered in loudest tones of shrieking protest,
Ridden on the cushioned spine of motorcycled thunder.

What was it Aristotle once observed?
When asked how it felt in the darkling twilight of human life,
To now be denied the passionate pursuits and erotic entanglements
That immature forms of life carry as ineluctable, burdensome baggage on
The lightspeed journey that is unfettered youth?  A relief, that ancient august
Person noted, so we are told, to finally dismount the raging, snorting  stallion
And stable it in some pleasantly remembered, quiet pasture to graze,
Now no stranger itself to rheumy disconnectivities of ironic life.

One such stallion sits in my garage.
A monster on two wheels that can reach 60 miles an hour in 2.9 seconds.
Its mad, inertial doom arrested only by my failure to wake it one last time
To ignite great explosions of psychological defiance amid the burnt cinders
Of my own decelerating life, it sits there patiently lurking, malevolently plotting
My ultimate end, a cataclysmic death-wish in the making. All I need do
Is sit upon its saddle, turn the key and stroke it from its slumbers.
Who knows but death may be a better lover in this fatally erotic form?

A coital moment, 2.9 seconds from infinity, beckons.   

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Reviewed by Ed Matlack 8/5/2011
Rode my dads 59'(?) softtail once & only once as it got totally destroyed in an over the cliff ballet with me at its helm...I held on for dear life, hoping to keep it in one piece, fat chance, ripped from my hands, almost taking me with it to its final demise & permanent resting place in a very large & deep river in western Pennsylvania...okay, so it was snowing & I was doing about a hundred, but hey I had to wring her out...and then there was this cop that was chasing me...but thats another never let me forget that, & every time I looked at another bike, even one that I could have pedaled, he looked the other way & growled...Ed
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