Short Ride in a Fast Machine

After John Adams’s orchestral piece

What hot-blooded woman isn’t attracted

to fast machines? Sculpted and reeking

of pheromones and burnt rubber. Outback

bandits racing The Ghan across red-

dirt mirages of desert oases. Enter the hero

in a sea of strings, riding bareback, wielding

his bow like a sword. An orgy of heaving

parts. The piccolo peaks. I’m craving coffee

and a cigarette. We haven’t even reached

the climax yet. But the steady rhythm tells

me we’re getting close. Misfired exhaust.

A clatter and swell. We have lift-off, trumpeting

into the sky like a Greased Cadillac, a Bang

Bang finale. We were in it for a fast ride

and a damn good time.