Bikeman: An Epic Poem

On September eleven, 2001, journalist Tom Flynn trigger on his motorcycle towards the realm alternate Towers no longer figuring out what he was once using into. Bikeman is one man's trip again to the horrors of that day and to the humanity that one way or the other emerged from the airborne dirt and dust 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 beneficial attributes: the attention of a pro journalist, the soul of a poet, and his wonderful, first-hand event of that awful day." --David buddy, Vanity Fair

From Bikeman:
The useless from here
are my ceaselessly companions
i'm their pine box,
their marble reliquary,
their bronze urn,
the dwelling, respiring coffin they by no means had,
their ultimate resting position with no stone.
I circulation on at peace.

Modeled on Dante's Inferno, veteran journalist Thomas Flynn's Bikeman chronicles the morning of September eleven, 2001 like no different released paintings. Flynn can provide a private account of his reviews starting with the 1st strike at the global exchange heart while he made up our minds to stick with his journalist's intuition and aspect his bike's handlebars towards the north tower. His tale maintains as he transitions from reporter to player hoping to outlive the autumn of the south tower. Now Flynn, as either journalist and now survivor, needs to come to phrases with the harrowing ordeal and one way or the other locate peace within the very act of surviving.

Part journalist's checklist, half survivor's eulogy, Flynn writes:
Survival is the absence of death.
It is a subdued, a hushed lifestyles. . .
I reside to speak about it,
to narrate the story because it happens,
not just its extremities and cruelty,
but in addition the goodness that thrives too.

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Yet my dying masks cracks. i think my brow stretch, my cheeks, my eyes paintings opposed to their masking because it splits clear of flesh. i'm an unprotected wound, sliced with the edge, the damage, the discomfort of others. Is tear? definite. I pay attention her cries within the dusty air, I pay attention her cries echoing within the ruins. I pay attention the cries and that i weep, with no keep an eye on, with no disgrace. XXXI ON GULL WINGS The shroud lingers. I journey alongside the riverside, the lone smoky tower belching extra darkness. It looms above as i'm compelled to method the chance back, to get round the man-made cove, a small harbor with sailboats that purely the previous day bobbed gaily yet trip now in silhouettes of dirt. I watch a seagull who accompanies me. He floats at the wind on crooked wings, head down, eyes staring and perturbed, mystified, pondering what we have now performed right here. After lingering a time, he lifts off. I stream off with others silently alongside the esplanade tracing the river alongside its financial institution. We stroll soundlessly, our small parade, as though in woolen socks, as though at the moon. not one of the traditional clicking of Wall road wingtips will we listen, not one of the clacking of women’s heels or clomping of workmen’s boots on reliable stolid concrete. We stroll on a blanket of dying in mortal silence. XXXII WATERY GRAVE An unnatural sound attracts my awareness as I wheel back alongside the river’s facet. Now I see what it's yet am wondered on the sight. There under, within the streaming river, individuals are drowning. They thrash approximately in worry, many cry out for aid, a few look misplaced within the fray. such a lot of how you can die and now yet one more I see. They die within the air, they die within the hearth and this new horror, they're death within the water. they fight within the outgoing tide, pulled clear of the sting the place others name to them to hold on and never hand over. How did they get right here? have been they heaved from the tower best into the water? Thrown throughout the island to this watery grave? It doesn't look attainable. yet the following they flail. A police boat arrives, its excessive prow cuts towards the bobbing heads, the deck males name out phrases of aid. They throw out existence preservers. The earrings splash down to the outreaching hands. XXXIII DIGNITY DIES no longer all are crying out. no longer some distance far-off from the shore is a silent lady, a bobbing lily floating serenely. Bubbles break out from underneath her skirt unfold just like the flower’s pad around the water. Her hair and garments are raveled. Dignity too is a casualty. She stares up taking a look stunned, just like the child who has simply fallen downstairs prior to the harm units in. She has an analogous surprised glance because the guy with the bloodied legs. The soreness will come later for all who're right here. The soreness will come later for all. XXXIV the sweetness OF oz. I roll my motorbike away with nice attempt. Then comes a surprise yet a welcome sight. i've got forgotten my outdated global. colour bursts upon me like a brand new spring, forsaking the swirling sea of doom. i'm stopped via the un-beclouded international, the lengthy unseen life-giving sunlight who attempts to welcome me again to a steady earth of transparent breathable air.

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