Evel Knievel Returns to Snake River Canyon

By Jim Johnstone

42.597°N 114.423°W

Bomber jacket trimmed with venom,

I pace the canyon like a parasite:

EK monogram, US flag, and cane,

the supplication of a reformed

sinner in prayer where jump

and jumper cross and become kin.

Months earlier, bolstered by the skin

of its teeth, the X1’s venom

overtook the sky, jumped

ahead and paralyzed my line of sight.

There’s always a new performance,

a new mantle where I balance my cane

before I ride out to conquer—Cain

overcome with freedom, a skinny

kid undertaking the transformation

from poor-man’s prophet to phenom

(the kind of stunt that relies on sleight

of hand). What’s next? To jump

or obey the body’s genius: don’t jump,

an unwritten rule as arcane

as reaction being action’s opposite.

I won’t tell you why I’ve defied my kin,

styled spit to mimic venom.

I won’t admit my bike is terraformed—

so like a rocket that I deform

just looking at it—but hope this jump

will be my last time alone. Venomous,

snake river cuts through yellow cane,

sagebrush, and volcanic skin

probing for weakness at the site

where I’m a dead man, the site

where pain is love’s confirmation.

Narrate these lines—each vulgar, skint

syllable—over the rebroadcast jump

and you’ll summon a hurricane

of doubt, leave my pride envenomed.

But when I’m out of sight, having jumped

(with good form) like a crane,

I’ll bear the mark of Armageddon.

Source: Poetry (July/August 2025)