the cool wind in my hair
as you and I glide across
the cement jungle.
You make my life tolerable
in this crazy urban landscape,
my trusty metal steed that
helps me duck and weave in
stand still traffic of the Nation's capital.
nothing like flying through the city on you, my bicycle,
on this beautiful spring day. I know you can't speak,
but if you could, you would also say "wheeeeee" with glee.
This is a portrait of abandoment:
rusty spokes, faulty breaks, and negligent owners.
(I'm still lying on the sidewalk too, waiting for a reason to shift gears.)
Most of the time you make me feel like I'm a bicycle.
Steep, reckless roads. Dangerous with every twists and turns.
But with no reason I just keep on going; pedaling and pedaling until I reach you.
And when I do, The handle becomes my strength, the pedal becomes my direction, and the wheels become my feet.
I can fly, standing, my
back erect, I can fly, holding
my arms aloft, I can
fly, speeding down the hill, I
can fly, swerving around cars.
I fly, dancing with death and
courting danger, I fly, laughing
loudly at my fear, I fly,
relishing the near-misses and almost-
impact of tragedy, I fly, I
spin, I wheel, I turn, I
soar, (I escape
edited February 10, 2014
The autumn sun slides low
against the hours,
peaking over the day
as if barely begun
and almost finished.
There is something familiar
here in the half light,
not quite vertical yet
bright enough to see
the path I ride is not as rough,
the wind is not as strong
and my heart is not as hard
as days since passed
where in hind-sight
I peddled for sanctuary;
a morbid kind of half-sight
held tight by a half-life of
loneliness and lies
now long lost
and finally made right.
You are a bicycle,
your rims are rusted;
Rusted to the overblown rubber tire.
Your chain is broken.
We've tried to splice it so many times,
but I'm running out of links and I'm broke.
You broke me, you ran over my foot.
No apologies. Only the reminders you leave like leaches.
"Well, I told you. I'm a bike."
Well, I told you not to hurt me.
Then you deliberately sought out to run over my foot.
Then ask me "Will you pump my tires, will you oil my chain."
I do these things for you, without being asked or appreciated.
Do them because you're my bicycle, and I appreciate you.
For getting me places, and knocking me down
to give me bruises, bumps, and scars
Scars that remind me, I am not a bicycle.
I am the flesh and blood of the world.
I am not a hollow iron cast;
My innards are in motion with my mind and heart.
I gotta stop pumping the tires on this bike, and toss it.
This bicycle gave me tetanus from it's peddles trying to run away.
Stop cutting up my fucking feet, bike.
It's well past midnight but you're still on the road
Joints stiff from bending over the handlebars
The wind's been in your bones for such a long time
You can't even remember when you got on
The hard asphalt road stretches on forever
Streetlights, neon signs and glaring windows whizz by
One by one, like the all people in your life
Every one so different and yet all the same
The only steady sound is your pumping heart
And the low whirring of well-oiled chain and gears
For each push of the pedal beneath bare feet
The other one rises inexorably
Troubles that seem to never stay down for long
Beads of sweat form endlessly on your forehead
They enter your eyes but never reach your cheeks
Reduced to just a little salt by the wind
You're reminded of reasons to be happy
That disappear before you finish thinking
And leave your eyes with a stinging sensation
It feels like there's something stuck deep down your throat
You can't dislodge it with your exhalations
It won't go down however hard you swallow
Perched on the cold metal frame, chasing the moon
It feels less like you're trying to run away