I ride my poems like a bicycle, legs pumping through lines in acceleration, hands gripping the bars to navigate around obstacles.

Discarded phrases are clothespinned to the spokes, making a noise more formidable than my own.

Sometimes I ride a tricycle when I am immature, knees at my ears, plodding along and balanced.

Sometimes I go retro with a banana seat, apehanger handlebars, and a transistor radio taped to the frame.  It’s all about the image.

You prefer my lightweight racer, the one with elaborate gears that smooth over reality, while I am drawn to the sturdy urban bike, with its large fendered tires and comfortable seat.

This is the one I ride without a helmet, legs straight out sideways off  the pedals, screaming aloud as I fly down a hill, watching ideas shoot out the basket.

Copyright 2010

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