40 feels like a hard halfway tickertape.
I am riding a bicycle in the tiniest of bikinis
I am surrounded by sea creatures, and I am the walrus.
My tongue salty. My head full
of wet jabber. My hips slick undulation - black and blue
from all this mishandling. All this exorcise
slimming me down. Svelte scent of nightfall and rosebuds
pricking my hopeful skin. Toes dragging dual pedals -
my eyes curled to cradle their fill of beauty - it pools and drips
prominent cheekbones.

Yaasika Quist says "There are only two types of people -
those who choose Love, and those who choose Fear."
When we break down
for the third time in Oxnard, California
I give up completely. Cry my eyes out in the Walmart parking lot.
I wonder which one I am.
I am still wondering.

I have never worn a bikini.

I have only lived naked,
or wrapped
in the thickest of woolen overcoats. I do not want to be cold
but sometimes I am. My thin epidermis, torn
between shiver and itch.
If there are only two sides to choose from
how does the coin maintain its edge? Outline its boundaries?
I like my rims janky. Lopsided and rickety -
periphery edging towards the undefined,

unknown

like the side-of-the-road rainbow deadending in a ditch.
I swear - you’ll never see life properly from behind the windshield,
but it flashes before your eyes, right when you fly through it.

That’s the easy way out.

The Bulgarians say there are two types of people -
those who piss on the floor
and those who lie.
The sodden mezzanine of love incontrovertible proof
of truth - and I am a parched puddle
I am evaporating outward
I am brow sweat times distance traveled -
the Verbal Kensington of flight risks - of cycling
of road divided by yellowbelly lines - and there are no pitstops in sight,
so I will choose love. I will decide
to become one with everything - a cloud swelling and sobbing
into the ocean. An eager tsunami - somersaulting to embrace the shore

The full force of Love
is a barrelling walrus. Moist blubber and bellyflop -
full leap and faith splash.
No peripheral nervous system. No theatrical pause.
Cercas claras hacen bien vecinos.
I am clearing the fences. I am jumping hurdles. My walls
graffitti themselves into welcome signs -
they tear their overcoats off, and run for the finish line
flailing for the red tape.
Every breakthrough stands shivering in a light breeze.

Look -
you can see right through me.