Poetry \ Digital Painting
Dykes on Bikes \ Dyke Love
Dykes on Bikes
They never fail to bring a
Tear to her eye, these dykes
On bikes, declaring this parade is ON. Like a
Proclamation, a permission
Manifesto of all our dreams — except for the pipe dreams (Unless it’s your pipes)
On those bright Saturdays in June
The motors rev and so do our dreams, our
Rêves, which is French for dream, accelerating all
Our fantasies of being
Both drivers and passengers right now
When they do that, with their bikes
These dykes, something awakens in
Her like a muscle, kicking itself
Into high gear, no fear, you can see it on
Her face now, these vibrations
from her vertebra, from these bikes
Like you she claimed her name, told them what
She was, when all they’d said was what she
Wasn’t. Crushed their silence with her thunder, penned Her own public notice of noise, and then tore it to Pieces with her own teeth, refusing not to run
Off at the mouth
Quiet now: as we wait for the first blast, suspended in Air until the dykes burst us like bubbles with their
Cacophony, leading in their famous formation, infamous In their ability to tell time
To be told by a dyke on a bike is to be told
It’s time
Dyke Love
