cicLAvia March 2015










At first, it was cold and overcast. Before long, after many handless level roadways and one fun downhill over the 101, people emerged. One woman crossing the Ventura intersection with no shoes, wrapped in a blanket, called out “Why are you coming from that way?” I thought, “Why wouldn’t I be?” but passed too fast to answer.

So many sights of beautiful bikes in flat black, deep down sparkling gold, pinks, white, and silver. Different bells and booming music and voices. Scents of tomato sauce, grilled onions, pastries, and patchouli. Dogs in backpacks and on shoulders; babies in handlebar seats; sunflowers emerging from bags and helmets; street art painted, stenciled, stickered, pasted; random dudes giving me open palms for me to smack with enthusiastic force; three cyclists getting running starts to climb two-tiered mutant bikes; two drunk and insistent cyclists offering me bottles of IPA that I later dumped in a bus stop trash can due to the LAPD presence.

Seven hours later, I laid down next to my dog and replayed the wonder of people reclaiming the asphalt for pedestrian and pedal mobility. Most of all, I painted mind portraits of the bicycles cruising, parked, tethered around lampposts, awaiting friends at the valet, and maneuvering joyously through an uncommon course.
                                                                               Save Me From Myself


Your eyes
contemplative.
But your hand--
so fixed and sure and loving.
Securing my cheek,
fingers hidden. Unseen
delicate tendrils entwining digits
to keep you there,
just there. Save me

Anchoring your forearm to
hold you in this space
looking to you.
It began with longing, then the trust of a savior.
Save me.

Our innate selves
relinquish and
synthesize between
breast bones.

I doubt that anyone,
even you,
can save me from myself.
But I would love
I will love
for you to try.

1-29-15, titled after and inspired by a drawing by Giancarlo Memije