​I Can Ride My Bike with No Handlebars
After Flobots

Every day there is something bothering me,
begging me to be a poem. Maybe it’s clues. Maybe it’s textual
musings — the leaf shavings & dog hair decorating the dark wood floor.
The cheerios progressing into sogginess the longer I try
to write me positively into this poem, the contraption trapping electrolyte
water with an orange tint, the condensation painting the inside of the bottle. I’m seconds close
to the ground at all times.
All it takes

is a break in the body’s precision; a bruise is an imbalance
of inertia coupled with the gaudiness of men. No one can tell me otherwise.
I think I've muted the trumpets praising at my eventual demise. In double time,
the demons telling I’m irredeemable hastily laugh
at all they’ve been able to do to me and others. I’ve never been a gender.
Only a rhythm

building into chaos the more minutes are allowed to enter this bridge. I can ride a bike,
tell a lie, flip the leaf shavings into joints that could trick
suburban teenagers, trick the dog into thinking I am the best human
it’s ever met but what if instead I could live.
All I want to do is live. Synesthesia kicks in & all of a sudden I’m seeing color.
The chorus etches itself in red. It reads Learn forgiveness
then you can lead a nation with a microphone
with a microphone
with a microphone

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KB is a poet, essayist, and cultural worker from Texas. They are the author of How To Identify Yourself with a Wound (Kallisto Gaia Press, 2022) and Freedom House (Deep Vellum Publishing, 2023). Follow them online at @earthtokb.