Category Archives: Bike Poems

Spoke You, Spoke Me

We here at My Year As A Freelance Bicyclist are proud to offer another selection in our famous Sunday Bike Poems series, this one on a Wednesday. This special love poem is dedicated to the delightful lady in our life.


Spoke You, Spoke Me

Blasted, bent,

broken and not broken

my heart is a spoke and you are the wheel

We spin together

The problem, of course,

is that every wheel has lots and lots of spokes—

I mean like a shitload of spokes, really, when I think about it—

Which means you’re obviously getting dick

and emotional support

from every angle


Still, it feels special, and it feels like

you need me a little.


Me and your other "friends"


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Handlebarred Like A Sweet Angel

After hundreds of “Where in the fuck are the bike poems?!” emails, we relent. And we also remind you, speaking of, that we here at My Year As A Freelance Bicyclist do certainly aim to please. Let it not be said that we don’t aim to please. When it suits us, that is.

And so: another selection for our near-unanimously lauded Sunday Bike Poems series. This one comes to you on a Friday.


Handlebarred Like A Sweet Angel


I remember seeing a vision of your sweet, angelic face

It was on the internet

You do porn and I watch porn


I bet you couldn’t do that while riding

on my bike handlebars


I do freelance,

and so do you, sort of


I miss you


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This Seat Is Not My Seat

Another Tuesday selection for our exclusive Sunday Bike Poems series, a series that will likely get picked up by a publisher in the event that I someday go on a murderous rampage and get caught.


This Seat Is Not My Seat (Ballad of a Broken Saddle)


I arise in the morning, the early morning—

rain on the roof, dripping endless down the walls—

with time to write a backwards message on

the condensation-riddled front window of my home,

I say, backwards,

“Richard Childress has huge acne”

except I forget to write huge backward so it reads

something like “eguh acne” from outside

but I leave it as it is


Richard Childress is my neighbor

and he does have huge acne


I ready myself with stretching and black coffee

with warrior pose on my front porch

in full view of Richard Childress and his wife

I know she loves it, loves my mature skin


I arise in the morning from my stretching

and I travel, smoothly, to the backyard

it is my backyard

But when I reach my bicycle, I gaze upon its many curves

and I see immediately, I say out loud at once,

This seat is not my seat!

Because it’s not

It’s the seat of a child, and my own broken saddle

rests upon the ground in the rain next to my



And I understand in that moment

that Richard Childress is the better man

the craftier neighbor


But he still has huge acne


Childress's likely route of attack, chronological

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Dance Like Diamonds

A Sunday Bike Poem in honor of January Day, a holiday for the small WeGotCha people in the Brownsville neighborhood in Brooklyn, New York. The WeGotCha people practice random acts of urban dance in various places, including subway cars, river walks, roofs of buildings, and inside the halls of city buildings.


“Dance Like Diamonds”


This morning, I dance like diamonds

I shine like dulled automobile paint,

I scream like a deaf-mute


But I ride


And I dance with you

I got cha

I dance on my bike

In circles and squares and, maybe, a hexagon


And you better fucking believe

in bike dance

Or I’ll purposely accidentally GetCha

With a flying spoke

It will stick in your stomach, accidentally purposely,

And always remind you, with a little bitty scar,


Of bike dance


Sort of bike dance, but not really

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Another installment of our beloved Sunday Bike Poems series. This time on a Saturday.



When I ride my bicycle into a funeral,

into the frontmost row not reserved for family,

you assume it’s ignorance, or disrespect,

or maybe innocence


Sometimes, at your worst, maybe you imagine that I’m sort of retarded a little


But no. Oh, no.


Where I come from,

entering a funeral home without a bicycle—

that’s ignorant, and disrespectful,

and a little retarded


And so later,

me and my boys,

we ride tight circles around your father’s grave

as you and your family grieve like broken gorillas,

We wear stripes the color of his country

And we sing quiet songs in a dead key

while you

scream and pedal in place


You want to believe it’s cockamamie, old-country tradition

based on nothing but rude instincts

But bitch, you know it’s real, no matter what you want to believe


And we all loved your father.


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Fears Of Abandonment, or, Punch The Neck

A Wednesday Sunday Bike Poem:


Fears of Abandonment, or, Punch The Neck


When you abandon me, Strength, I have to curse

you, I must! Your disloyalty makes a man ache to punch

you in the neck, Strength.


When you abandon me, Faith, inevitably on a hill in the rain by

myself, I curse you! Your invisibility,

it forces a good man to bleed from desire to punch you

in the neck, Faith.


When you abandon me, O Bicycle, leaving me to squander on my side

with a bloody hip and elbow, and you lay next to me and laugh, I curse you

too, of course I do! Your instability and your fiery relationship with

gravity make you unreliable as fuck,

as I scream to the heavens to beg for you to have a neck

that I can punch, O Bicycle.



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Next installment in our Sunday Bike Poems series:




Yes, I will make my way

To your house

I said I would

Didn’t I


I am freelance

I make no promises

That I do not


Don’t I


Yes, I wear a helmet, and no,

You don’t have to pay

Worker’s comp if I fall

Do you


Because I am independent—

Contractor, that is—

So fuck off

And die

With these questions

Wouldn’t you

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