She rides a borrowed bike between
Berlin streets and graffiti piles–
the sky is gray, but not sad, and
all day it will not rain, though it could have
whenever it wanted to. She arches her back
for better posture, but the clouds are rather heavy.

Left down Schönhouser Allee left the map at
home left Torstraße circus hostel right look
right left right? Bitte, wo ist diese Straße?–ah,
stimmt, yes, that makes sense–she pumps her
legs with energy, becomes a powerhouse, glides.
Found it! Unter den Linden, Erbertstraße.

She sees the gate, closes her eyes. Why? Too many
voices! Why? Because they killed Jesus? Every few days
a new bed. Why? Does each day feel like another life?
By now the sun is out–you don’t have to worry now–
she rides her bike through a garden cement garden
guarded by statues pretending to be people pretending
to be plants–what’s wrong with you?!

I wonder what his father would say. Nevertheless,
notebooks flung on the grass and there’s something
gross stuck in the grooves of the front tire;
a cheese sandwich never looked so good.
Are you coming home? What’s the big idea?
How do you know it’s bloom? The statues are
mostly male except a few who are centaurs and griffins.

Man-like horses and horse-like men. Too gray, I meant
too green. There are too many men and not enough
ladies and who wants to be a statue anyway? Living all
alone neither awake nor dead. I think love is the worst
reason to marry, and to marry the worst reason to love.
Why do you drink? Well, I drink to please.

To breathe or not to breathe? Well kiddo,
I don’t think that’s the way it goes. Schönhouser Allee.
Home. Snack, a nap, some wine.
Some people drink to forget their troubles.
I drink to forget flying sex snakes.

Published by Virginia Valenzuela

Writer * Editor * Musician

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