V.P., Part 5

Because you pedal. Because you glide. Because you’re effortless, you’re easy, and your tan is coming along nicely, young man. At the bottom of the hill over which I hang is a nice grid of suburban streets, the trees, the lawns, the sheds–all that shit. But you no longer belong there, do you, you little monster?…

V.P., Part 4

Because I wear poplin shorts and sandals, the plastic smacking at my skin. My shirt tied up like a ninja mask over my face. Revolutions of the pedals, the turning of the gears; moving forward I return to where I start. I have to think like this, like a metronome in my mind, because otherwise he’ll…

V.P., Part 3

Because you want to be like John Smith. Why? The guy’s a twit. A raging narcissist. An impulsive, irreverent heretic, one who– and all he’d have to do, if we’re being honest here, all he’d really have to do if he wanted to get back on our good side would be to pay a little…

V.P., Part 2

Because I’m the Boy and I pedal, the chrome and the rubber and the steel. I spread viscous stuff on her each morning as blinking I wheel my girl out from the shed. Where we live up in Maine I can lean her up against the front of a business, no problem, and always she’s…

V.P., Part 1

The Moon is talking down to the Boy this time, he says: Pedal your bike, Boy. He says: We watch you while you sleep. He goes: It’s me, Demos, Phobos, the hands under your bed; we know you’re tempted to tell your mom about us, but you better not. Just don’t. Trust me. You won’t…