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kick me, I'm Polish

the bicycle was a gift
from my grandparents
nazi sympathizers, the both
of them, eager to carry
on Hitler's dream of eugenics
by presenting me with
the one bicycle sure to
get me beaten to death
before Christmas

they always resented my
father's polish blood
flowing through my veins

every color of the rainbow
was represented on the
frame of that bicycle
a vibrant array of colors
canary yellow oranged
into bloodlust red
purpling into frostbite blue
greening back to yellow
tassels fluttered from
the handlebars and I
was afraid to break contact
with the banana seat for
fear that someone might
notice the crudely drawn
cowboy twirling a lasso
as he rode a bucking bronco
across the rainbow
bisecting the seat

the neighborhood kids
called me Tootles and,
given the bicycle's lack
of adequate exceleration
they had no problem running
me down to deliver one of
those frequent beatings
that defined my summer

but I survived
heterosexuality intact
until I bought my first car
a gold Buick with pussy pink
quarter panels and a purple hood

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