In the old warehouse of big business sits
Bike Heaven:
The remnants of past American
Ambition.
It is the junkyard of vain innovation:
Bikes with springed spokes, bike-shaped jokes,
Oreo-themed bikes, a butt-powered bike—
Iterations upon iterations of the same old idea—
Creative energy squandered in the rat-race for
Money.
It is money they’re all searching for:
The bikes scream, “Me! Me! Me!”
In their antiquated voices fading into noise,
In vain for consumers long-gone to give them a hoist.
It is a place of infinite consumption, of infinite consumerism,
An infinite labyrinth of infinite profiteerism—
Infinite, for the American spirit never dies—
The thread that connects all the past and the nigh:
The drive to become the new self-made man.
I hear the tinny country singer sing
Of hard workers making the bling
On the failed innovation called a radio-bike.
So this is where the products of hard workers go,
The refuse of failed American dreams.