Before Magdalena and I are gonna cross America on two motorcycles. We're gonna be so fucking cool, mirrors and windows will break when we pass by. We'll have our own hardcore theme music that makes us throw our heads back and bite the sky, and women wearing pink foam curlers in passing RVs will desire us and we'll slowly turn to them at seventy-five miles an hour and mouth "hello" back. Bugs may stick to my burgundy lipstick, but I'll just spit them back and they'll look all the prettier for it. Yeah / cooool. Two party bags of drugstore ice on motorcyces. The sun wouldn't dare melt us because it would be a big, huge, major mistake. We're gonna ride from armpit to armpit across the chest of America, joyridefull-throttle down the crack of Tennessee's ass. Bite a Grand Teton andgoose Amarillo, Texas. Bypass Florida altogether because you get old there like "real" fast. Sloppy kiss the greasy lips of Louisiana. Caress the cool, clean underside of a butcherblock from a slaughterhousesomewhere in Montana. Hey, there are a zillion ways to say you're going cross-country and Hallmark has a card just for you. We'll be riding the cheapest motorcycles we can find / stopping every forty-five minutes for gas. Truck stop waitresses will wink and jam dollar bills in our happy little beautifully tanned fists, but we'll whisper "no thanks, " because we don't need it / we'll live off the fumes from our estrogen. And we'll be spitting out mango pits like fucking bullets if anyone says anything about our huge Latin American breasts. Copyright © 1997 by Erika Lopez