His name is Trycycle. He was born in captivity, but then, who wasn’t? He only eats meat. When I asked him why an herbivore only eats meat he responded airily, Because plants can’t defend themselves. He lets me throw hoops around his horns. It’s the only thing he lets me do, and so I do it. I toss circles into the air and they land round his bone thorns, and he is silent as a stone. He never dreams, I watch him while he sleeps, but the eyes never flutter. When I ask him about it, he says, Dream about what? What of gossip? I asked him. He was silent for long time then said, The brachiosaurus, the brachiosaurus. Can you imagine smelling a flower by putting it to your crown? [or, Underwater plants are a little overrated to grow a nose on your dome.] He looked longingly at me and I knew I didn’t really understand why this meant so much to him. I still don’t. When I straddle him, my breasts gleaming with oil, my hair so many strands in the wind, Trycycle stomps the earth like he’s making earthquakes for us to swim in. We’re practically God. Sometimes we run into other nude woman riding other dinosaurs, but we don’t talk to them and they don’t talk to us. We’re just nude ladies that ride dinosaurs and don’t feel the need to converse or form a club or anything. We just are because there’s a longing in the world that can only be answered by ladies in the buff riding roughshod lizards. We did not ask for this, all of us girls would be happy running the free market or divorcing SOBs, but here we are, riding. Trycycle especially dislikes miniature gold courses. Something about miniaturized stuff really sets him off. I say, Woah boy, it’s ok, it’s only young dates and board families, and yet, and yet. There’s probably a deeper story, but I’m a surface chick. He asked me why I don’t wear clothes, I could ask you the same question. There’s no end for us because there was no beginning. I asked, I said, Trycycle, what’s it like to be a symbol? It’s like everything else, he sighed, It doesn’t mean anything.