You've been unkind this year, and you know it. I can only hope you know what you're doing.
Because I wonder. Through the bombardment, in the acid drizzle on the arid ground, there have been trail markers. Haven't there?
And haven't I followed them? I cut and I ran. I put the moving van behind me. I quit my job. I disinfected, showered, boiled. Folded, laundered, packed. I ran away and danced. You said go; I went. You said no and I turned tail. I drank your little bottle of yes. I closed my eyes. I leaped.
I'm beginning to think we're in Acting 101, doing trust falls, and you're the skinny kid with the dirty sneakers and the smelly pits. Your arms outstretched, your palms sweaty, you give every outward appearance of wanting to catch me, but your bony elbows are no match for my weight and don't I look foolish? A little stupider every time I fold my arms across my chest and keel backwards.
And yet, bruised everything, bruised ego, I continue. I scan the horizon for mirages, perch like a yogi on the mountain, blur my gaze to the future, listening to every wayward wind current for direction.
So far it says: love while you can. It says: write faster. It also says: be careful or it all goes up in flames.
It even says: Brooklyn . . . something about tuna and Mies and tea.
The odds ought to improve eventually.
Because I wonder. Through the bombardment, in the acid drizzle on the arid ground, there have been trail markers. Haven't there?
And haven't I followed them? I cut and I ran. I put the moving van behind me. I quit my job. I disinfected, showered, boiled. Folded, laundered, packed. I ran away and danced. You said go; I went. You said no and I turned tail. I drank your little bottle of yes. I closed my eyes. I leaped.
I'm beginning to think we're in Acting 101, doing trust falls, and you're the skinny kid with the dirty sneakers and the smelly pits. Your arms outstretched, your palms sweaty, you give every outward appearance of wanting to catch me, but your bony elbows are no match for my weight and don't I look foolish? A little stupider every time I fold my arms across my chest and keel backwards.
And yet, bruised everything, bruised ego, I continue. I scan the horizon for mirages, perch like a yogi on the mountain, blur my gaze to the future, listening to every wayward wind current for direction.
So far it says: love while you can. It says: write faster. It also says: be careful or it all goes up in flames.
It even says: Brooklyn . . . something about tuna and Mies and tea.
The odds ought to improve eventually.
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2 comments:
Somethings missing, wasn't the another post here yesterday? The world is the last place I would fall backward into. Fall backward into your own instincts.
mmhm. yes. the odds ought to improve indeed.
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