Before, I felt the ultimate in everything, the
Peak of every mediocre, unremarkable crag
My fingers blistered on, more often under,
And the blunders I’ve survived three decades on.
I find it unsurprising, though an absolute wonder
Sometimes this blood runs at all; organic, beating
Hive, though I’ve done every under thing standing
To strike that fact, and foster futures unalive.
And then, in tinkering and failing high,
Found solace in a family, got dry, and
Put proverbial baskets around the
Appropriately chosen eggs. How
Well-deserved, it’s easter and my
Pastel yellow letters seem to, recently, be
Smudging all together. I’d call them tears,
But that would require some sharpened blade,
Or some fragment of emotion, which we all know
Is a fickle son-of-a-bitch.
I’m counting, now, the colors from the left to right,
Like reading, on the rainbow that’s exploding from
The high school football field across the street.
I’d like to say, initially, it pistons, up and down,
Perpetually a game she saw, and that we see.
But the wind hits briskly this day on the Ridge,
And I’m unsure the proper way to utilize
Such a miserably fractured fulcrum.
Sure, I’ll paint, but you can’t make me like it.
And I can’t make you anything, even with the
Ounces of pain compressed for centuries it
Feels and shines like it’s the coal whose
Neighbor is a diamond. What have I done
Or you that one would think an entity unique
In that it could take life the same, or the same way,
Or time, or day, and this is militantly not alright.
And maybe looking back I’ll be OK. But that is
Not for walks like mine, or times like this.
I squeezed your hand for five days straight,
Then after three stood up and loudly cried.
Then caught my breath, and we both went inside.