Dig your teeth from out of the street.
Stumble back to your feet, boy, you 'aint finished
The more we fall, the harder these callouses grow
from crawling on all fours across coarse, crumbling asphalt;
sprawled out like spider legs. Desperate to seem larger
than life deemed fit.
And we fall…
You can tell by the fine collection of scars forming constellations
across our elbows and knees as if to say, Look,
We bleed so much like sky, why wouldn’t we believe that we could defy gravity?
Yet, come Sunday, we’re always convinced that flying will come
naturally so, naturally,
we fall again from the tops of tall buildings.
and someday say the pain was well worth the impression we made on the Earth.
It's a Looney Tunes lesson we were hellbent to learn from Saturday morning Summer cartoons.
But in the Fall, we'll still question how Wiley Coyote could ever be so fucking stubborn.
Yesterday I was told to slow down.
I was told, I’m a snail with Nascar aspirations—
obsessed with the novelty of speed, ignoring how my anatomy isn’t meant to move so quickly.
And I know I’m just being defensive, but the advice strikes me as off-putting as an Ed Hardy shirt
when it dawns on me that this voice wears its knowledge like a bad fashion statement without ever really knowing what the rhythm in my pace meant.
I’m not the kind to stand still and see where the train stops,
I’m a freight-hopper without a destination.
When excited, I speak faster like some love-child
of candlestick and dynamite: Ignited.
Spitting sparks from both burning ends.
I know I’m primed for disaster, but I’d rather shatter and burst open than fracture
and spend every morning after holding those cracks together; believing that a little glue is enough
to convince the next bargain bin buyer to cradle me that I’m not broken.
Let me rather be particle matter.
Let me be braille for the breeze. I have no doubt that day will come eventually.
But not today.
Today, I find grace in reanimation,
and if they say grace is the face of God, then I’ll practice my best Christ impression.
I’ll rise from this human shaped crater like the world’s least intimidating zombie apocalypse.
I’ll bless my eyes blind with crosses tilted off-kilter like dead cartoons do
because on Saturday mornings they’re always reborn with ACME epiphanies
sprouted like assembly line angel wings and I imagine,
they’ve somehow mastered the art of flying.
I seem to confuse the two, but I think that's just something
we humans seem to do.