I
The sand—as if to say go ahead—
parts beneath my feet. The balls
of my feet spin this planet around.
At eight a.m. the azure sky
lays itself over the straw-tinted
fields, and I am the border between
nowhere and somewhere.
This is where I make savage the body
and civilize the mind, where I
recount every other quote, from
Bruce Lee to Muhammad Ali
as the poets play guitar and offer
me their moral conviction—
conviction which sleeps within me
like a tornado caresses a forest.
And though I may run in circles,
I shed my water weight in sweat
rather than tears, and sure enough,
my mind and sight are always
set ahead, ahead, ahead.
II
What I deciphered then, now
seems so direct. I must have thrown
the ladder away at one point.
Yet, I believe myself to be climbing.
Yet, I am still me, here, now.
Yet, I aim ahead. But I must have
more of myself there than those
sixty-six pounds left lying in the ditch.
And though I ran in circles, I must have
been running from something,
on the right path.
So when sister says we won’t ever go back
I say I couldn’t, because I’ve never been;
though the feet are the same, the shoes are replaced,
and so I pace.
Tags: art, literature, poem, poetry, verse
Source:
http://banalplatitudes.wordpress.com/2012/10/12/around-the-crude-swamp/