You are so tough
                        you are always pushing

                                    forward forward forward

                        I can do the same
                        I am tough
                        I can push

                                    forward forward forward

                        but if all we are ever doing
                        is pushing
                                    forward forward forward
                        when do we ever

            stop

                        to soak in the scene—
                        freeze frame, cinematic
                        on silent celluloid—

            pause eject return                        

                        and never mind
                        if we forget to
rewind.

grips you from everywhere—
it bursts through your doors and
screams through your phones
it creeps through your
windows, won’t leave
you alone

fingers raw, fatigued
and aging, second-
guessing your first
impressions and triple-
checking your quadrilaterals,
just to be certain you’re
right and congruent to
what they told was true,
doubling back 360°
to square one (if only
for a slice of pie)…

it’s this, it’s you,
it’s me, it’s them—
it’s everyone and everything!
if you let it—

I believe Palahniuk said
it best, something like:
there will always be something
in your way, there will
always be a million and one
reasons not to do it—
to put it off, to let it sit,
to do what’s essential first (as if it’s not),
or what’s insignificant beforehand (maybe it is)—
even more, to determine
which is which,
to spend time deciding,
always some excuse
while life passes
you by…

Allen Saunders understood, right?
“…life is what happens to you while
you are making other plans,”
not to be credited to Lennon—
and you saw what happened to him!

anywho—it was Bradbury
who was writing so as not
to be dead, every single syllable
an epic battle against death
itself, a crusade he
could not lose…

but you know what?
fuck ’em all:

z. don’t submit to the countless
reasons not to do it,
surrender to the one reason
why you should—

y. making plans? don’t even bother;
plans are pointless—we are
far removed from the Reader’s Digest
subscribers of the 50s, and
that wacky beatle can keep
his stolen quote with him,
buried deep in the ground—

x. I am not afraid of death;
that is not to say I am ready
to go, rather that I am not
seeking immortality—
in fact, I recognize its
necessity—I welcome death with a
warm handshake as my primary
motivation, my finest
reminder, that I have
much to do before
I lie down
and belly
up.

filled with those still
yappin at me,
from beside where
I sit

towering down,
menacingly
cruel, scowling
prowling, waiting

their way with words
immeasurable;
silent

records of insanity
scriptures and prescriptions
they could only fill
on their own

black magic tapestries
and peculiar anecdotes
of misery, agony
where what’s beyond our control
takes hold

break the mold; there are
            other ways
under the gaze of
            gray skies and eyes
pointed toward them

a cosmic gavel
unlikely and incomprehensible
the epitome of every—
single— little— thing—
with a sinister smile
that suggests otherwise

a dominion not yet
            diminished, spattered
in tar and not finished
an instantaneous wishlist
            wishing for all
            that it isn’t

just conjure enchantment
            if you can
and hold on to the illusion
            while you have the chance.

[insert the sound of a door opening and closing, footsteps echoing away down a long corridor, the smashing of glass—a window—and a scream that never ends]

I’ve always been
an open flame
at an oil rig
the stick that
pokes the untamed
unbound hungry beast

the real estate
of my gray matter
is exclusive
but not expensive—
we’re looking for
a specific buyer
and we’re not in
a hurry to sell
to the highest
bidder or the
most desperate
or needy

it’s not the
best land
I’ll have
you know,
I cherish my
customers and
always wish to
remain honest
with them, if
nothing else

the dirt is haunted;
there are ghosts—
you can see
their faces and
smell their skin,
you can hear
their whispers—
just like the
first time
every time
and they
just
won’t
go

the ground is dissonant;
there are earthquakes—
unmarked areas where
the land groans and
parts, opening up—
split skeletal
fragments, wisping
muscles from bones,
where people
and places
potential
it all
falls
right
in

the weather is volatile;
there are tornados and hurricanes—
swirling and smashing
crashing and bleating—
lightning and thunder
rolling through often
roaming at will
knocking out power lines
and knocking down homes
without a single
storm warning or
any warning
at all

the air is hazardous;
there is radioactivity
and toxic sludge lurking
in most nooks and crannies
cracks and crevices
eroding the economy
and causing cancer
making it hard
to breathe at
times, but
you adapt

the winter is grating;
there are tundras—
freezing, frozen
regions where frost
rules and there
is no exception—
all foams up to fade,
to froth, to be sifted
off with a butter knife
or shaved off with
a razor blade,
all white and
gray and
gone…

and there are fires—
oh yes, there are wild, wild
fires, engulfing everything—
everything

leaving nothing but ash
floating daintily in
the breeze, and
sterile, fertile
soil, for a new
seed to drink
and grow.