im running
lean back and forward go with the flow
dont pop your knees its stupid
and im running
and with a ball
the world for a while
just playing around but for real
rusty... hah, everytime the same old curves
like a river that stops changing with age
and im running
switching feet send it to the middle
and back to the backstop,
a goal too big and too small
an old tobacco net, rigged to poles
flipping and flapping in the summer breeze
undercut and the sphere flies over the fence
and im running
jump it and chase the mut, play around
but stop before her shiny teeth penetrate this balloon
back over the fence, holly biting my ankles
but never going further, never injuring
left foot right foot its all the same but all the difference
and im running
a final time standing in the shade
the bubble balanced on a beautiful few blades of green
checking the side view the sun in the trees
windows of houses near but theres no one home
only fifty yards or so to the brown on the green
to everyone later this cut-took
but the truth, like a dream or the most private confessional
known only to me and god
is a curve
not a curve like that of the river
or the arc a rubber band makes across a room
more or less straight but a perceived and planned curve
perhaps overcompensated, as the bullet fucks it up again
and im running
down the river that leads to my shelter
or, perhaps, up... depending on your perspective
or your personal view on the glass issue
worn out soles pounding the pavement
worn out soul pushing them further
the sky slowly fades from purple to black
taking a cue from the lifeblood giving it notice
nearly the same as the heart
beating in perfect harmony with the feet
as if by remote, and if they fail, so does it
and im running
on and on down the river, now dry from traffic
not there but heard with every backward glance
imagined with every cricket chirp that makes you jump
felt with every fly that crashes and sinks in my skin
almost damp with beads of dew but not yet
as if holding off for the grand finale waterfall at the end
and im running
around the bend in the meandering river
the same bend the feather took on the wind
that used to blow around here
the same bend traffic sucked dry and where grass
used to live in the dirt long buried by the new concrete grave
and im running
i reach the end and think for a second, a precious thought
that slows me enough for my airbags to catch up
and cause a pain in my breast signaling me to tap the ground
turn around and continue on, going back but going forward
left side or right side left foot right foot
it doesnt matter because cars dont go here anymore
not this time of dusk, not this day of the week
saved but from the tramping of a boys feet
and im running
back round the bend back home down the hill
but upon seeing the others in their drive scraping with a rake
rocks, eerily similar to the viet-congs harvesting rice
before such a quarrel broke out that i turn back
which is to say, forward again
and run back, away from the silent escalating tension
that the rocks create for the rake
and im running
back to the end, which is the middle
the middle was to be the turning point until then
i decided the middle to be the curve and the road, the middle
which recieved me as well as it had before, albeight a little darker
but that comes with the night, advancing as i was toward a destination
unstated but still known by all, which will one day prove us wrong
and dissapear, causing all certainty to cease and i will laugh
and im running
with the idea to touch the pavement, to ignore the pain in my heart
because the pain is of two things and not one
two faces being physical and emotional the only difference being
one has a repreive at the end of the road while the other will wait longer
turn back, which is still forward as motion tends to be
to end this night and this life on the river
by going back to continue it in rather different venues
under daylight where the crickets chirp wont be as scary
and im running
the rice people have moved with their rock-rake down
and i glide past my heart still in my feet
and my soul still in the sky
but a little easier now because its all downhill
as life tends to be, as i said, it depends on your
perception of the glass issue
which everyone seems to have an opinion of
and im running
right up to the front door, where i dont turn and bid farewell to the night
and life, ever joking, or the door takes my shoe as i walk inside
and forces me to take a last look at the river
that took me there and brought me back on the wings of my heart
and the blades of chartreuse that held the bubble so well
and the wind which didnt contribute to the meandering of the bullet
but took all the blame without complaint
and to god who lets me run