Oct 2013
Dig your teeth from out of the street.
Stumble back to your feet, boy, you aint finished yet.*
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 so hard. 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.
The harder we fall, the greater the impression we make upon the Earth. That’s the ****** Tunes lesson we are hellbent to learn as children from Saturday morning cartoons, and even here, with the wind rushing past our ears, we question how Wiley Coyote could ever be so ******* stubborn.
But these days a friend teaches me my grown-up, penny pinching lessons with wishing well thoughts about how I should slow down. He says, “you’re a snail with Nascar aspirations--obsessed with the novelty of speed, ignoring how your anatomy isn’t meant to move so quickly.” He says, “Everyone knows you’re a sucker for a pretty face and a sundress.” And I know I’m just being defensive, but his advice strikes me as off-putting as an Ed Hardy t-shirt when it dawns on me that he wears his knowledge like a bad fashion statement but did he ever even know 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 sufficient to convince the next bargain bin buyer to cradle me that I’m not broken.
No.
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 and rise again 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, come Sunday, they’ve somehow mastered the art of flying. Or falling.
I, more often than not, confuse the two, but I think that's just something we humans seem to do.
Stumble back to your feet, boy, you aint finished yet.*
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 so hard. 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.
The harder we fall, the greater the impression we make upon the Earth. That’s the ****** Tunes lesson we are hellbent to learn as children from Saturday morning cartoons, and even here, with the wind rushing past our ears, we question how Wiley Coyote could ever be so ******* stubborn.
But these days a friend teaches me my grown-up, penny pinching lessons with wishing well thoughts about how I should slow down. He says, “you’re a snail with Nascar aspirations--obsessed with the novelty of speed, ignoring how your anatomy isn’t meant to move so quickly.” He says, “Everyone knows you’re a sucker for a pretty face and a sundress.” And I know I’m just being defensive, but his advice strikes me as off-putting as an Ed Hardy t-shirt when it dawns on me that he wears his knowledge like a bad fashion statement but did he ever even know 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 sufficient to convince the next bargain bin buyer to cradle me that I’m not broken.
No.
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 and rise again 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, come Sunday, they’ve somehow mastered the art of flying. Or falling.
I, more often than not, confuse the two, but I think that's just something we humans seem to do.
