Inspired by the late British soldier, activist, and explorer Henry Worsley …
I wish for the ice.
Wish for it endless.
Blue and black and white and gleaming.
Hard ice sparkling under a cold distant Sun
that rises and falls for me,
for you.
I Fight against but welcome Wind.
Wish to be a Good Man standing, walking,
cold, hungry, miserable but feeling that burn,
that burn of the existence of my destiny for Survival,
because I know better now that Survival is the capitalization of "god."
I ponder my place in Evolution, and feel in my chest the sad presence of a lonesome Ghost,
Feel that out there somewhere is a point where light and life are frozen,
but melting in Sunlight into sweet fresh water I wish to drink.
To walk further then further then beyond my conception of "Further",
navigating into the lethal helicopter-less void.
Legs aching then swaying then robotic they swing,
a perfect instrument of Man's will to freedom
but still simply humble rambling limbs.
I wish for the ice.
Wish for it endless.
Blue and black and white and gleaming.
Hard ice sparkling under a cold distant Sun
that rises and falls for me,
for you.
I Fight against but welcome Wind.
Wish to be a Good Man standing, walking,
cold, hungry, miserable but feeling that burn,
that burn of the existence of my destiny for Survival,
because I know better now that Survival is the capitalization of "god."
I ponder my place in Evolution, and feel in my chest the sad presence of a lonesome Ghost,
Feel that out there somewhere is a point where light and life are frozen,
but melting in Sunlight into sweet fresh water I wish to drink.
To walk further then further then beyond my conception of "Further",
navigating into the lethal helicopter-less void.
Legs aching then swaying then robotic they swing,
a perfect instrument of Man's will to freedom
but still simply humble rambling limbs.
This is my small history, and I realize why men
rarely make history alone:
The loneliness is unbearable,
but I bear it alone in this endless land of cold empty canvas.
To be so alone and close to death is to know it no longer matters if you are human.
To know nothing beyond the dark howling night and the strange redness amongst the stars Tonight.
To welcome the light but not care.
To push to keep moving anyway, slipping, stepping, determined with the sole goal of moving forward regardless of fire, or food, or how the bird flies.
In the Wind
I hear the band playing.
I feel my eyes weeping.
I feel my feet leaping.
Skipping forward, "progress not perfection," but remembering too much sweating is deadly once you stop moving it can freeze your sweaty ***** solid, gotta to be careful, but always moving.
My God, to scan the sun on the horizon
see the young women on the beach in bikinis,
but to move your legs with them.
To dance with hallucinations.
To live as a victim,
but be the crime.
To be nimble and quick and sing to God's children.
To be righteous and strong in the winds of God's vengeance.
No song other than a dream of tomorrow's music.
Nothing to visualize or interpret.
No more worries for Death or Life.
No "Being"
just transparent,
Endless,
beginningless.
A line never drawn.
An infinite negative number without digits or decimals or logic or rhyme.
You can't fix your broken past but still the Wind moves you,
or so the naked ex-lover moans as she writes,
unseen in the green growing tall grass.
She hides but she beckons.
The jail cell door swings open with a unoiled hospital sound,
open to a world I must recreate on my own from another place.
That **** symphony of a thousand clicking locks keeps playing bad blues,
I must start playing with that Band, and jam the music slowly into a form I can reconcile with my Heart.
Elsewhere the Wind breaks the sad old trees and they fall and break the houses and break the people in them and the people break my concentration.
The tornado holds no sympathy but only releases it to the news channels.
Its an odd weapon,
a brutality,
a misdemeanor of the Divine.
Life is Suffering,
its Chaos,
its more meat for the animals,
it's the frailty of old age and
its the helplessness of newborn youth.
Its Beauty, and carnage, and ******, and work, and Love
and paying taxes.
And the stars pierce the midnight and find me,
they glance and they smile and they talk.
They say:
"You be grateful, young Man.
You walk."
- March 2019, Siesta Key, FL
Fantastic profile of Henry Worsley by the legendary journalist David Grann: https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2018/02/12/the-white-darkness
