"lactic" poems
Though the first carried more miles, the second day of the hike was totally and unapologetically uphill.
When you ascend, hiking becomes the zen of endurance.
First, you are stripped of all the pleasures of hiking. Your excitement is boiled into lactic acid. Your love for the trail is baked, hardened and dehydrated into thoughts of laying down in the sun until the heat shrivels you into an unconscious raisin.
Try as you may to put on your “isn’t hiking just a slice of heaven?” face, strangers passing you on the downhill stride can only see your “PLEASE GOD, HELP ME OR ******* **** ME” face.
As much as hiking really is a small slice of heaven, there is no denying the living-death of taking 10 straight miles to the knees under the chaffing hell of a 50 pound sack in the relentless sun.
But when you’re back in an office, sitting on your cushy little ergonomic chair, you long for the sweat and the torture that forces your mind to the ankle deathtraps of mountain terrain. To the deep valley behind and below you, and the crystal basin at the foot of the granite Giants.
The worst thing you can do is ignore the pain—that makes it relentless. Instead you focus on the pain until you become it. The only thing left is the moment between each step, when you remember why you are here and what it is worth. Every time your foot touches dirt, it leaves twice the footprint. One on the mountain and another in your memory where you will safeguard the misery of your ascent and hold on for dear life. One day, when your knees are too weak and your body can no longer table your pack, all the pleasures and joys of the trail that you once thought dissipated in the steam of uphill toil will come rushing back with the magnified strength of every year between you and the present you once knew and respected enough to actually live.
And if you didn’t, if you let it only be pain to get through and not to focus or dwell on, then that is what it is and will always be. A dull memory of pain, dark and somber and incomplete.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 2:41 PM UTC
Your pace begins to noticeably pick up,
Your breaths are becoming shorter.
You begin to coach yourself mid stride,
"Glide don't gallop, you look like Tigger for Christ's sake!"
Eventually it washes over you,
You slowly fade into a Sudden abyss of Sorts.
You're no longer running nor jogging,
Hell you're not even moving.
You're somewhere else,
Somewhere you told your mind to take You.
It might be an altered memory of a Past victory
Or perhaps a fantasy in the near future.
Where ever you are,
You're alone.
Yet you are crowded at the same exact Time.
You're in complete control,
Yet you have no idea how to enter or Exit this state.
Before you know it,
You come too.
Back into the reality of your bodies Limits.
Your joints are aching and the lactic Acid has built in your upper thighs.
Your arms have grown heavier and Heavier.
How'd I not notice all this pain before?
Where was I?
All questions foreshadowed by this:
..What the hell do I have to do to get back?
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 4:02 AM UTC
see we don’t take anything too seriously
meet up at my place for some bull ****
splashing in a pool of **** your stuff
they only told us to do as we were told
so we always did the opposite
calling self-destruction noble individualism
take a GB or two or however many get’s the job done
I hear some medicinal **** is coming to town
and yeah grab me another beer
because it’s noon and today still looks ugly
muscles are tripping on lactic acid
stomach growling
but the coffee keeps the leash tight
when the word sober puts your teeth on edge
and the part-time gig scratches your throat
we’re the silly people who weave in and out
of anonymity
with music too loud
and choices too poor
the junkies and jokers are carrying me to the river
because it gets hard to paddle upstream sometimes
and laughter is really only the second best medicine
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 2:29 PM UTC
Galactic curls in spirals swirl, entwining twisted mystery,
where time unrolls in blackened holes, no longer bright and blistery,
but writ like runes on starry dunes enclosed in cosmic history
Galactic dust, from novas' gusts, congesting empty spaces
once fatefully flung beyond the tongue of burnt out astral traces,
may recompress and coalesce in distant times and places
Galactic dwarves, like ancient wharves with silent planets mooring
yet still in spin though long done in, hide flares no longer soaring -
magnetic webs of eons ebb, in thermal fusion roaring
Galactic tides warp space divides, call forth sublime creation
while bending clocks in rippled shocks, unfolding time dilation
that seems to crown the flowing gown of pulsars' pulsed gyration
Galactic stew, a seething brew, midst background noise and chatter
like Chaos reigns, the sole remains of missing antimatter,
with just a trace to form a space-time, curved or somewhat flatter
Galactic glue holds something new: dark energy and matter
that interacts and counteracts the ancient Big Bang splatter:
a cosmic soup of strings and loops, a universal batter
Galactic life's replete and rife 'neath lactic milky wafer,
though solar gales leave unseen trails of cosmic rays, the strafer;
but nonetheless, one must confess, it seems there's nowhere safer
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 8:54 AM UTC
A little taste of tarmac, Bobby
Let me spin my wheels
A little taste of the long flat road
I’ve forgotten how it feels
A little taste of tarmac, Bobby
Make my chainwheel hum
A little taste of the up hill grind
Thirty miles and some
A little taste of tarmac, Bobby
Way out among the farms
A little taste of dust on your lips
My metal soul would calm
Climb up onto the saddle, Bobby
Clip into the pedals tight
Feel my frame respond to you
You always crank me right
Stay with me in the saddle, Bobby
Our ride will be as sweet
As the wash of lactic acid
From your shoulders to your feet
It’s good with you on my saddle, Bobby
I know you feel the same
You push my pedals hard now
And laughing call my name
Lean easy in those corners, Bobby
Accelerating the while
My frame is all aglow now
On your face I sense a smile
Flying home with you, Bobby
You get the adrenaline kick
It makes you sprint the last half mile
And smooth out the left hand flick
A little taste of tarmac, Bobby
I am waiting stem unbowed
Come find me soon and ride me
Before my rims corrode
A little taste of tarmac, Bobby
Make me spin my wheels
A little taste of any road
Or forget how good it feels.
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 11:55 AM UTC
I walked into a room where you were
And my pride kept me from hightailing
It out of the room and running until
My legs burned with lactic acid.
You spoke to me but the words fell on dull ears.
You looked at me but I kept my walls up
Such that in my head I was invisible.
I had done so well protecting myself,
Staying away from the places you frequented,
Not spending time with the people you call friends
Even though they were my friends first.
And then today all my efforts became
Void, vain, utterly useless,
For there I was inwardly crumbling
The broken-then-stitched-back-together
Fragments of my heart
Between proverbial coldhearted fingers.
My jaw is as set as my will: like flintstone,
Cold, hard, and steeled.
You may once have had a hold on me,
Affected me, impacted me,
But today, you are nobody.
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 10:17 PM UTC
Sometimes, if I try, I hum between the tumbling
Hills of the world bracing domesticated beasts.
They graze and grunt all over again,
Entering slumbers following the daily sweep
Of lactic creeks, thin enough to guide tree roots.
Dusk is explained by the party of two, embracing the dividing sun.
Look left to see coral reef skies swim attempting to grasp what is to the right of the Sun:
Silhouettes outlining prayers flattening dimensions of rugged Mosques
Still dusty from wheat flour and patterned by uncooked lentils, that
Slipped through missing seams of Burlap, blackened from the hearth
Malleable as a result of dependency.
Though only half of my sight functions, I reason that
Earth shifts without you. Watching centuries and some odd
Years of changes, I yearn to know where you have gone.
I peer from the peacock’s tail, feeling the pulse of the
World tick away as the fearless pray to someone new.
Your countenance, I interlaced with feathered fingers
Depicts movements, curves. A shame to be without
Language to fill the contours of a nebulaic expression
Or swindling modifications.
You put me here. My eyes anyway.
Expecting me to retire along with buildings for your worship
Powdery paint has spilled and faded along with
Others who have modified your appearance, their someone new.
Even as the shadows swells
A million replicates of Io, moo and sway home, tired from the
Beating sun, to which eyes remain fixed.
One momentary memory visits.
Vision simulate traces of wonder, travelling on
Pathways believed to be conquerable. The people have learned
What I have not. They pause, breathe.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 1:32 PM UTC
Swirling twirling
My life is whirling
My stomach is churning
And my head is spinning
I feel fantastic
The comprehension, nobody has it
My mood is somewhat lactic
Well, without the acid.
Nothing can deter my mood
Not even if, to me, one were rude.
I'd simply look at you
And say "calm down dude."
But alas
I know this feeling will not last
My happiness will not end fast
But like all good things, it will come to an end.
You see, there are demons out there
Nobody knows where
But they always show up
Leaving you like "what the chuck?"
But I'm ready
When they come, my voice shall be steady
My body may be shaking
But my will not breaking
These demons are always on the attack
When you think they're gone, they come back
They come so much I've lost track
And often with some distasteful hack.
But happiness and hope never go away
Like Pandora's Box, there's still hope to show
Everyone is a Pandora's Box
They just need to know.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 12:10 PM UTC
Thirteen thousand strides progress
Blind leathern tread with gritted teeth
Stride hard rough bracken heather strive
Incipient thought embrace the scarp
Bent shoulder strain web strap entrench
Sharp body lean oppose the wind
Slow pitch forward cold lash rain
Pause..Shrug pack .. Lurch on again
Rough rock scrape pass
Sharp edge hand scrape
Each tread ascend dull lactic ache
Stone eyes cast up
Embrace dark peak
Surge on .. Dig in..
Embrace the pain
Aggressive stance.. find strength begin
Engage the enemy entrenched within
With comrades in adversity
Side glance reveal
Grey brother tight
Mordant ploughshare gleaming bright
United thought strong purpose right
Grim grimace glower grinding on
Helping hand support and share
Exchang-ed glances sing the pain
Relentless climb advance distain
Strong ******* stride bogged into mire
Grappling cragfast handclasp dire
Entropic spirit brief despair
Revelatory cause unswayed
Each cloistered personal crusade
Burst upwards into sunlight flame
And stand with vision intertwined
Each grim companion lasting friend
Eyes meet brief recognition shout
We know what it’s all about
These clasping minds
Empath embrace
Profound cognitive self aware
To follow where few others dare
These comrades in adversity
Oct 30, 2009
Oct 30, 2009 at 7:24 AM UTC
I am still trying my best.
Stretching my legs to the coastline,
lactic shackles of inertia
are cast off.
I remember the ease
of animating these young limbs-
concrete strut, woodland walk;
it is hard to think of you much these days,
even in the confines
of unread books and filter coffee.
I have forgotten you, your blue dress,
your punting on the Thames.
There are harder habits
than caffeine and rich women.
As Ol' Tom Waits says,
“you don't meet nice girls in coffee shops.”
The glass roof of the arcade
offers translucent sunlight,
a high-street retreat from the nature of the sea,
all mankind's institutionalisation,
all these walls and closing times,
bigger names over bigger signs.
I am still a rare sight of youth
amongst the patient, ringed eyes
of those book-shop loyalists;
a choir of silver on their heads,
acquired wisdom of faded routines,
old laughter etched like the Nazca Lines
in their faces, lips eroded and pale;
sexless in the fluorescent lighting.
Breathing spaces where life exists
are always held closest to the fear of death.
I am still finding a clean way of living,
a way to accept my place, my face
in the mirror of my self-hate, anxious words
and half-conscious recollections;
the remnants and scars from asphyxiation – old drownings:
the sorrow that separated myself from others,
the sorrow that separated you and I,
you and I.
Your pursuit of a well-ticked time-sheet,
my love for sentiments that rhyme.
I have learned the patterns of the waves,
the way money is exchanged.
Oh, my dearest depression,
my ache for acceptance.
My endless, endless ocean of blue
can be sad, so sad,
but it can be beautiful too.
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 5:29 PM UTC
I look up to the mountains
where does my help come from?
sliding rocks, slithering snakes
Life's patches, wailing winds
thorns in my flesh
cliffs taunt my feet
Serpent hisses all the while
all I see is steep punishment
all I feel is lactic burn
the air thin
I have no fleshly kin
"carry me Eagle, fly me high!" I yearned
but Eagle responds echoeingly
"your footprints carried you all the way,
but through the Way you will have learned"
I look up to the sky
His words lifted me
I look up to the sky
where does my help come from?
Eagle, how high now am thee?
gone is the Serpent
Eagle's cross shaped shadow sweeps over me
bright light above me
"well done my faithful servant"
said the Source where help cometh from
I soar on wings like Eagle,
lactic burn leaves my soul
I run and don't grow weary
I saw where help came from.
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 3:57 PM UTC
the wind whips
at your back like a
slave master;
the water trots
at your feet like a
dog scorned;
the pavement shoves
at your being like a
puberty-struck bully.
this violence is what you
live for, the constant
back and forth, back and forth,
of man vs. nature vs. man vs. self
round and round and round
you go,
laps at the criterium, muscle memory
firing, lactic acid eliciting
yearnings of tranquility you
push yourself on
just one more, just one more,
never allowing yourself respite as though
you were fleeing
Death herself.
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 2:49 PM UTC
I don't write poems because I'm worried you'll think they're "good"
I write poems because I can't do heart surgery
I write songs because I need my poems to sound a different way
Not because I'll get laid if I read this **** at a slam or after I play a set
If you're worried I'm just in this for the praise or the money, don't
I'd have it better as a doctor or a lawyer if that was my goal
I write because I have nothing else burning within me
Except for the occasional case of heartburn or lactic acid (I am human)
I can only observe and report, and augment, and adapt
In a world of chaos, in a world beyond qualification and adaptation
Where truth is a perspective and frameworks cage our knowledge
I can only assess outside of this cage,
I can only claim land in fallow soil, and attempt to quench myself with mirages of Oasis
I'm trying to drink from a dribble cup, my **** keeps spilling out
I love fiercely and speak brashly, I can't keep it contained
so tell me how full of **** I am, or tell me I'm convoluted
and I'll keep trying to quench my thirst in a dry spell
The desert will listen either way.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 6:22 AM UTC
I jog through memory lane
With lactic acid welling in my chest
But euphoric nonetheless.
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 11:08 PM UTC
There is a churning,
spurning surge
like sickly sushi
or bad first dates
rollercoasters
Take it slow, I say
take it no more
than two days at a time
like when your brother
slipped, fell fell fell
down the basement steps
Remember that?
Let it fester
lactic acid
Let it drown
Let it bloat
Then make your
chalk outline
of feelings deceased
Let it waver or
whimper or wallow
but don't let it go.
This is the beginning
of your next great write.
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 4:52 PM UTC
perhaps
the lactic acid in your muscles
serves as a rude reminder
--in the form of ache--
the way you had
forced, overexerted
yourself
--to go the extra mile--
just to
(literally)
run away
from your
problems
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 11:42 PM UTC
Sore shoulders and weak knees,
my body is trying to tell me something.
Lactic acid is building up in my muscles,
settling in my bones: the end to the cycle.
Tomorrow will begin a theater of interactions that matter,
I should take a lesson in concentration.
This isn't what I want, I yearn for the aches,
I love the uncomfort.
Busy work makes me dismissive, and the people
don't help either.
Smooth-brained and simple minded, it's just a future version
of what could become of me.
An inch lift under foot is enough to ignite my intuition.
A weaker version of myself negotiates with my newly forming self:
offering dull reward and a safe spot reserved for my passive pleasure.
Real life low lives are enough to show me what I want.
Sore shoulders and weak knees, they beg me to stop.
But I didn't ask their opinion.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 3:02 AM UTC
the constant pounding
as my cleats repeatedly hit the grass
and the lactic acid frees itself
the constant pounding
of the blood as it rushes
through my spinning head
the constant pounding
as I see two
of the person in front of me
the constant pounding
as I push my jelly filled legs
to keep going
the constant pounding
as I push them even harder
than before
the constant pounding
of my heaving lungs
as I try to **** in more oxygen
the constant pounding
of my body
as I fall over the finish line
Aug 23, 2016
Aug 23, 2016 at 10:20 PM UTC
Spent 4 dollars on the light gun game
in the Barcade, and beat it,
and there are no high scores,
just 2am and sore eyes and
lactic acid in the elbow.
We're all rats chewing holes in
the ship we stow away on.
Sinking in a desperate hunger.
You don't know me, and, so...
don't pretend to anymore.
You don't talk much,
I don't talk much.
So, we don't talk much.
Yet, somehow, everything
is "fine". [citation needed]
Singing in the passenger side this time,
sitting on the vocals for the perfect song,
waiting to make you cry.
I am your doll, full of needles;
We fight by cuddling in armor
padded with barbed wire and thorns.
Mutilated "lovers". [citation needed]
Cold wars and cold tongues and shoulders,
and tired of all the ******** but whatever.
Everything's ******** now.
Nothing is fine, or good,
or okay...
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 3:08 AM UTC
There’s a road sign that
one sometimes passes
on the country roads of Quebec
a child lying still on his side
next to the road
And the words read
“This child could be your own”
though of course
they are written in French
But you’d rather add brine
to an overabundance of peas
peppers and zucchinis
stuff them safely away
in a dark spot
in the kitchen cabinet
in a mason jar and
wait
for the lactic acid tang
to bring out
the pickle
These pickles
are living things
you know
and you can
almost taste them
with their garlic
and dill
But instead
you think about
snake *****
and how it
might smell
The child will be fine you say
he’ll grow up to be an insurance broker
get a divorce at 43
and when he’s eighty-four
his toes will be like gherkins
his nails infected with fungus
and he’ll remember
that day
when he
played dead.
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 6:53 PM UTC
Radiator
like hot breath
reminding you of something
wrong, stinging teeth, sweat
and sore muscles
built up with lactic acid, a changing
and slightly more favorable wind
Central air, central heat
some unsung heroes and sparks
of something new, are you sure
there aren't spikes in my
drink, there's sharp pains
in my throat
How was it supposed
to feel, can't find the right
sounds and the room stinks
of hot leather stretched
over decaying bones
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 6:04 PM UTC
Slip into the viscous stream of starched fabric knowing I belong not here, ever the dissonant clef rattling its bar
Presence coaxes the parched throat but slakes not the gut's burn. I have learnt to swallow the fireballs I fear may wayward fly
Lactic oblivion strains the milk, scrubbing out taints of blossom-red
Speak, so their shunted breaths return trembling to the lips. There is nothing to see, hear, this drum echoes with ghosts you fathom not
Twice weekly I cross over to the past, fleeting high-breasted gryphon among the bright-eyed hatchlings. Then the summons of the bell
Reality strikes as lightning; the boom that trails it is the singed silence of the mute mind
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 7:33 AM UTC
lactic on the tongue
numbing at instance
of longing.
drawing lightness
of me lost to erosion
of this life.
All in Daylight.
somnambulent
in the garden
nodding at the
poppy heart
falling into dilated
eyes.
a journey rounded
by a dream....
of chasing white
monkeys' tails
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 4:33 PM UTC
boys and girls
like oil and water
meet in the electric darkness
a ritual as old as time
set to the pounding
of mechanical drums
boys and girls
they don't see it
but they are each other
fatally flawed to perfection
and they see something
a spark off the flint
and they mistake it for love
because they allow each other
to love themselves
boys and girls
hiding from
men and women
try not to grow up
but a broken clock
is right twice a day
and they have run out of hiding places
their limbs burning
with lactic acid
they finally see
the toxic insignia
a skull and crossbones
no warning labels
this will **** you
so they separate
and you'd better believe
that it was ugly as hell
yelling and screaming and violence
all in the name of self-loathing
boys and girls
just looking for somebody
who is looking for them
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 11:57 AM UTC
Last Of The Season
So trifling –
Going out and berry-picking.
Then at once your eyes pick out
What mind does not.
Fruits few, and you’ve
A doubled effort,
Legs now filled with lactic acid
For the berries are so separate, so far apart
And so far spread that you’ve a stretch
To pick one cluster
And an equal mental strength
To muster.
Berries big but water-filled,
You fill your pail with ease and skill
Glad that you own much ground
And have such land to walk around.
You know that you have filed your last
Holes, hills and hindrances regardless.
Stumbling – but it’s spongy,
Falling – but it’s mossy,
You’ve succeeded,
Your success half-litered and not needed;
You’ve already liters lidded.
Temperature about to drop
Already showing signs of dipping,
Wind is up
And there is no conclusive feeling;
Berries that are season’s last!
You hope you’ll be alive and kicking
Next year when it’s time for picking,
Now that picking time seems past.
Last Of The Season 9.2.2016
Circling Round Nature II; Birth, Death & In Between II;
Arlene Corwin
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 11:26 AM UTC