"Move Along" 7-12-13

I was going to end on "empathy", at least until I could get on a computer and do my own typing, but this "Hundred Poets" deal came up and I had to come up with
four poems. Had to! Everyone knows Brandon's the best.

Got two down. Two more to go. Not too shabby.

But I'm close to tears here.

I always wondered why marathon runners got all weepy and weak at the finish line. Falling around. Boobing about shit. But I think I see now.

Every ounce of me wants to steal the show; to be the life of the party; cheer up everyone when I hit the gate. But the closer I get, the more I want to
collapse.

I'm scared. That's part of it. Why ain't I happy?

I've been running. Running running running. Pushups, arm curls, legs, poems, essays. Going going going.

Something don't want to stop running because it's afraid. Afraid of what will happen. Will I collapse?

You hear about it. Tragic shit.

"Released after twenty years, wrongfully accused, had a heart attack."

"Diagnosed with cancer after 25 years. Dies."

"Has a stroke. On life support. Just released from prison." Etc.

We gotta make it to spite the injustice. But the making takes its' toll.

My brain hurts. My heart hurts. My stomach.

I focus on these pains. Like one would make a clay pot on one of those turnstiles. Wet clay. Hands all goopy. Turning turning. Pressure here. Pressure there.

I'm afraid if I let go of my sculpture, clay and slime will just fly all over the place. Plop. Splash.

Can I cry; could I even cry and break down the day that I'm released? Like, maybe I'm unable. Or, maybe if I do, it will set bad precedent. No one will understand.

A marathon runner. One sees the mileage and sweat preceding the collapse. A released prisoner. One doesn't see nothing except...a person. A person who attempts a sprint
one hundred yards before the finish line. Because he must prove he is not broken.

He runs past the finish line. Gets a job and a girlfriend. Then falls over at a later date. When no one's looking. And his "weakness" is blamed. Not the mileage he ran; the
brave face he put on to spite the oppressor and console his loved ones.

If I fall here, if I collapse right now, no one will help me. Nothing will happen. I'd just lie. Lay fallen until I could get back up. Or die.

And, again, the beauty of the human condition comes to me. These packages of blood and bone able to create emotions. And share these feelings with each other.

It's never about what we're going through. It's about creating pieces, pretty pieces, as we go along. Simple.