soft comforters and fluffy pillows have been put in place to ease the falls. and rules have been set to limit the experience. i've run through the alleys of tucson drank hot tea on the upper east side of new york city and swam in two of the world's oceans. i know how and why people are people pass through life in a cozy, comfortable, stifling state.
it's not for me.
i do not want, nor do i seek a comfortable life.
i buy old cars because i enjoy the bumps in the road.
i want to do more than breathe - reproduce - die.
i do not want to go gentle into that good night with smooth skin and no regrets.
i want to die cursing the sun from a park bench with bread crumbs in my left hand, and a walking cane in my right. i want to scream at those who walk by as drool falls from my lip.
i want them to say "look at that old man. that's sad. he's talking to himself."
i will hear them and spit back:
"you are the ones who hated every moment you spent at your job. you are the ones who fueled the petty arguments with your husbands and wives. it was you broke your back to fulfill a dream you didn't even conceive. you who softly whispered 'no' when your soul screamed 'yes,' are said. the wind wishes it was as free as i have become. the sun and i share secrets the night will never hear."
and i will sit back on my bench and hope those sad folks will drop a dime into my cup.
1 comment:
Absolutely gorgeous poem. Really resonated with me. Sometimes I feel like I'm the old man. A lot of the things I've chosen to do in my life, have been looked upon with knitted "what the fuck are you doing eyebrows", even though at the present moment I've never been happier, crazy ass memories aside. as always Walker you remind why I loved poetry and writing to begin with.
She is bald and wild.
She is free.
She is like the moon.
Fallen, beautiful, and all encompassed in darkness.
She is an outcast.
She is naked, grinning, screaming, hands high in the air, sweat pouring down her temples.
She is.
Happy.
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