by Bill Yarrow
I'm decades in and it hasn't gone away.
In all other respects, I am normal. Life
is hard, but I'm not complaining. The thing
is, I am in a constant state of falling. I say
something and I fall through my words. I eat
something and I fall through my food. I step
on the accelerator and I fall right through
the road. I hardly sleep. Dreams are literally
pitfalls. On my last birthday, I was given
a harness. To trick my mind into thinking
I was tied to something. I hooked it to the
radiator and ventured out the door. The straps
broke and I went sprawling. That descent still
hasn't ended, but how long can one truly fall?
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This poem was first published in Prick of the Spindle.
Thank you, Cynthia Reeser.
This poem appears in Pointed Sentences (BlazeVOX 2012).
There's a sort of odd but comforting humor to this.*
WCW would be so pleased with the music and phrasing here, Bill. Great form and piece.
Nicely crafted and imaginative.
"On my last birthday, I was given
a harness. To trick my mind into thinking
I was tied to something."
*
Thanks, Amanda, Sam, Gary, and Felicia.
I like the playfulness in this.*
Thanks, Gary!