found: mojo

silent, secretive boulders in a shallow valley stand at attention
over mats and pads and chalkbags beneath a cloudy umbrella
plump full of silver linings but grief good grief why are we still here
amigo/friend/mr spot of startfleetcommand he states quite logically
"the project puddle dwindles daily with such diurnal quotidian-ness

that each sun we pass
brings light to the fact
that some things just can't
be done, captain."

well spontaneity can make
our best awkward dreams real,
outside the shooting range of critics
and their realm-of-reality shpeal.

so fuck impossibility,
that's up to us to me to you.
the question is, is it fear?
- or is it truth?

back in the valley our to-do lists drift apart
under the fire of tallies and check-marks,
the quotidian shift of light brings facial expressions
round and full of enraptured attention;

fleeting smiles and fleeting frowns
(please note your emergency exits
are far above the ground).

our focus sweetly punctuated by crashes -
"POW" and "WATCH IT", the white smoke clears -
and tiredly you look at the impossible
through a half-drunk plastic water bottle,
straining through distorted eyes

to see clearer
than the crystal
our soles and tips grip
before the long fall.

shit, admit it:
fear keeps you warm.
mediocrity is your sensei.
then! one-day-

all-of-a-sudden like magic like love
GRAVITY gives the green light and you fly a-TUMble
up that vast and shallow valley
and plop your lucky undies
under that unbroken promise,
and look up at that quiet face.

and begin to giggle, giddy and dizzy with impossibility
and dare i say tip-toeing towards hysteria...
...embracing the epic epitome of abandon.

sweet abandon! well as grandpa peabody
always said before he cracked
intensity IS to insanity like a saucer of warm milk
is to a mad little kitten and up you go,
drinking buttermilk from many small fine
rough saucers and dishes (that we won't have to wash
because of the rain, lazy bums that we are,
cleaning our toothbrushes on the closest rock we can find...)
and finally you top out just as gravity's green light turns gold yellow
and forty feet up the sky greets you,
with many blue arms,
in a drafty embrace.

atop your dirt mound, your granite palace,
you find that place in a monumental and brief moment,
as haggard braggarts mill destitute below
to whom you bellow thanks -

"give my condolences to that gold light,
which now red bleeds!"

- and so profusely you thank and bleed
from three or four or all fingers
that you'd think

you weren't on a twelve-ton granite boulder at all

but on a cloud

a d r i f t .