wake up to the flood
rush of water in my ears, mouth
whoever invented email
should face the plank walk
the whoosh of papers
collapsing on my desk
like the crash of
tsunami tides
taking a vacation
just holds the work
for a future day
clog in the drain
and I might drown
but no one is listening
so will I make a sound?
or will my final breaths
be overwhelmed by
notification bells,
buoys tolling a distance
to shore that none of us
will tread, no matter
how shallow the swell?
“Throw your heart out in front of you and run ahead to catch it.” – PAC, 2012
Gravity forgot him; we
thought mortality did, too.
On a good night, he let his
Black Arrow loose and
pierced cotton and pine,
bullseye, three-count
followed by a ringing bell
and the swell of our bodies
reaching for his, untouchable,
man of myth now myth of man—
In the heavens somewhere,
he runs to catch his own heart,
thrown with the certainty of its
safe return to his chest—
but how will we remember him?
As a bastard flying above the ring,
or as Ben, the fan, the lover, the king?
