Great, #96

First and foremost you must
be born of a body
rapping it’s own funky
rhythms, babe gurgling
in meter, in perfect
time with the soft bouncing
of a ball, the tip-tap
of shoes on a parquet
floor, the whisk of wood cracking
through space, body over
which you will exercise
utter control.

You arm cocked, your legs
set, your statued body
hung in a pose
as the moment
of moments unfolds,
as the paint or the clay
dries, as words in their
perfect order fall
effortless onto the page.

Next you need a master,
guru, sage who knows the twists
and turns of the trade, crafty
old veteran whose body
has betrayed, but whose wit
is matched only by an
unwillingness to let
you rest, stop, catch your breath,
a guide who will push you
through the dark dark forest
lying between you and that
one great image.

You arm cocked, your legs
set, your statued body
hung in a pose
as the moment
of moments unfolds,
as the paint or the clay
dries, as words in their
perfect order fall
effortless onto the page.

Once you’ve achieved all this
the stage is set, goal-posts
in place and dreams in sight,
then you drift off to sleep
at night, wake in a gym,
in a studio, locked
in a classroom giving
yourself to loneliness,
to the ugly monster
of repetition, days
when no muse dares visit.
Work past it.

And when you do, there stands
demons of circumstance,
the possibility
you could be the phenom,
the queen, the man, hardest
worker in the business
and still run the gauntlet
of off night, injury,
facetime in front of king
makers, sacrificing
daily pleasures praying
to be discovered.

You arm cocked, your legs
set, your statued body
hung in a pose
as the moment
of moments unfolds,
as the paint or the clay
dries, as words in their
perfect order fall
effortless onto the page.

Even then the body,
at some point flesh, all time
will wilt, wither and die,
and what you hit, what bars
you leapt, canvas painted,
bases stole, what you wrote
and recited countless
times, memories will be
all you have left, knotted
strings of pats on the back
brief wisps of breath you hope
were somehow worth it.

You arm cocked, your legs
set, your statued body
hung in a pose
as the moment
of moments unfolds,
as the paint or the clay
dries, as words in their
perfect order fall
effortless onto the page.

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Author:

A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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