Friday, May 7, 2010

Tight Rope; rough draft

I stand here on the tight rope
not walking just standing
toes tight against the coiled threads.
My eyes look forward but my mind revolves in 360 degrees,
measuring the distance to the further platform
simultaneously looking back on the pitter-patter of my feet:
did I shake the wire? Am I more than halfway?

The crowd is silent. Should I arrive unscathed at the distant edge
they'll applaud my efforts, but mostly they are waiting
some say courting
disaster, that I should fall and this time with no safety net:
for this walk was a dare, put on me by passersby
both too afraid to walk the straight line themselves
and also gleefully participatory in the glitz and glimmer
of this spectacle and media driven life.

I can hear someone up in the rafters,
someone too cheap or too poor to pay full price,
My feet softly lift and glide forward and my eyes are glued
but my mind is a juggler
looking between tossed balls of circus glory
and the wonder, are they tired of me or worn out from work
where my dance at sometime
became the only thing they've been waiting for all the week long,
as if the sweat boiling on my brow, the great heights, and the tension in the air
made up for puking out metal shards and shitting black tar.

Nearer now the platform looms,
my mind philosophizes on the meaning of distance
and how it changes from moment to moment
in relation to the pace of my legs swishing back and forth.
Mind and eye become one body glides,
baptists in the audience think I look like Jesus walking on air.

First I hear a solitary clap, and then a cacophony of applause
as my right foot clears the cedar of the platforms edge
declaring both my living pulse and the success of the venture.

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