To Give Out

March 14-19, 2002

It's tired, fatigued, weak,

no longer linked, physically sawed-off

from strength, wickedly

drained, a slab far from

the field that feeds.

Those eyes, well, feel as

if they're brick-laid, swelling

from finished consciousness,

Awaiting their right to wane.

The arms? Dangle. Old rubberbands

untangled, limp masters that strangle

the will to remain tame; all loose

but now there's a familiar constraint.

Knees depict mud, sludge nearly

sliding down from the bones

to the floor, to settle,

to be a lump, to sputter.

Back slightly bent, tilting

over; daily energy is empty

of relevance; it's evident that

being isn't immune to weltering.

Fortification for the face.

Drawn inwardly, ahh, for the

relaxation station is calling

it into place, and because of

the droop, there are loops in the root.

Where there is a "sit-down,"

there is a "lie-down," where there

is a comfort; there is a pleasure worth

something, or a chance of reclining better.

And all hands - look at them -

like arms, how complete they

are, will lag and trail

and track the ground.

The force and will of staying afloat will

nuture an arid world

that cracks a throat, and even the afflicted,

then, dies the bolt.

(All of this for a righteous non-response)

Lay, lie, either positioned;

downwardly, flatly, usually at night -

Nap time; all unconscious time.

The soles of all feet bear

it all; near-to-be-dead

weight purposely compensates

a reserve, if "keep on keeping on" stirs.

The mind melts,

time is ignored.

It's difficult for the insomniac

or the frame-faced down

and the appropriately bored.

Yawn and yawn some more, while

leaning over, tilting, half-talking

half awake to reality's portal,

away from formality's order.

Snore and snore some more.

Slumped finally, or neatly, like

A fetus balled; Surrender

to the need to fall.

© 2002 Jarrod C. Lacy