every heavy step
an act of resistance
against the indefatigable force of gravity
— hell on the knees —
why does everyone think coming down the mountain
is better than going up,
as if gravity were doing one a favor
the desire to live high in the mountains
with stunning beauty on view everyday
is one of those romantic notions
that reality pummels
and robs of its lunch money
i’d say something about everyone
who goes up a mountain having to come down,
but then I think about the stories
of the frozen corpses on Everest —
instead of coming down the mountain
they became stone-hard monuments to ambition
cities grow outward
like angry amoeba —
false-feet stretching down
the motorway corridors,
and developing tumors
that will metastasize
into cities of their own,
sprawling until they span
the global petri dish
Cities pretend to sleep.
They fool us.
In the deep of the night,
a city is like a kindergartener during nap time —
fidgety and mischievous.
When Tokyo’s trains shut down at midnight,
far from hibernating in suspended animation,
the city traps people in a dimension
that most people never see —
a headachy, eye-rubbing,
land of waking dreams.
I watched a bee —
a rotund & buzzy carpenter bee
scoot its way into the deep cup
of a cornflower blue sky vine blossom,
nestling itself within.
When it had penetrated to maximum depth —
only the hind tip of abdomen protruding —
the blossom fell away,
plummeting leisurely — as light things do,
in a lazy spiral toward the earth.
And as the blossom and its captive bee
passed out of sight below my window,
I could only wonder about the bee’s fate.
It did not zoom up past my window
at the last possible second
with a pronounced doppler shift
in the manner of stalled aircraft
pulling out of a dive in a Hollywood movie,
but that doesn’t mean the bee didn’t escape
If it didn’t escape,
what would that crash be like?
A light-weight creature trapped in the soft folds
of flower petals, with a combined lightness
such that air-resistance cannot be ignored
the way one does in Physics problems involving bowling balls.
Mikey stole a motorbike, a high-revving rice rocket, weaving through traffic, leaning this way and that, quickly dodging the slow and the still, riding toward an inevitable fate, rapidly surpassing any chance for a destiny other than a beastly crash, a tumbling and fiery maniacal kind of crash, one resulting in screaming vehicles and flashing lights, punching their blunt red noses onto the scene, disgorging fast moving men and women with hoses and bandages, pretending the hoses were for the burning machine and the bandages were for the rider, but knowing that the hoses would be all they’d need on this run.