Tales From The Fragile Balancing Act

I’m hearing one thing being asked of us Over and over, loud and clear, and, truly,  it seems simple enough. Yes, this request I’ve been hearing Asks that we all, right now,  “Shut the fuck up!” It’s really weird you can’t hear this  your words sound like you wish to know as you ask questions upon questions on and on to no end But stranger still, you immediately provide your own answers Without one hint of a pause between the two transforming question to rant Step One of hearing.... is shutting the fuck up! Can you imagine if Dirty Harry’s famous question-bit went: “Do you feel lucky, punk? Well do ya? Cause if you feel lucky it doesn’t make sense  to act like a savage a thug, running around with your thug friends Burning your own neighborhood, joining gangs, selling drugs How will this all end?  I mean, who even does that? Really?!” No. If you were in the theater watching this version Of the classic pre-curmudgeoney-...

Oh, to occupy that head of yours if only for a moment or two.  How nice it must be to have no worries  no urgency. To sprint up  thirteen steps only to yell  down immediately,  “Does anyone know why  I am  up here?”  To never have to worry about being on time someone takes care of that for you. Oh, and the bills:  Quick! Who gives us electricity? Yeah...  didn't think so. To be the one playing on the floor,  making them laugh  when it’s that time to leave while I make sure they have  food, clothes, bibs… an endless                   checklist so long, check                                    detailed, check                                       ...

    Copley Square Memorial   (In their Sneakers) They ran for charities, for fun, for sons who could not, or just to defiantly show that they could. Yes, they ran. They ran so, so fast from those blasts that surpassed worst visions of fear burned so loud that even the finest of sneakers  in town could not outrun all those horrible sounds. So they stopped in their tracks and ran back. Then they ran, taking orders, and messages (hope) holding hands and back tears standing strong. Always running. Defiant. Now knowing they could.   That they would. Stay strong. Then they ran back that same path past the 26th mile before walking then trudging then still. Silent, they hung up their shoes, and Mary hung her head, and Old Glory hung between worlds. Hushed. For a long, long while. They'll run again, though. And like never before. New sneakers, new legs, new lives. ...