The Runner
EvilToasterElf
Posts: 1,119
The Runner
I do not run for fun.
I run to live, and because man was not born to fly,
I do not run until I get tired, I do not run until I cramp,
I run to know I love the world, when the stars run out
of blue blood, and stare down at those lakes with their
blank eyes, I run.
I run through sweat until it dries and cakes
all over my arms and head, my skin becomes
the salt of sweat
I trace the next fifty footfalls through my mind
as I weave across the fractured sidewalk
the pavement tells me the stories of it’s birth
one square is a darker gray, it dried one winter
day in the cold rain
T.J. was here, screams one square, the day
before I dried in 1997, the geese had already
migrated south that year
Rose forgot some of the blood from her knee, when
she fell here five years ago, the mark withers
with rubber traffic and stormy nights, but the
walkway remembers, for the tired runners
looking down, these stories pass us like
fossilized flip books of suburban lives
I read rosetta stones in the cracks,
and shed sweat from my forehead
like witch doctors casting raven’s bones
Approaching the turn my body bends and twists
my torso leans, a branch in the sunlight
until I reach the next straightaway, and my body
returns to it’s stalking height of perpetual motion
The mind can go to great lengths to avoid thinking
of pain, to ignore the lactic acid building in the
muscles of the legs, deprived of oxygen
The sweat covers the length of my skin, coats my
feet and soaks through my socks, my ultra-light
running kayaks slosh water away from my feet
My feet begin overwriting the history of the pavement
revising the history of the concrete, my souls beat the
rhythm of my life’s story into the ground behind me
the story of my life is painted in sweat in my wake
my first kiss falls across a turn, my first homerun
soaks through a pile of dog shit and bleeds itself
into a crack
by the sixth mile, thousands of striding chapters
past my birth, my first fuck pours itself out of
the cotton sheets of memory and flows in ribbons
to the rhythm of my feet, bursting into the ground.
I run until I turn the world backwards, I can see
the town shrink around me, it’s foundations
break and fill with dirt, and breeding deer
I see pizza returning to the oven, cars returning to the lot
grandparents born, native Indians conquered, roads become
paths, paths become trails plowed by curious steps
I see Hitler running past Napoleon, his back to Russia,
where the Corsican bounds in a Sprint. The two nod and return
their eyes to the ground, the red grass and burnt trees, the battlefields
were places to linger, and they would never risk being lapped.
Napoleon’s ears are covered by his hands, as Charlemagne’s troops canter
past in formation, a great steal soaked sponge dead set on Jerusalem,
but they raise their visors to spy the giant human turtles,
running past in sandals, bearing the banner of Rome.
I circle Europe defying history’s greatest runners,
their feet are now my feet, their life’s work
bound in my miles.
When I run death can’t catch me, God can’t even train his eyes
on me until I stop. I run far enough to see the moon twice in one day.
My shadow pants from exhaustion and sits down on a bench,
my shadow watches me run laps, it watches as a run into my wife,
and through my children’s graduation, it watches as my hairline
runs to the back of my scalp, as my stride is stopped by a seizure.
But my shadow returns to me under the bright hospital lights of
last year. It gloats as the doctor tells me, I ran too much, I pushed
too hard, I wrote too many memoirs along the towns flagstones.
The doctor told me I had three weeks to live, and I would likely
live them in bed, on my back. When he left the room, I did the
only thing a runner knows how to do. I laced up my sneakers,
and wrote my obituary.
I do not run for fun.
I run to live, and because man was not born to fly,
I do not run until I get tired, I do not run until I cramp,
I run to know I love the world, when the stars run out
of blue blood, and stare down at those lakes with their
blank eyes, I run.
I run through sweat until it dries and cakes
all over my arms and head, my skin becomes
the salt of sweat
I trace the next fifty footfalls through my mind
as I weave across the fractured sidewalk
the pavement tells me the stories of it’s birth
one square is a darker gray, it dried one winter
day in the cold rain
T.J. was here, screams one square, the day
before I dried in 1997, the geese had already
migrated south that year
Rose forgot some of the blood from her knee, when
she fell here five years ago, the mark withers
with rubber traffic and stormy nights, but the
walkway remembers, for the tired runners
looking down, these stories pass us like
fossilized flip books of suburban lives
I read rosetta stones in the cracks,
and shed sweat from my forehead
like witch doctors casting raven’s bones
Approaching the turn my body bends and twists
my torso leans, a branch in the sunlight
until I reach the next straightaway, and my body
returns to it’s stalking height of perpetual motion
The mind can go to great lengths to avoid thinking
of pain, to ignore the lactic acid building in the
muscles of the legs, deprived of oxygen
The sweat covers the length of my skin, coats my
feet and soaks through my socks, my ultra-light
running kayaks slosh water away from my feet
My feet begin overwriting the history of the pavement
revising the history of the concrete, my souls beat the
rhythm of my life’s story into the ground behind me
the story of my life is painted in sweat in my wake
my first kiss falls across a turn, my first homerun
soaks through a pile of dog shit and bleeds itself
into a crack
by the sixth mile, thousands of striding chapters
past my birth, my first fuck pours itself out of
the cotton sheets of memory and flows in ribbons
to the rhythm of my feet, bursting into the ground.
I run until I turn the world backwards, I can see
the town shrink around me, it’s foundations
break and fill with dirt, and breeding deer
I see pizza returning to the oven, cars returning to the lot
grandparents born, native Indians conquered, roads become
paths, paths become trails plowed by curious steps
I see Hitler running past Napoleon, his back to Russia,
where the Corsican bounds in a Sprint. The two nod and return
their eyes to the ground, the red grass and burnt trees, the battlefields
were places to linger, and they would never risk being lapped.
Napoleon’s ears are covered by his hands, as Charlemagne’s troops canter
past in formation, a great steal soaked sponge dead set on Jerusalem,
but they raise their visors to spy the giant human turtles,
running past in sandals, bearing the banner of Rome.
I circle Europe defying history’s greatest runners,
their feet are now my feet, their life’s work
bound in my miles.
When I run death can’t catch me, God can’t even train his eyes
on me until I stop. I run far enough to see the moon twice in one day.
My shadow pants from exhaustion and sits down on a bench,
my shadow watches me run laps, it watches as a run into my wife,
and through my children’s graduation, it watches as my hairline
runs to the back of my scalp, as my stride is stopped by a seizure.
But my shadow returns to me under the bright hospital lights of
last year. It gloats as the doctor tells me, I ran too much, I pushed
too hard, I wrote too many memoirs along the towns flagstones.
The doctor told me I had three weeks to live, and I would likely
live them in bed, on my back. When he left the room, I did the
only thing a runner knows how to do. I laced up my sneakers,
and wrote my obituary.
Post edited by Unknown User on
0
Comments
Approaching the turn my body bends and twists
my torso leans, a branch in the sunlight
until I reach the next straightaway, and my body
returns to it’s stalking height of perpetual motion
The mind can go to great lengths to avoid thinking
of pain, to ignore the lactic acid building in the
muscles of the legs, deprived of oxygen
The sweat covers the length of my skin, coats my
feet and soaks through my socks, my ultra-light
running kayaks slosh water away from my feet
My feet begin overwriting the history of the pavement
revising the history of the concrete, my souls beat the
rhythm of my life’s story into the ground behind me
the story of my life is painted in sweat in my wake
my first kiss falls across a turn, my first homerun
soaks through a pile of dog shit and bleeds itself
into a crack
could do with a little editing. The syntax itself displays the mind/body dissociation you're after (because "my body bends and twists" and "My feet begin overwriting..." are so different from "I run") and the distinction needn't be overstated.
Overall it works though, though given its title and (literal and metaphorical) theme it needs some tweaking to manage its pace.
It started as an idea I got at a poetry slam, but it ran out of juice quick and it's creation has been plodding along since. It needs some serious editing, thanks for the pointers, I'll repost it when I think I'm getting somewhere with it.
Damn, there's a lot of great work on this board right now!!!!
it is good.. thanks
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
The Runner
I do not run for fun.
I run to live,
because man was not born to fly,
I do not run until I get tired,
I do not run until I cramp,
I run to know I love the world,
when the stars bleed blue,
and stare down at those lakes
with their blank eyes,
I run.
I run through sweat
until it dries and cakes
my skin becomes salt
I trace the next fifty footfalls through my mind
as I weave across the fractured sidewalk
the pavement tells me stories
of those who ran before.
T.J. was here, screams one square,
the day before I dried in 1997, the geese had already
migrated south that year
Rose forgot some of the blood from her knee, when
she fell here five years ago, the mark withers
with rubber traffic and stormy nights, but the
walkway remembers, for the tired runners
looking down, these stories pass us like
fossilized flip books of suburban lives
I read rosetta stones in the cracks,
and shed sweat from my forehead
like witch doctors casting raven’s bones
My feet overwrite the history of the pavement
my souls paint a canvas of concrete with sweat
my first kiss falls across a turn, my first homerun
bleeds itself into a crack
by the sixth mile, thousands of striding chapters
past my birth, my first fuck pours itself out of
the cotton sheets of memory
and flows in ribbons to the rhythm of my feet.
I run until I turn the world backwards, I can see
the town shrink around me,
foundations break and fill with dirt
pizza returns to the oven, cars return to the lot
grandparents are born, native Indians conquered,
roads become paths,
paths become trails plowed by curious steps
I see Hitler running past Napoleon,
his back to Russia,
where the Corsican bounds in a sprint.
The two nod and return their eyes to the ground,
the red grass and burnt trees, the battlefields
were places to linger, and they never risk being lapped.
Napoleon’s hands cover his ears,
as Charlemagne’s troops
canter past in formation,
a great steal sponge dead set on Jerusalem,
but they raise their visors to spy the giant human turtles,
running past in sandals,
bearing the banner of Rome.
I circle Europe defying history’s greatest runners,
their feet are now my feet, their life’s work
bound in my miles.
When I run death can’t catch me,
God can’t train his eyes
until I stop.
I run enough to see the moon twice in one day.
My shadow pants from exhaustion
and sits down on a bench,
watches me run laps, as I run into my wife,
and through my children’s graduation,
it watches as my hairline shrinks
and my stride is stopped by a seizure.
But my shadow returns to me
under the bright hospital lights
It gloats as the doctor tells me,
I ran too much,
I pushed too hard,
I wrote too many memoirs along the towns flagstones.
The doctor told me I had three weeks to live,
and I would likely live them in bed, on my back.
When he left the room,
I did the only thing a runner knows to do.
I laced up my sneakers, and wrote my obituary.
cross-curricular activity:
I like that a lot it reminds me of Ryan Adams' line "when the stars go blue," yours is better. It's more poetic.
EvilToasterElf - 1
Ryan Adams - 0
hehe, thanks pearlmutt