Paces

The cartoonish pit soughs as I stand on its 'where the sidewalk ends' edge
Looking into its cliché depths from a shaking, cliffhanger ledge;
Where sharp stinging makes a throbbing being sigh,
And ancient medical practices too dangerous for modernity will try
To heal an object of desire coursing with indifferent blood;
And standing up to my waist in its mud,
I realize that stepping out of this egyptian river is a million steps too short,
And contrary to the popular psyche and ideas I like but can't support,
Neither your prayer nor their magical healing herbs
Can pull me away from that which perturbs
Me; I shrink and hide to no avail
And I see clearly what may just derail
The train to New York going a hundred miles an hour
While standing here, without an illusion of or actual power;
The barber-surgeon is holding his unsterile shears,
And the impulsive pixie of Nightquake ravishes my pains and fears ,
So I step forward into the gown in desperation
And shift my weight onto an air of the un-limitation
Of the bottom below and the height of the crack in the concrete
And I see that –for me– the end of the sidewalk is impossible to beat.

The End

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