Here Is How

Finding peace and joy from one activity to another, with conviction mixed in

Here is how--

the epidermis is bathed in Apollo's

chariot race.

The metatarsals engulfed the deep,

fried, hardened glory of nature's

ultimate survivor--

Pools of sweat overtook the iris's, the

muscles and nerves, even the mental

capacity;

not a drop

here and there--

pools.

It switched from a "quick outside

exercise" excursion to a gasp for 

hydration against the star's burning

fury.

Not even a decent smack humored

me, whizzing some 40 yards away;

not even a chip shot through two,

newly-acquainted posts of plastic

and cement-molded glory;

Apollo's wrath was the lone victor

to this wondering soul, wondering

why the hell it ventured into a 

furnace of an abyss--

yet those seven, fourteen kicks

were it;

moments passed.

Mind called it.

Time.

Gather and adjourn.

"Her" story is calling.

Her details, her luscious inspirations

begged to be put on paper--

the mind has already left the building.

Being there no longer mattered,

Happily so.

Happily so did the white warrior enter

aboard waxed-coated mounts of 

beluga wonder.

To return to the world on paper.

To return to the world of pure joy

and wonder.

To the place where the most powerful

tool grants power to all those

who seek it.

The craft called the marmalade

back to the world he belonged; to the

arena he was designed for.

Irises went this way, then that,

over there still.

Her story beckoned.

Jake's did. Frank's did.

Minnesota did.

"Good, but could be better," called

to him.

He had since unlaced his boots, zipped them up in their tote. And

toted them away.

To give way for the king of his

world, where intellect reigned supreme.

Intellect reigned supreme, created

and inspired, intrigued and amazed.

And told him that world, where

physicality and ultimately-pointless

"trash" quips rendered themselves

useless, the world adored and ignored, 

no longer belonged in his.

Here is how he felt the joy

of returning, dwelling,

absorbing, in the world he understood,

that which he'd come to understand

through the years; the pages

taught him a sense of belonging;

"those" folks he was meant to 

understand more, in their ways, than 

"these."

Because every day it calls

to him.

Because every day it yearns for his

attention and his devotion in ways 

few other things have...or can.

Because those moments make 

sense to him.

Those moments have become his

safe place, where he can feel at 

ease because it belongs to him. It

is his, like (all) theirs is theirs, and only

he is the master, as they are.

They are all his creations.

Here is how his creations are born:

they stem from one thing and

become another. Diligently. With

attention. And detail. Just because.