June 1, 2003

  • As many readers to these parts know, I take refuge from the terror of daily life by running in a place I call Dreamland, otherwise known as Lake View Cemetery.


    And often, after I’ve run 5 or 7 miles (did 6 on Friday night, none yesterday since it rained ALL day, but with the return of sunlight, shall today make good recompense), I’ll lean against an old tombstone, chug a beverage or two, and be mused by the silent sirens of the Golden Eternity .


    Inspired by a true love, I’ve written and blog-published (wi-fi) on those sacred grounds, over some years, a good body of very heartfelt poetry, poetry expressing my strange sense of this life and my adoration for the beauty in it. 


    But, in reflecting, I now realize that I’ve never really shared with you the running part of this experience of mine, except for a mere quantitative assessment of distances amassed.  So to make amends, a qualitative view of what it means to be me (Being John Malkovich mwuahahaha ?) racing through Dreamland…


    Running so hard my lungs give out
    No air to breathe, no way to shout
    Just moments until I should pass out…
    But I won’t because I’m too toned.


    Like Sisyphus pressing up the hill
    I pound the earth with the sheer of will
    The gods bid me to swallow the bitterest pill…
    But I won’t because I’m too toned.


    Though the heat oppresses to the verge of stroke
    And I’ve lost all my sweat and am going for broke
    And Lucifer passes me weed, laughing “Here, take a toke...”
    But I won’t because I’m too toned.


    I keep churning on, though all’s a haze
    Rabid, livid, abandoned and crazed
    My body begs to abandon this mortal maze…
    But I won’t because I’m too toned.


    When I die I want a coffin of jettest black
    But with a lid pearly white—lookin like Satan’s shack
    So that my friends will guffaw and pronounce with a whack:
    “That mf-er is really two-toned!”

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