This is no trip down some highschool textbook.
Thereís no confusing marginalia scribbled sideways,
No convoluted verbiage staring some backwards poet straight in the face
Itís just the point where you gotta kick back
I need a breather.
I need a breather like Donald Trump needs a new hairdo
I need a breather like your little siblings need shutup pills
I need a breather like the way a 67 year old man with an asthma problem left stranded on the street by his all-too-well-off daughters
Needs community healthcare
Because I donít want to live my life giving broken gifts to broken down old two-shifters working extreme hours so they can afford self-prescriptions to shellac the pain of working full time
Make it shine old man, I will be sailing the sea of metaphors, exhaling visions, growing life from the soil of experience to watch it sprout conception.
I will foster new dreams and shelter them from psychological Darwinism. I am the strongest. I will survive. I am not guilty of giving blindfolds out to the public so itís not my responsibility to uncover your eyes.
But if I do
Please donít be afraid to dream.
Donít be afraid to close your eyes and see the mountains like they used to be
or how blind weíre trying to become. Donít be afraid to lose yourself in a moment because each moment is really all we have and can ever hope to achieve. There is nothing more special than being the moment your mother father brother sister girlfriend boyfriend good friend old friend amigo amico remembers when its their turn to die.
Except, perhaps, being the dream some kid wants to be when heís still alive.
So itís from these dreams Iím gonna piece together a collage, step back, and finally see who I am.
I know Iím not some Shakespearian sonnet personified for the masses.
Iím a patriarch of moleskin plastered bipedal locomotion.
Iím twelve different types of commitment freak trying to finish one devotion
Iím not nervous up on stage, why would I be? Iíve been subject to ICU spotlights that could read right through me and they just stared and stared.
Iím scared that a little known voice projecting possibilities at the great wall of potential canít scale the steeple he built out of expectations framed in the first stanza. Iím scared that a little boy trained in nouns, verbs and reverbs canít read between the echoes. Iím scared
That three birds and a cowboy can redefine the American dream to mean
Iím scared that 32 people are dead in Virginia and chaos theory
Can blame it on the wings a butterfly.
That some of you will leave this room feeling nothing but the pressure
Of two palms plastered against silly putty cheeks.
But physics doesnít care.
Physics doesnít know if youíre listening or not, physics doesnít change; it doesnít play by our rules. Physics refuses to be caged up by our definitions.
Maybe we should be a little more like physics.
Iíve always thought it wise to listen to those you wish to be, and then disregard them immediately. After all, Iíve never met a man who came around twice and I have very little chance at being the last baseball player to bat .400.
The physics of it just arenít in my favor.
There is one thing thoughÖ
Physics will tell you that for every action there is a solid and calculable consequence
And somewhere, carried by an updraft lifted off of the Yangtze River, a bright blue butterfly dances
And Iím scared.