I’m turning 40. Holy shit. I’m turning 40. I have no idea what to do with that. 

 I may or may not be freaking out a bit.

More on this as the day draws near. 


My toes clutch the edge harder

Grinding in lateral motions

Spaced rhythmically

Slowing from a whip to a waltz

As the pressure increases

And the first trickle of blood appears

The stream breaks and merges

At random intervals

Unceremoniously filling

An abundance of craters

Pock marking a marred stone slab

The sensation of gravity turned

The angle of my incline feels

Much more like laying forward

Than standing up

And I am off kilter

As my weight sways

and I stagger

The whir of the world

Is particularly loud this morning

My feet cramp

My knuckles crack

And an odd paralysis sets in

I feel heavy


Like a stone statue

worn beyond recognition

That is now defined more by age than purpose

By which histories are catalogued, defined and deciphered

The passage of time is deafening

It is arduous in its tedium

Overwhelming in its relentlessness

It is clumsy and formless

Never linear or predictable


I trample on memories

And rebuild anew

I destroy myself with uncertainty

Growing weak and weathered with each frantic step

And, all the while, going nowhere fast