my rhythm is theodore roosevelt rowing furiously across long island sound-
back and forth and back and forth in endless need to push back and forth
and to open the floodgates of america, the world once more and let in
the endless bloodstream of the human spirit, that which does not stop
all coffeeblood and widepupiled i rush out into the world and with such fervor
do i rampantly push through the hole that fills the life-long sentence of
“i’m   sorry   but    that   simply   is   not   going   to   be   a   possibility,”
but i slip through the hole in the o and i loop my western lasso from one t
to the other tee and i build a fortress and i barricade the spaces from any
slinking zombie thought that moans that there is not hope alive in the sentiment
of doubt; that there is some construction of a power too powerful to be fought.

do not forget. sometimes the man at the top of the mountain has been at the
top of the mountain too long – and he has forgotten what it means to climb.
what it means to step after step against gravity against will against time itself.
and i do encourage you to look around at the view as you climb as you step further
and farther away from the city of your reality, now a distant cloud, a pencil drawing.

climb and climb and row and row. theodore roosevelt. push westward even moreso.
and at the top of the mountain lasso the stars and walk cautiously across the tightrope
in space and realize if you for a second look down, you very well may lose your balance
but keep your spectacles set off into the distance and you will not fall. the body follows
the heart and the heart wants what the heart wants and row and row and row.

row furious. row like the broken heart of theodore roosevelt across long island sound.
row sore-armed and hollowheaded treading molecule after molecule of holy water
behind you until all you have left to realize is that there is only you, and a million miles
of ocean, influenced up and down in constant reminder that nothing is ever dead.
nothing is ever dead and no one person insignificant enough to not cause ripples that
may expand through not just liquid or air or soundwaves but they can push like anxious
oars through the familiar foundations that we so often refuse to acknowledge may just be
impatient graves ready to take us under. they are always ready to take us under.
so why not rise up against the coming looming deadly tide?


Author: brice maiurro

Denver poet. Author of Stupid Flowers, out now through Punch Drunk Press.


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