Nineteen

James Bowden

And it was a great morning, if ever you could call a morning that
For the sun shined and I woke up alive–if not a tad sleep deprived
But surely nonetheless.

Nineteen, they say.
Another year gone, I hear.
And I feel it too, in my back, in my bones, in my thoughts, in this frail vessel,
as surely as I’ve ever felt anything.

I feel it in the way I crack my knuckles, twisting and bending my fingers
fluidly without a second of thought confident that they wont break
savoring the release of my thumb and finding comfort in the reliable
reaction of my neck as I snap it–gently, of course–
and ending in my ankles, my toes, my toes, my toes…and my toes
I am solid in my fluidity, at least in this sense. And what a magnanimous comfort that is.

I’m sure of it in the way I sigh deeply upon consideration,
as cathartic as laying me down to rest
Don’t forget the jaw.
or feeling the weak stream of warm water fill my airholes as it does my pores. Flush,

I thrive in it as I lace negatives and double negatives and I dont knows together
into spears, driven through the hearts of insecurity and uncertainty
And since when was having the power to slay something indicative of separation and superiority?
for I certainly have none
And since when did I deserve to be capitalized–no, reduce me back to what i truly am–
delusional, yes, but sane all the same and surely more as human as the rest for it

How becoming.
Ain’t it scary that I must become?
Or perhaps a more frightening thought is that I already have become, whether I like it or believe it or not.
And such is life. But it’ll be good. No doubt.
And so I go to, or should I say, go too?

And I die in it in the way that I attempt to share it
for how can another understand what worries them not
and why would one worry over what they’ve contemplated not
and for what would one brood when plague them thoughts do not
i don’t know.
Perhaps it is the absence of thoughts that plagues me.

Still. I can avoid becoming about as well as I can avoid the divots in my personality for to become not would be to become not, not to not become.
no, weave–no, spin.
Try. I know that life is all about the wind, and try I still do. Well–
Is a trap a trap if willingly I fall in?

And what is death, but the permanent quiescence of the mind?
And what then must be life?
For in truth, what more could I ask for than to be
mortal.