Dismounting off Mountains

one cant go wrong 

cooking breakfast at dinnertime

Any writer whittling pages to scribbles would tell you —
even those that know how to whistle would tell you—
to put the beginning in the end
—sunrise-sunset bookends—
penning a constellation
of all the little points
your tiny character stressed
along the way
surviving across the sky
a — connection.

My end will crush me into mother's spine
with contractions squeezing at my skull
all of life's contradictions—ricochet so cliché
paralyzing the seventh cranial nerve all over again,
crooked smile just like the first time
but not like the first time, only this time
had all that change in-between
marching along my hero’s journey towards a destiny
one that would bring meaning
to the suffering—the inhumanity
of this human condition
saddened and maddened at all that didn’t happen in the end
Gilgamesh lived like a fool
in accepting the inevitable end
he died like a God
the only one I can relate to

it took me thirty years
to unlearn, to unfeel, to understand
the shame those cruel children
in their hollow schools
slobbered saliva
spewing daggers at my face
your ugliness—was never mine
motherfucker, don’t hand me your trash

humans are such savage monkeys
intuitive knowing and abundant creativity threatening
to unhand their hand on hard-on ways
don’t discomfort them or the shit is flung
I let them smother the other right out of me
mother only showed me how to bend
how to blend
how to survive
those empty hearted hyenas
cannibalizing the perceived weakest
so I peacocked up a bit
and fluffed those feathers
in wooden decoy—
I was just a spotted-fawn
motionless-shaking in the tall grass
remained there until it was safe
waiting for my mother to return
but the poachers got her
in what seems like a lifetime ago

nowadays,
all grown up
I can’t hide in wet wheat fields
scared at the sight of scars
—there’s living to be done
all these micro-moments
so much more than just ticks on the clock
some, brighter than others
glimmering points in the sky
blemished by both beauty and horror—
mileposting your Odyssey
to the end
the one, 
you, I, we, they,
already knew
in the
beginning.
Written in the stars.