poetry and poets

Sunday, April 03, 2005

american eagle

Samuel Akiva Pui-Ying Huang Skeist

My mood swings are like ridin’ one of them old wooden coasters. Steadily rising like the upwards incline before that first big drop. Belly full o’ butterflies, savoring the adrenalin rush of each and every track notch up… I can feel my murmurs building to a climactic high pitched “aaaaaahhhhhhhhh!” with every single “clank, rattle, clank, clank, rattle.” Then there’s a time when you’re on the top… and you know that first car has gone over the edge, but you don’t care, cause right now, right now, you can see the whole park. Feels like that rolling carriage has stopped… you get a fleeting, yet frozen, tease of stablity and that whole glorious view of the highway you drove up upon… the waterslides, all the other rides, the tip toppest branches of the urban raised evergreens. The people look like little colored specks and you have time just enough to take one gooood deep breath. But these ups follow the paths of empty elevator shafts and that apogee of beauty quickly turns to black…and next thing I know, I’m too low to write poems, and a season of my life is gone… lost between anxious sleep and a place where you’d sell your whole comic book collection and your grandfather’s ring just for anotha’ week’s worth of drink- a place where you hate (yet thank) the ones you love because if it weren’t for them you’d finally be able to take that ten story plunge. But I know…I know, this is a nice loooong ride and I swear in the distance, I can hear that oh so special “clank, rattle, clank, clank, rattle.”