38 Special, or the Rise Over Run

The alarm tolls, followed by the cell phone, because we need back up, every morning a momentous occasion, or potentially auspicious, we wake, we rise, we hit our mark, we aspire to be on time, frequently we fail at that, dreaming being what it is. But new, nonetheless, full of bright promise, even when the weather is in categorical opposition, we, meaning I, slough out of the sheets all gollum mutterings and half realized curses to storm clouds. It's our birthday ((precious, and I just dumped a half glass of wine down my front)), turns out we are not so young anymore, which doesn't make me feel any less young, just that much more fitfully rebellious against somebodies paradigm and someone else's thesis - here is where I will go and smoke a cigarette, as I struggle to articulate just whom I would like to throttle - who I am kidding, they are legion.

You shoot with a 38 special, you end a life, you measure with rise over run, or you are unnecessarily literary, or you maybe are digging a mine, or maybe it is the turn of the century or maybe it is a near decade past the turning of the last century (good god, already?) and you are too obliquely referential, or maybe it's the martinis and the unsolicited shot of tequila.

Rise over run, half risen, running blindly, or barreling, or barging, or even only half cognisant, trade your geographic familiars for dubious volcanoes and rivers without the girth of seas.

Unlike the poet said, the center holds, it always will, now and evermore. It's us. It's us with our rise over run. I...

It's my birthday and that's another story. I'd like a bath. I'd also like a boyfriend. And I think it is going to be a very good year.