Joker on the Rack (Still We Run)

The Dungbeetle's Grizzly poem for 2002.

Riding the crest of the Grizzly storm a revitalised jester is born
through yet another unambiguous dawning of this multi-tyrannical race
in which all vestiges of face are lost without agony or trace,
all remains of ego are burnt in the furnace of desire or drowned in oceans of fire
as birds of paradise sing requiems of lost love from the overhead wire.

The runner, the race, the effort, the place, the wilderness within and without;
all merge into an undying sea of everlasting death,
into the eternity of each and every breath.
Mud, sweat and tears embrace the endurance-heart
wiping away the anaesthetic of our meaningless days, refreshing the soul's enigmatic haze.

The journey is all that counts. Together, we surmount the physical ordeal,
revealing the light which abides deep in the hidden realm of exhausted sight,
in the universal delight that has reigned from the beginning of time,
from the earliest star-burst of rhyme. This is no crime; this is the news, the sign,
that you and the grizzly-destiny of two thousand and two
will flow together with the authentic signature of deepest indigo.

Simply put - running is our game, running is our name,
the nameless and the named - combined; one and the same.
Where we go in this running none can know,
where we escape to is a secret contained only in the great attractor's benevolent smile,
in the miles of sweat and grime that reduce and still the mind.
Simply - we are the music, the tune, that ancient celestial fusion
which grants inclusion for all who search the patterns of creation,
the flow of the world's tidal emulsion.

And we wonder too, - wonder at how this mystery is shaping us,
why we have this calling, this perpetual falling
if not to reach the summit of our life's purpose by convoluted ways.
It is our irrefutable answer to deception's curse
for better and better; never, inconceivably, for worse.

On the wings of survival we discover the eternal inevitability
- that we are fitness-spirit; that we have the grace, the sufficiency,
the timeless pace that will finally evaporate our ephemeral duality,
our self-imposed, impossible cruelty and the burden of suffering unwittingly imposed on others.
Thus we are wrapped in wonder, thus we are torn asunder.

And still, still - we run, into the blinding sun which destroys the reason,
which applies the fusion, which finally expels the need
in our perilous psyches, in our crumbling dislikes.
Still we run, falling and rising with every step,
surpassing even ourselves with valiant intrepidness
on the revolving and rising tide of gratitude-awareness.

In-Stilled - we run, guided by destiny's rigid confines, into the sunset of our times.

© Dave Kelf, 2002