Having never felt this old,

nor so young and inept

– and simultaneously –


there’s a fence-crashing, a home-burning, 

a finding-one’s-own-nose-on-someone-else kind of mess.

What is to be done with a tension like that?

Bear it.

Stretch with it.

Let be torn loose the decayed, the ineffectual, 

follow the twisting into the twist,

watch new movements be born.

I guess.

Still, if I’m a living version of a mr. potato head,

could I waddle in those shoes a ways?

It might do me some good.