April 3: The Spiders of Iron Roads and the Garbage I Walk On

Everyone cheered. Really, that’s how it happened. I don’t quite remember what anecdote I was reciting or creating for the first time, but it undoubtedly ended with a moment of solemn repose followed by a jarring torrent of praise for my work. I, of course, sidestepped it and humbly credited the whole verbal excursion to the One Poet Storyteller I am still not convinced is still alive somewhere out there, but I tried my best to not let it overfill me. I’ve been overfilled before. It’s a sadsadsad state to achieve. You think you’re going to finally earn fulfillment—full fill(ment)—and the token you end up with in the quavering, still desiring palm of your hand simply says You’ve done it. Put this on. You’ve done it. It’s over. But like Bauby’s Diving Bell, you can’t physically strap on the emboldened crown you want everyone to see. You’re immobile but it’s the line you painted long ago, before you set out on the iron road that spilled over the horizon, destined to be Murakami’s Strongest Fifteen Year Old Ever and the small heat between all of Hers’ legs. So try not to smile too hard when you think of the pop-up trophies formed like stalagmites along the road in the Cave of the Sky, because there are plenty of intricate webs strung between each and a lot of garbage tearing them apart, finally crunching underneath the slippery soles of today’s new shoes. And look! You can see my new shoes.