Poems by Miguel

Poems by Miguel

JUMP

I stand here atop the highest building in my dark city. Wind seeping cold into my skin, eyes running, rivers fed by thoughts of discontent.

I hear them. Voices of mischief. Spoken by the will of misguided go-getters: take, steal, destroy, leave waste and desolation in your wake.

Burn all bridges, leave no room for retreat, give no apologies, pay no penance, condemn all empathy.

Only time 4 the fight, the hustle, to shake trees and play in traffic— but I’m weary, hurt, and wounded.

My arms are heavy. My thighs burn. My feet are bleeding, hands scarred with the penalty of mistake, back strained from my load.

But here I stand, full of myself, engulfed by my resolve— raging, pushing against defeat.

Ready to climb the next building, complete the next challenge.

But a quandary persists in my mind: How do I get back down without going back?

SUCH PUSSIES

I went to the Museum of Natural History and I wandered down the halls taking in visual depictions of those that came before:

The caveman, barefooted, half-clothed with his stone tool and wooden spear, tracking and hunting mammoths 20 times his size, crossing the Ice Bridge to the Americas, facing forward with tribe in tow…

Next, the frontier man—horse and wagon, axe in hand, building log cabin with bare hands and strong back…

And before that, heavily armored knight wading into battle, swinging massive sword, engaged in hand-to-hand combat with barely any standing room…

Then on to the early builders of this great city— mile-high men, no harness in sight, hardhats and swinging picks, tunnel-builders with dynamite…no worries, just glad to fight…

Or even more present times, the early ’90s and ’80s, the era of crack and crime— less snow days off, more get up and go. So what if it’s mad hot? Bundle up if you’re too cold. Climb slow if it’s too high. Lift with your legs if it’s too heavy. Let them send you home if you’re sick.

Finally, I look around at us now—mankind— so advanced, so smart… medicine for everything, even the common cold. Each week, a new super-food—or food not to eat. Fluffier pillow and thicker sheet. Everyone so mushy! And I think to myself, “When did we become such pussies?”

Poems by Miguel