In my life, for every push up
I counted, there always appeared
a more than equal,
and quite opposite, push down.
One that choked me face-down
into the dust to dust. Despite
this Sisyphian way-of-the-world,
I never envied those guys
who always managed to “fail up.”
I hoped the physics, meta- or vanilla,
would catch up to them before they
crested their gift-wrapped Olympus.
I finally realized fighting
their anti-gravitational serendipity,
waiting for that margin call on
their karma banks, I’d end up waiting
until my next push up was face-up
and six feet under.
As far as I know, shoving two meters
of cemetery up up and away’s
a feat never quite scientifically proven.
But to disprove the anecdotal
during these days of political science,
where never the twain shall meet,
would prove an exercise so futile
even Houdini’d throw up his
steel-cuffed hands and admit defeat.
Forget any recount.
A poor pass at Poem #25’s prompt for a piece concerning exercise. I gave up on understanding or respecting politics (both Capital and lower case P) a long time ago. Working in journalism and government will do that to you. Working in a slaughterhouse has more truth, humanity and cleanliness. Toss religion into the volatile mix (as seems to be part of the recipe these days) and you have an inedible sausage force-fed and over-served you for breakfast, lunch and TV dinner. Relax, I just ground down my bully pulpit tree stump and will now return to my quiet window seat.