rough

like the skin on a man's feet,
like the way he pounds into things,
like wood, or bodies, or works.

what you do in these days, with these blocks between the pounding,
defines who you are.

and so why not check out? steel yourself against the fixing, the unalterable circumscription, the definition, of a life.

why not take your evenings back and throw them off a cliff, let them float on the water below?
smash against the rocks or return unaltered to some child's inquisitive hands,
but just to show
that you can refuse the definition,
deny it's power,
wriggle out from under the peg.
slide down the wall and make it about the viewer, and not the viewed?

this might be the roughest thing of all,
to allow one's self to slide into that space,
where the viewer ceases the power,
and the water no longer matters.
because nothing can be cleaned.
and the salt stays in your lashes,
even after your smile is bleached by the sun,
your skin tanned like a cow's,
your looks drained into the bay,
and your life distilled into an act.
an evening,
a dance,
a fuck.