For those of you who came here to read a post about my little recent adventure, I thought better of it and withdrew the piece. I want to consult my wife and editor, Kathleen, as to whether my sociopolitical musings deserve a wider audience than Chaffin Cargo Cult members (who are also entitled to a 10% discount on this blog, which means that if you only read 90% of a day's post you are nevertheless credited with 100% on the Chaffin worship--I mean workshop meter.
Now for Sunday's sonnet:
Exchange your parachute for a medicine ball
and bare your vital organs to the sky.
Waves whiten on rocks below, so cartoon-small
you think of the Roadrunner speeding by.
A bungie strap secures your lower legs,
its far end fades into the coastal mist.
You trust the gaffers to guard against snags
then cross the edge like a somnambulist
and fall and fall-- further than Satan fell
from heaven, though he lacked a union card,
but you're insured and don't believe in hell
unless it's in the script. It isn't hard
to die so long as you are paid to die
and rise again in the director's eye.
I'm too sleep deprived to feel anything, a consequence of my brush with the motorcycle club. But underlying that patina of exhaustion lives an ache worth