Taking Stock

My body,
deceiving me
in some new way
daily.

My main diseases?
Sugar sludge blood, 
moods lurching
from death sludge 
to joy stomp, sleep
a series of strangulations;
each of these a wee bomb
waiting to rend me.

My brain,
pummeling me
as it always has.  

My approach to life,
a recalibration loop
barely held together 
at a weak seam.

My upbringing,
gentle horror show 
wrapped in
soft white bread.

My heritage?
Half worlds away from here
in two opposed directions,
the vacuum in my core strong enough
to suck at them, too weak to bring them
smashing together into a good
cold weld. 

My understanding 
of that history?
Half book learning,
half frantic triage, all 
of it guesswork when 
push comes to shove
on the edge of the void.

My homeland?
An experiment in something.
Steal a medium and grow
a culture on it. Pretend
we don’t know 
what it feeds on.

My future here?

I’m not alone in the game,
in the approach to it,
thank all the small stones
in the earth and sky
for that; thanks for
a hand to hold while I wait;
thanks for the hope that
I make it easier for them
in my own way;

but I know I will have to
run it in alone, diving down
a slip and slide built with
rust-fouled water and 
undercover stones;

I know
I’m coming in too fast,
too hard, and in no shape
for the finish,

but I’m coming in. It’s
something to do, the only thing
to do; confusion and conviction
in action;

here I come
smashing in.