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If I didn't ski OR run this New Year's

If I didn't Ski OR Run this New Year's


There's shit on my skis
and snow on the sidewalk
I don't want to ski through shit
and I don't want to run through snow

I want to press my fingers into keys
and my muscles into action
and not to think
but for greatness to flow

In magical times, there's a tide an artist rides
but more often there's hard work
hours upon hours building chops
sculpting muscles,
readying for challenge

and how do I prepare my words for writing?
by obsessing about love
or worrying...
these calistenics don't work
i should be running
or skiing
even if my feet have to pound through
even if my skis have to glide through
shit

But if I were loving?
in the sense of the verb...
What then?
An inciting incident & a rush
there would be flow
my breath--raspy, fast and low
My typing would pulsate
the inside of my wrist
gently brushed by your lips
Rising action
inside of my thigh
pressed by the jut of your hip
And then the climax...
and oh
OH
Would it hurt?
Yes, it would.

But the denouement?
That
 movement
would pour viscous over
and satisfy the artist.

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