The Ultimate Grace

The Ultimate Grace

This is the ultimate flame
and ice of wills, in this game
of ultimate frisbie--we must not lose
i run for the frisbie, -blockit, mustblockit-
but everyone runs for the frisbie, 5 people now
in a tiny, so very ultimately tiny space
and I jump, as my lungs cherish
with the joy of making a sport that they are
growing to like, a long-lost joy, I jump
high, higher, and around the Ultimate Height
my fingers, I can see-feel-taste it, they touch
the spinning disc and block it with ultimate subtlety.
But just as I smell the frisbie, hear the frisbie
It is all dark, it is all pain, it is all
broken, certainly shattered, it is all cartilege
And a billion times faster than my elevation
to those dream-like heights, I fall
-aren't all falls that way- like a bullet
or a bird shot-down, it is dark, it is my nose,
it's a punch that took me down oh-so-elegantly that it
absolutely dodged my glasses, my poor glasses
thrice broken, thrice all dark, thrice hurt, thrice all cartilege
not this time. this very first
punch on my face so eloquent it hits me
right at the tip of my nose -not an inch left right up or down-
yes, it hurts like hell, but such ultimate precision
of pain makes me want to take my face on the way
of some other unsuspecting fist, it is
such violent grace, or such graceful violence,
it makes me believe that it's -still- not too very late
to do all kinds of audacious things.