Armory (2)

Bits fall off 

A tip velociting across the salle 

Spring in jubilant pursuit 

A clip that decompiles in the very 

Middle of the bout 

Tape shreds 

Wires break 

Screws split 

Set aside this injured weaponry awaits 

A therapeutic touch 

At least these mechanical defects 

Can be repaired 

MY bits deconstruct almost as often 

Shedding parts and 

Shredding key connections 

Torn and bent and stretched too far to 

Rebound 

Technically these biologic parts 

Might heal on their own 

But even odds they’re simply settled in an 

Altered state 

Demanding adaptation 

Is it any wonder that I want the best of both?

Snap-on parts that interchange 

With just a bit of fiddling and force 

The ease of healing that will come with time 

Regardless of attention 

Let’s try it out— One blade left in the bag (don’t peek!) 

For seven weeks to see if it will heal 

One finger sternly told to snap in place and 

Hold the line 

Yeah,  I’ll tell you how that goes

Provisional

The shoulder tweaks, 

Triggering the drill: 

Roll & stretch & soak & rest 

Pamper ‘til its wheedled to perform 

Only to find the instability has leapt 

Like checkers, over back and hip to 

Settle in the knee 

Fencing at this age is like a game of dominos 

Or like applying plastic film--one sly burp of air 

Always remains 

No matter the massage 

Squidging to another spot 

Never truly 

Gone 

 Knowing this migration 

 Always in the back of mind a 

 Modicum of doubt 

That tweak…a momentary pinge or 

Foreshadow of a systematic fail? 

One bad night or 

The first step In yet another years-long slog of rehabilitation? 

For all my decades this is what I’ve learned 

We’re never really well 

Or cured 

Or permanently fixed 

The best we can attain is “functional for now” 

Probationary health 

And so my current goal: 

To redefine heroic 

And cultivate a reservoir of 

Kindness to myself 

There's ample room for fellowship 

Perhaps you'd like to join the quest?

Scapulous

Shouldering a burden

Shouldering aside

Shoulder to the wheel

Scaffolding a

Chip, a

Cry, a

Heavy burden, heck, the

Cares of all the world

Broad, strong, cold, soft

Rubbing, shrugging, standing

Scheming with the head to

Rise above the rest

True, all true

Mainly, though, I know that mine is

Sore 

Sketch from Open Clip Art

Recalibration

I can no longer keep a

Warrior’s pace

Always pushing past my limitations

Sore and tired but
Content, confident that

Pain is only strength in embryonic form

The signals have been switched the

Rules upended, now my

Lexicon is speaking ancient tongues

An ache or sore is warning that my

Shelf life is exceeded, boundaries o’er-reached

Reminder that my expiration date is, damn,

Too close

I am no longer over-engineered

But merely overwhelmed

My homework? Studying the

Tensile strength of aging tendons, pinpointing the

Threshold past which quintile muscles cannot go

Learning leisured speed and lazy durability

Recognizing that I can’t outrun the young

Thaw

All the lovely words I ache to use

—grip and finny, plangent,

Snout

Elastic

Importune

Enarctic, absolute

Byzant—

Flee

Embargoed, subject to my

Inarticulation

Used to be

Words bottlenecked inside

—As blade leapt and feet patterned

Faster than the conscious mind can ken—

Spilled forth late at night when

Dried from sweat and

Drenched with images

I’d channel on the page

The residue of dreams

Inspirations that upon the strip

Fall short

Trying to capture them with

Syllambolic grace

Synoptic brevity

Since I’ve gone lame, that

Well’s run dry

Phrases cramp and tangle in my brain

Fail beneath my weight

My lagging foot has

Dragged my measure down,

Undermined my

Métier

Gimped my game

My hand and foot are yoked in their dysfunction

Mute, I’ve slaved at patient repetition

Labored to rebuild the

Tendoned scaffold of my lunge

Drill minute adjustments to the pitch and weight and

Slant of step and shift

Strive to rediscovery thoughtless ease

But last night, gingerly untangling my brace

Applying ice, assessing the resentment of my knee

My eyes were captured by the

Ferritopic cut and slash

The sabre bums employ

Their ranting stutter stamp and

Shout

Their embered arguments

I scrabbled in my bag for pad and pen

Recovery is marked by such small steps as these

Doctrine

Somewhere deep within lies

Certainty that damage comes from sin

Well. Maybe that's too harsh

That injury is outward manifest of

Inward flaws

Each tear, each stitch a

Measure of the gap between

My ego and my tiny universal role

In this thesis

Healing equals

Absolution

Therapeutic grace

Concrete proof that

Nothing is beyond

Forgiveness

Redemption promises I can be

Mended and made whole,

and strong

With patience and

Humility

And penance in the gym

Benediction is when

All the pieces work

Domino Effect

Consequences

Ripple down through time

Lapping at a future shore

Shifting pebbled memories

Nothing's ever done and gone

No problem truly solved

No trauma healed

Excision leaves a hollow to be filled

Stitches yield a scar,

Even faded bruises make us flinch

From shadowed harm

I fear

The best we can achieve is

Swapping cozy suffering for

Bright new pain, shiny with the gloss

At least, of novelty

Renewing hope of conquest

Resolution

Victory

Cessation

Health

Knowing this, I've learned to moderate my expectations

Temporary strength is but prelude to descendant tribulations