You ran up to me today,
waved me in, whispered for me,
called me close, leaned in,
and shouted at me: BOOM.
You were born with a pressure in you,
a drumbeat that itches and drives you to dance.
All the routes you take are parkour courses.
All the shoes you own are running shoes.
You sprint like a robber through the junkyard of your journal,
surfing jagged waves of the trash-compacted letters,
blocks of story crammed together in the fury of creation,
top to bottom, edge to edge, not a break, not a breath,
scribbling with the pinhole-skinny focus of the genius,
single-minded agonizing rapid manic joy.
You have seen the pool of life and reckoned
that the only worthwhile way of getting in
is to cannonball from 15 meters up.