Eleanor Jackson is a Filipino Australian poet,
performer, arts producer, cyclist, writer, gal
about town, feminist, freewheeler, and
friend. One day, she is going to be an
ideas curator. Which basically
means, she will tell you
exactly what she thinks.
Until then, you’ll have
to read between
the lines.
First the machine then the malice
Cede them both to this empty room
where the walls are white and high and clean.
The floor is cleared of all encumbrances –
you are ready.
Be received. Stay until the mourning comes.
I’ve nowhere I’d rather be.
Drop the needle to the record, anticipate,
the crackle hum that calls to mind
some other song you used to love,
which will not be the song of now, but is a song
all the same: exquisite, familiar,
calling back and holding tight.
Hand to waist or shoulder or neck
hip to hip and chest to breast or breast to chest,
dance with me, sway each sad and beaten body
still beautiful, still whole, tender to my flesh,
gentle to the sound.
No one can live with the world.
—
You let people stick a finger in your face and tell you you’re no good. And when things got hard, you started looking for something to blame, like a big shadow. Let me tell you something you already know.The world ain’t all sunshine and rainbows. It’s a very mean and nasty place, and I don’t care how tough you are, it will beat you to your knees and keep you there permanently if you let it. You, me, or nobody is gonna hit as hard as life. But it ain’t about how hard you hit. It’s about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward. How much you can take and keep moving forward. That’s how winning is done! Now if you know what you’re worth then go out and get what you’re worth. But ya gotta be willing to take the hits, and not pointing fingers saying you ain’t where you wanna be because of him, or her, or anybody! Cowards do that and that ain’t you! You’re better than that!”
– R Balboa
Leave A Comment ↓
Comments
Leave a Reply
Trackbacks & Pingbacks
No incoming links found yet.
You have no idea how timely this is…
Rocky B. A warrior poet and a mu’fuggin genius.
Ring that bell and take this stool away. I’m up and swinging. All split lip and broken rib. Rocky, you are the boom beneath my biceps. Let’s get back to beating ourselves to a verby pulp.
To say anything else at this point would break my little glass jaw so I’ll stop… Now.