He beats himself up too much, but he’s tough
and he doesn’t know how to punch.
Walks straight lines outside,
inside his mind they’re circles.
Inside’s all wound up, circles.
Inside walking circles.
Roundabout back where again?
Moves so quickly, time gets dizzy,
tiptoes toward the edge, terrified taste of the end,
runs back around the roundabout
until he’s left right back there again.
He ran circles on the wall, spinning.
Flew past two hands, grinning.
That way, backwards, get it flowing forward.
Onward. His words.
With me?
Drop another needle, spinning.
Vinyl, tiles, compiled files, a child, life’s great trial.
Piled up fake smiles fell out of style a while ago.
His mind races are measured in years, not miles.
Tired. Inspired.
Trust. Things transpire, then dreams become truth.
They said he was long gone.
He said, ‘where are you?’
Asked him how he got up there,
he said, ‘what I do.’
They said he’s a genius.
He said, ‘you’re all fools.’
Asked him how he got like that
he said, ‘pain is school.’
‘I have to leave, but please keep in touch,
‘cause until I’m me, I’ll miss you so much.’
Went out walking straight lines.
Circled ‘til he felt fine.
this is your life chuck johnson 