A Poem by Walker Storz

Sweat

How many times 
can you
rise up to be 
beaten down
by a blunt wall—
Red, humid, 
broad as a thoroughfare

Before failing

A lucid star drops
from the east, a 
soundless bomb
Shattering like a 
vermillion mirror—the
soul reflected into
Itself, infinitude—each
piece a drop of
sweat.  The star 
crosses the equator—
tumbles toward 
Hell, the 
guts of Earth.  A 
place teeming with
sickening, writhing
life; life which is too
vigorous, which wants
to be free of its
skin. 

Where is my 
will?  What is it
that says “I am
I,” or says “I will
not—not today”? I 
suppose it governs
by default.  I am 
too tired to put these
things to bed.  My 
body endures 
obliquely—it does not
thrive, it does not
generate a will;
it sits in
itself, its opaque stink
of congealed time, 
deadening of
nerve

Condemnation, debt,
remorse, duty—all 
gravities with 
different vectors.
Some pull from
the firmament,
some from below
the waters, from the
insides of the 
earth.  

The earth washes itself
of itself, and in 
these rhythms is
a seasick nausea—
I, the sick, the guilty:
I am the vomit
of the body of the earth, and 
I am like a tide
rolling back on
itself without 
reason.

Walker Storz is a musician, artist, and writer living in Vermont. His work covers the themes of faith, suffering, and illness.

Image: Marek Piwnicki / Unsplash
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