and concurrently fracturing
a quarter dozen baby-back-ribs
besides a few index limbs
and puncturing the right wind bag
and to have it pumped for 3 days
of spilled blood, is a fit of survival.
Simply said, it is to act
as a foolish Samaritan
to a friend in need, of building
an art space, and for maximum
security having joined forces
during off duty hours.
It is making sure it happens
in a darkened space and
for the construction to occur
above the first floor.
And when needed
to back up into
the elevated aerial parking story
to take a frontal appraising point
of view of the progress
you've achieved so far
by stepping in-the-blind backwards
without first having appraised
what is or is not behind you.
And insuring you have learned
beforehand how to fly backward
as you land 15 feet on cement
before a solid concrete pier
your head closer than one inch.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem