September,
25, 2005
Robarn Danzman
Its not that I’m hot its simply that my brain is slowly
cooking, simmering in crispy, perforating sun. I shuffle to
the rattle of zipper pulls and draw cord ends dazed in my
dying drying stupor. I scan the horizon in a desperate attempt
to will an aid station or the finish line I know will not
be. Miles left as drops of tea warm water dance in my bottles.
Hands swollen like great big fruit. Legs are in a rhythmic
glide interrupted by pools of silky sand and knives of limestone.
Two checkpoints offer little hope of hydrated peace. Ten kilometers
left and I have separated from myself. I scratch over an ancient
ocean without a drop. The colors of my life have gone from
green of trees, metal and things of man to the lawless world
of fossilized survival. Crunching sea shells under the heating
rubber of my soles green reenters my world in the form of
finish line flags. Its with a shallow gaze I see, this monster,
this desert, this race has failed to break me or my will.
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