Handstands

Budded off an idea I'd mentioned in passing in BGR: ongoing tale of a nation state (posted 26 Aug), the idea of the handstand.

They’re such a perfect metaphor for SG, aren’t they?

Suspended somewhere between a backflip and a forward flip, as if afraid of our destiny but unwilling to regress into the past, we try to root ourselves in the present, a tenuous, perilous position at best. We try to walk, but on our hands this becomes a wobbling, tentative gait. We feel like throwing up with we had for lunch. And our feet never touch the ground.

Add this to yet-another reading of a really good example of a poem where form backs up (and adds to) the idea, and you get a pseudo-wannabe-poem from me that goes like this:

HANDSTANDS

Jack finds himself balancing
on
his
hands.

Feet up in the air like
some
improbable
raven.

There are landmines here, and maybe
hands
won’t
trigger them.

He wobbles forward
one
step
two-
nearly falls.

Wants to throw up, but there’s no such thing
as
a free
lunch.

He squints ahead, but the grass
just
smiles
back.

Guessing is hard, when he’s got blood
rushing
through his
brain.

How can he get through?
Jack
won’t
know

Till
he looks
around
With his feet on the ground.

=======================

I'm not happy with this piece yet, but there you go. Comments, especially good detailed criticism (including exact line/phrase references if possible) are very welcome.

For the curious, the original piece, of which mine is a mere wannabe, appears below:

Tank, I need an exit

Jack is trapped. In a very small place. Where his sentences can't. Be more than five words. Long. A short space to think. Even shorter to do. Jack can breathe, just barely. He walks out of the h... No, doesn't make it. Tries to pick up the ph... Didn't make it either. Did he ask for this? Did he put himself there? Jack doesn't know. He can't think that long. Ago.

Just brilliant, eh? That's gotta be my fave short piece so far. A textbook example of form-and-idea.