Halfway

Every joint,
(especially my shoulders)
every joint feels
tight.
The places in my body,
the lungs,
the mind,
the heart, kidneys, stomach
feel slow,
feel
depressed.

Sometimes my knuckles crack,
sometimes they don't give me
that satisfaction.

I woke up at ten this morning,
missed church,
the latest thing I've failed at.
I'd write books,
but can't get
past the first chapter;
I lose interest at school
after a semester or two.
I'm the best new guy at work
you'll ever find.
But after a month or so
I no longer fit in.

This has been my trouble:
I never make it more
than halfway up,
or halfway out;
as if I was afraid
to see what the end result looks like.

In some ways
I'd like to be much like Hemingway
and live in sexy places,
in others like Trotter
and make inspiring main courses
out of dainty morsels.
There are times I've thought
I could serve the Lord
by speaking well
like Charles Spurgeon;
and though I am loud,
there is something missing.

Instead,
I can barely move
from the floor in front of my couch;
the various parts of my body seem
suspended in a kind
of firm jelly.
I'm easily distracted
by the new thing,
by the oldest things,
by the things I'd forgot,
or chosen not to remember.