Maslow's Pyramidion

I.

I free solo the pyramid,

only the moon and stars for company.

​

The wind whispers

sweet nothings.

​

All I’ve brought is myself

and ghosts.

​

The desert spinning too far below is reflected by starlight

reflected across spacetime

once a metropolis once a pyramid village once a forest once a sea floor once the vacuum of space

​

the ramps are long

gone.

​

II.

Inch by inch

fluvio-aeolian forces

erode

the mortar.

​

clay and sand break down

over time.

​

local thieves and tourists

steal the stones.

​

Those bonds forged by love and belonging fall apart.

​

III.

Each white limestone block is cold to the touch.

Every pale hold is rough—

a test.

Each missing piece is

missed.

The remnant pockets:

huge bummers.

I test each

before entrusting my full weight

and hope

​

for true positive

results.

​

IV.

"1, 2, 3,

weight!"

​

Safety second.

I-we flash

to a spire-top

summit

​

back

simul-rappelling

;

​

two dog-

fighters

with their tongues hanging out

​

aerials in the sky

​

rock music

blasting

​

the clouds tickling

our feet

​

V.

a partnership founded on loss

and mutual trauma

​

on the border of Duat

a star-in-circle

​

you arose from the primordial,

watery abyss

Nu,

​

sailing on Mesektet

​

two ropes tied together

two feathers of Maat

two ships passing in the night

silhouetted against the nephilite wall

​

floating

​

our weight counterbalanced

the other

​

VI.

losing control

the twisted strands--

dry cord--

sliding through the anchor

​

in the gallows

a fraying

noose:

​

I strike the ship's

hull;

​

the trapdoor opens

beneath you

​

VII.

slipping into the event horizon

a black hole

​

you live your life in that moment

​

a billion years pass on

Earth

​

VIII.

I sit on a cliff,

my feet dangling

over the edge,

a humble meal of bread and beer

in my lap.

​

I toast to you

with a heavy heart

​

As the moon shadow of a palm

spills over me

​

I run a finger,

absentminded,

through a puddle

of Sahara dust,

heaping up

a berm.

​

I toast to them.

​

To the work team downstairs

wetting the desert sand,

building capillary bridges of water

between the grains,

stiffening the earth between the ocean

dunes to make for smoother sailing; for the crews

of 45 men dragging blocks of two-ton Tura-limestone

on wooden sledges 500 miles from the Giza-plateau

under the scorching sun --

gliding across the dust like Mandjet on the Nile.

فى صحتك:

​

IX.

Langxi is

death by a thousand cuts.

​

a torture as old

as time.

​

Crack climbing’s

not too far off.

​

You bend your elbow,

jam a hand,

thumb opposed,

deep in the depression

between stones and

jam an everted foot,

knee twisted,

heel down,

deep in the depression,

and lift up

in brutal spurts and rallies

and repeat.

​

The pain is like nothing else,

so you break up

every section and move

into digestible parts.

​

my insides are pink granite

in this epoch.

​

My footholds are alabaster and

basalt.

​

Red blood seeps through a white layer

of chalk and callus

​

Nerves flare with pain

until extinction.

​

There is beauty

in this.

​

X.

Below, disturbed kings catapult

their bodies across

the night sky -- their corpses smash

against the facade and send loose rocks flying

dangerously

​

shooting stars

crater the wilderness

​

litter history

​

I wish...

they knew

the wisdom of children

or read Shelley--

like sand castles on the beach,

you can't build with dry sand,

the tide always comes back in

and washes you away

​

XI.

Higher, I find a portaledge hanging from the limestone block.

a sun-bleached skeleton sleeps on

a mud ramp

​

joints a ruin of osteoarthritis

​

this is

his pyramid too.

​

XII.

I climb past

​

losing skin and

heat.

​

dehydrating

​

the exposure is airing out

my dirty secrets.

​

the ghosts tell me death is merely an interruption of life;

that transcendence follows self-actualization.

​

As I climb into the twinkling starlight,

I learn the act of climbing will not elevate me above the sand and clay.

My spirit will not be preserved by deities or theophagy

and I will never be Apollo.

​

It hurts, but nerves flare with pain

until extinction.

​

There is beauty

in this.

​

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/w2ac88/death/

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/w29djx/immaturity/

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/w2ajqe/grand_sorcery/

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/w25kej/late_night_wanting/