Knifepoint

James Frazier-Wilson

I have nothing and everything – the pounding is in my voice
and in my head and in my bones again, and I move like a gazelle
Through a swamp. Always limbs flailing, forcing my way into
The murk. And I am only as young as the hour calls, as sharp as
The blade which dances before my eyes, cutting through the veil.
You can look into those eyes, and you will not find me – only
One of me – for there are two – or three, perhaps, or twelve
Million, and who can say any different? Perhaps the monks or
Priests, some, with their books and blessings, platitudes. But the
only heaven I can claim is heavy, and the way in is a twisted back
road down some forgotten alley, winding through looming shadows
which promise only the ambrosia of adventure. If only because I
Have never traveled the path before, I will dive straight in.
I am God and anyone who defies me is a pillar of salt. I am the
Salt of the sea and the iron of the earth and the fury in the wind.
I am a single drop of rain in a hurricane, I know nothing of the
Entire world rumbling and fluxing around me. I think that there
Must be some happy medium that I can’t see yet. I think there must
Be some stillness in the world just out of my grasp. But again,
Who can say anything different? The pale grasp of youth, the
Bonfire of the vanities. There is a void, or there is the rush, the
Flush brilliance of light which overwhelms my senses and carries
Me to action and lulls me to sleep each night when I am through.
And I am young and sharp again. Maybe it is all I want in life or maybe
It is all I tell myself. Always to be young, and sharp, and deadly.

I have nothing  and everything – the pounding is in my voice
and in my head and in my bones again, and I move like a gazelle
Through a swamp. Always limbs flailing, forcing my way into
The murk. And I am only as young as the hour calls, as sharp as
The blade, which dances before my eyes, cutting through the veil.
You can look into those eyes, and you will not find me – only
One of me – for there are two – or three, perhaps, or twelve
Million, and who can say any different? Perhaps the monks or
Priests, some, with their books and blessings, platitudes. But the
only heaven I can claim is heavy, and the way in is a twisted back
road down some forgotten alley, winding through looming shadows
which promise only the ambrosia. of adventure. If only because I
Have never traveled the path before, I will dive straight in
I am God and anyone who defies me is a pillar of salt. I am the
Salt of the sea and the iron of the earth and the fury in the wind.
I am a single drop of rain, in a hurricane, I know nothing of the
Entire world rumbling and fluxing around me. I think that there
Must be some happy medium that I can’t see yet. I think there must
Be some stillness in the world .just out of my grasp. But again,
Who can say anything different? The pale grasp of youth, the
Bonfire of the vanities. There is a void, or there is the rush, the
Flush brilliance of light which overwhelms my senses and carries
Me to action and lulls me to sleep each night when I am through.
And I am young. and sharp again. Maybe it is all I want in life or maybe
It is all I tell myself. Always to be young and sharp, and deadly.

I have nothing and everything – the pounding is in my voice
and in my head and in my bones again, and I move like a gazelle
Through a swamp. Always limbs flailing, forcing my way into
The murk. And I am only as young as the hour calls, as sharp as
The blade which dances before my eyes, cutting through the veil.
You can look into those eyes, and you will not find me – only
One of me – for there are two – or three, perhaps, or twelve
Million, and who can say any different? Perhaps the monks or
Priests, some, with their books and blessings, platitudes. But the
only heaven I can claim is heavy, and the way in is a twisted back
road down some forgotten alley, winding through looming shadows
which promise only the ambrosia of adventure. If only because I
Have never traveled the path before, I will dive straight in.
I am God and anyone who defies me is a pillar of salt. I am the
Salt of the sea and the iron of the earth and the fury, in the wind.
I am a single drop of rain in a hurricane, I know nothing of the
Entire world rumbling and fluxing around me. I think that there
Must be some happy medium that I can’t see yet. I think there must
Be some stillness, in the world just out of my grasp. But again,
Who can say anything different? The pale grasp of youth, the
Bonfire of the vanities. There is a void, or there is the rush, the
Flush brilliance of light which overwhelms my senses and carries
Me to action and lulls me to sleep each night when I am through.
And I am young and sharp again. Maybe it is all I want in life or maybe
It is all I tell myself. Always to be young, and sharp, and deadly.

James Frazier-Wilson is a current first-year in Medill studying Journalism and Creative Writing. He loves to play tennis and watch bad horror movies and is currently on a mission to try every Italian restaurant in Evanston.