It was a green and blue day.  The sky was a shade of slate, and the buildings were indomitable.  The air was ten pounds heavier that day. He walked with steady sluggishness.  Looking around and around again for signs.  His shoes were dirtied leather.  Once white like birth and now soiled from the rain and the continuity of weather. Whether or not he knew it, this day would be unlike any other day, and no day forward would ever be reminiscent of things past.  


There was a curve to his spine that showed his sunken solipsism.  The repetition of verses that had gone before.  On the door of the building, fully outfitted in deconstruction by bars and plastic sheathing, walkways for construction workers, and tarnish by years, was a poster of a man, some sort of advertisment for religion or furniture.  And to this boy there was a message, cryptically sketched in euphemism.  This message, to any other passerby wouldn't have blinked an eye.  But to him it was God for a second.  What was the thought that passed that moment? Something on the edge between suicide and eternity.  He was fearless this boy of discontent.  He was strong and healthy.  He decided this day to be a super hero.  He decided his dreams of flight would come to fruition that morning.  That his one wish in his lifetime would actually be answered, by Merlin or otherwise.  Jesus was cleaning the sidewalk that morning.  A bum with a bottle and a smile.  


And he looked to the sky.  This omnipresent presence o'erhanging as a reminder of greatness and fury.  And the boy made a decision to climb.  To reach the heights of this faulty man-made structure, and be, as it seemed to him, closer to the thing from which all was created.  He gripped his hands tight.  Stalwart in his stay, letting go and gripping duly the next rail, the next bar, the next  platform and level of the small universe he could conquer.  And a beat.  And a beat.  And the sweat beaded lightly on his forehead and in his armpits.  The drum of the threat of thunder.  Was his ambition too lofty, he thought.  Was his desire too righteous.  He was fighting for the good.  A battle of ages.  What made him think he could do it, when so many before him had failed?  What made him think he was that good? And he chortled.  It was uninvited but lovely.  It was like vomit, the way he couldn't control it.  


And on he went.  The top.  It was the goal.  The top.  Breathless he had to climb, for below was a sure death.  Too high now to turn back.  The only way out is up.  Was he nervous?  Yes.  Did it stop him?  No.  What were emotions to him?  Did they really even exist?  Did they matter?  The ambivalence of the landscape was the absolute truth.  But while the city slept, he was changing it.  Never again, a life less subtle, never again a life less grand.  He did it for humanity.  His head swooned.  Virtigo is a truism.  Don't look down, my boy.  Don't see the thing you've come from.  Raise the flesh to the top, to the top.  Where were the workers that morning?  Would no one stop him.  He had found an out-clause in the universe.  It was unprepared for his usurpation that morning.  The workers were sleeping in tiny beds.  And fast he held the metal. Repast was a while off.  Resolution the only feast.  His nails were filled with dirt.  Dirt pouring out of them.  Black garbage bags in his face.  But they were nothing.  They were only small, innocuous trivialities.  Push on my friend.  Sail the open seas.  You're beautiful my boy.  I trust you are the one.  One man.  One boy.  More and more the fancy.


There was a clearing in the scaffolding.  And in his pause, he must decide.  How to escape death, when a mission must be accomplished. How to escape death when all the yogis before him had perished.  How to escape death and sing.  He ventured to shimmy a long pole. Dangerous as it was, it was his only recourse.  Hand over fist his hands licked the pole.  Glued almost to the prospect.  No slip.  No opportunity to fail.  He had something greater than failure.  Slowly, the tips of his fingers reached, as it were, a platform.  The roof maybe.  The only opposition now was the weight of his body.  The weight of his body juxtaposing the weight of the mass.  He would have to swing.  His tips were tired.  Slowly, back and forth he rocked. Oscillating to gain speed and distance.  The floor of the world so easily away.  The aid was cheap.  So much less than before, but he had to finish still.  One and two and... panic struck him.  Again the threat of the thunder.  BANG.  One and two and... One chance.  He would have to let go and let God bring him to salvation.  Or Hell swallow him whole.  


Something came through the boy.  He had believed in himself before, but none of that was enough.  Something came through the boy like fire, like lightening, like accumulated history. Confidence was no master for power.  An esoteric term like power electrified him.  There was a hold.  There was a mass to this substance.  It was not nothing.  It was not transient.  It was not undefinable.  And yet in terms of a human condition, completely unknown.  And this body.  This tool of his swung out.  And he let his fingers go, and there was no consideration that any other outcome was possible.  And his feet, his feet were fourteen-karat.  


Through the airy elements he flew.  It was his one dream to fly.  And it was mighty.  And it was exact.  He flew like he dreamed.  And through flight was revelation.   Understanding of things that could not and never have been understood.  God flowed through him.  God flowed through him.  It was the only description that could be comprehended in terms of the physical universe.  And at once he was God.  He was everything all at once.  He knew his determination was complete and for the good.  And for the good.  And for the god.  


And he landed. Land like universes.  Expanse that took centuries to see.  His feet were touching solidity.  And he looked over at the world from this height and he saw below him, through the greyish atmosphere -- the light.  He saw man as never before.  He had been unwilling to be the man he was.  And now he knew he had to.  There weren't options.  He was not allowed to be less anymore.  For it was a sin now.  And he kissed the sky like a lover fraught with innocence.  This boy, this glorious boy of wonder was a man now.  A man is only the thing he can be, a man is only the use of everything he is.  The lack of waste. And he began to cry with convulsive overwhelm.  There would never be days again.  There would never be same again.


And it was good.