The pole vaulter, fit as fuck and full of ephedrine, stands pole in hands, pole raised, muscles otherwise relaxed, the head level (as level as it can get with that many red blood cells coursing through it), knowing that the fucking bar has been raised beyond human ability this time, way fucking above it, raised so much higher than fucking possible that it’s far out there really, or up there, totally ridiculous, a joke with no punch line, just a promise of screeching silence as the foot hits the bar, the bar falls to the mattress, the pole vaulter falls to the mattress, the pole falls to the ground, the earth rushes through galactic darkness. What the fuck. The pole vaulter rests the pole on his beefy shoulder. Claps his bulging veined hands above his curly blond head. Rocks back and forth like a fucking idiot believing that this can actually happen, that this. Can actually. Take place. This, a fully extended fuck-you-finger to the administrator of gravity, a universal blow-job with clenched teeth, an execution by black hole, a stoning by meteor, a goddamn sparrow-kill with atom-bomb. Pole vaulter done clapping grasps pole rocks two times back forth lifts pole leans back starts advancing running faster faster faster lowers pole little by little enough to hit the ground in allotted space pole bending hands holding like fuck body stretching pole energy releasing body lifting arms and torso working brain silent pole could snap but doesn’t, wants to extend into all its length as that feels better for pole as vaulter is flung catapulted thrown tossed sashayed wanting reaching timing grasp relaxing releasing pole falling hips twisting belly tucking prick protruding the bar away up there up there up there in the heavens oh fucking hell there in the distance up above so up above all possible parabolic pathways poking its bar-tongue at the pole vaulter’s spiked soles the body not even sniffing the bar’s sense of independence so fucking far out of reach the body hitting top of the curve the heat expelled the stores looted hollow the weight dead the drop commencing increasing totally silent sincere not really sincere but just itself, as itself, no judgement no value other than downwards motion through the medium known as air through space known as interstellar galactic one-directional known as consisting of a possible total of eleven dimensions most spatial some temporal through lived life experience present always present constantly into the present butting into the present tensing his sphincter muscles to not let shit evacuate on impact known as landing also known as hitting the ground crashing smacking into the mountain catching on proverbial fire sagging into elastic fabric known as something complicated which actual make-up is patented and illegal to divulge without prior contractual agreement bouncing back up into what is known as the air again pathetically so like a child jumping on its parents’ bed screaming with attention-seeking impulses but like an adult how crushingly sad it is to see the hours of training draining down that loo-hole, that place also known as the shitter the john a loved child has many names the inhuman amounts of preparation fizzing lazily to the punch-bowl’s stirred-through topmost layer to pop into the sweet smell of the element known as air all those sacrificed Sundays Mondays weeknights dates kebabs after-work beers in the thing also referred to as time gone never ever more to return as the pole vaulter gets up from the mattress, picks up his pole, runs a veined bulging hand through his hair, shakes his head, drags the pole behind him. Takes his clothes from the bench and puts them on. Sits down. Looking. At the crowd. The pole vaulter goes: hm. Feeling a little woozy from the dope limping through the stillness of his body’s spent ambitions.