I’ve never thrown caution

to the wind.

I’ve never been the first to throw stones.

I've never thrown my back out, 

and I've never thrown anything at all out of a window 

of any floor 

of any building 

anywhere.

(Roof, included.)

I've never thrown someone

out a window 

or a door

of a home, or

an office, or

a saloon

(though I've always wanted to, 

I must admit because

I've also never thrown a single thought away,

they stay

remain

stretched across every memory like varicose veins).

I've never thrown someone out of a life,

mine or anyone else's (though I've wished it, but only twice);

I've never thrown no one out, either.

(Though, I’ve been thrown.)

I've never thrown rice, 

uncooked

or cooked,

(though I've celebrated marriages —

uncooked and cooked,

underdone, mushy, crispy on the bottom, and sizzling on top).

I've never thrown an animal;

I’ve never thrown anything at an animal

that wasn’t a pillow at a cat,

always aimed well-enough to the left.

I've never thrown a fight. 

(I still might.)

I've never thrown an anchor from a boat or a ship;

I've never thrown a big switch,

on or off again,

a missile launch or life support,

a one-way ticket, either way,

though, I have lived through sudden change.

Twice, but tomorrow’s another day and,

somehow,

lightyears away.

I've never thrown a course astray

(on purpose),

their way,

my way, 

wherever I am is usually where I stay,

in circles, mostly.

I've never not thrown away a day.

I've never thrown a first pitch,

ceremonially;

I've never thrown an egg or a brick or a can of dispensing tear gas feloniously;

I've never thrown the book at anyone,

legally,

or had the book thrown at me

(though, see below, I have thrown books at someones,

and had them thrown at me, 

just not the, 

deliberately, but

psychologically, however,

I've never thrown anything more than I that,

the stories I've stored written for me, by me, about everything,

infinite ammunition in the imagery,

infinite demolition of any objective reality feels like universality and self-fulfilling defeatist prophecy, but

I've never thrown much of any of that at anyone else but me).

I have thrown Good Book, The 

to the ground a number of times,

against a wall a couple more,

against every hotel ceiling or door I've found myself in,

solitarily,

impatiently, 

when God became god and His Word became a colonists' author's fantasy.

Became, for me.

In reality, the objective, it is, was, and will continue to be

(fantasy, 

super-textually expressing the subtextual parenthetically, beating you and me and every dead horse lying lame in the street, 

yet they continue to breathe).

I've never thrown a punch I didn't land;

I've never landed a punch I've thrown and felt another human being on the other side of my fist;

I've never thrown a grenade,

but I've lobbed enough,

emotionally (I think),

intellectually (I believe);

I've never thrown a spear or a knife or an axe or any implement of potential-death

when not for show,

zero risk,

making a game of it,

last and first breath;

I've never thrown a single thing that was ever meant to save my life or the lives of those I love, either;

thankfully, gratefully, luckily, euphemisms for

privilegedly.

I’ve never not thrown a bone,

but of the bones that I’ve thrown I don’t think an anthropologist would be able to tell if I was a vertebrate or something made of gel,

maybe something with a shell?

I've never thrown that word around lightly;

I've never thrown love away, either;

I can barely lift it.

How is it so easy to lose?

I've never thrown someone over my shoulder, 

dragged them in escape;

(I've dreamed it, though),

I don't know if I have what it takes

to be it, though.

I've never known anything I've never thrown less than how many hats I've never thrown in the ring in the past;

I've never thrown my hat, not even when I graduated,

or when I graduated, again, after that.

Not just the past, either,

it's the present,

I'm not throwing my hat,

currently;

hats, plurally, despite their invisibility to even the closest to me;

I wear so many;

they've become so heavy,

impossible to steady;

simultaneously, 

all stuck together, 

collapsing like gravity;

I've never thrown myself into a singularity.

I've never thrown myself out of one, either,

despite what they say about entering and exiting,

the impossibility of the escape doesn't vex me;

I've been trying to throw myself out of me since I could write words,

before they could be seen, but,

debatably,

fortunately/

unfortunately,

I've never thrown myself out of me.

I’ve thrown my shot,

away, as they say;

I’ve thrown away many, many,

many many days,

many myriad ways. 

I've thrown fists into walls, and

I've thrown countless tissues away

in the trash,

some flecked red,

some wet with tears,

most capturing fantasies of fear.

I've thrown away my mind many times.

I've thrown pitches from mounds on fields

for audiences;

I've thrown balls from the outfield as those audiences exited;

I've thrown pitches from chairs and couches, 

in conference rooms or

on roofs or

just outside a private, executive toilet.

I’ve thrown myself from a stage,

once,

which was once too many.

I've thrown words in blenders and grinders and processors and

I've thrown my weight

around,

rarely,

I'm not very heavy,

though I pray for a fight

sometimes,

always,

the original declarative was right;

let there be light,

he said from the dark.

I've thrown shade

unsuccessfully.

I've thrown a baby

(my own), but not until she could say "Go."

I've thrown a pillow a time or two,

playfully, and

I've thrown water in my wife's face,

which was followed by an I'm sorry I threw, too, but

I've thrown enough of those to know a bad throw;

I've thrown so many apologies I just expect to be caught and to catch.

I've thrown apologies like coins cinched in sacks to hands outstretched,

but not to me;

I've thrown those apologies regardless of how many times they get thrown back.

I've thrown opportunities and money and time and relationships and friendships and a mentorship,

I fear,

all because

I've thrown what they saw at the wall,

hoping they'd see the me they wanted me to be,

until the me I'm unable to deny peels unstuck

and the damage is irreparably…

I’m just so sorry.

I've thrown a simulacrum of someone wholly incomplete;

holy, filled with holes,

that's not what they see, but maybe that's the thing?

my thing?

it?

I'm asking.

I've thrown questions like nets or lassos or lies,

traps with two sides.

Mine is right.

Two sides is the trap.

I've thrown declarative sentences like knives;

I still do.

I've thrown food,

for fun and for being rotten and, like my daughter,

I’ve thrown food for being delicious.

I've thrown shoes

at the end of a long day of not wearing them;

inside in bare feet;

I've thrown shoes because they mock me,

usually,

they're holy, too,

like me, filled with holes,

dirty;

I keep them, why? 

Staring at me,

but they feel so bad on my feet... 

Shoes get thrown frequently,

away from daughter

like they’re the only thing she wants to eat,

in the direction of a cat,

there're three,

(I lied about the pillow thing);

at a fly or a mosquito or, once, a bee;

I've thrown shoes most often, I think.

I've thrown my finances into dismay.

I've thrown my career with promise into purgatory.

I've thrown a toy soldier off a balcony,

with and without a parachute,

just to see if what they said was true,

gravitationally speaking;

I concluded, then,

I've thrown too much confidence in the scientific community.

I learned the opposite, thankfully,

how resistance and atmosphere effect universal laws;

I've thrown support, too; 

stock in the same;

how resistance and atmosphere change the game,

how laws are just rules and both can be changed. 

I've thrown too much faith in the possibility of unity.

I've thrown too much everything on the backs of my

wife

mother

sister

father

and friends;

I've thrown too much of what I don't even yet know I will throw on my daughter's shoulders.

She can throw, now.

Balls, mostly. 

Bah-bahs, she says, both a noun and a verb.

I've thrown bah-bahs of all shapes and sizes, too,

I tell her.

She understands more than she can.

I've thrown more at her in eighteen months than she's thrown at me, and all that she's thrown are tantrums,

occasionally,

and balls and blocks and bottles and rocks and twigs and toy trees and stuffed animals and my expectations,

thrown vividly out our second-story window,

already throwing more at the world than me,

and even then, gently, 

with planetary empathy;

you've thrown me back at me,

constantly.

I've thrown tantrums, too,

less occasionally, I concede.

I've thrown a lifeline once or twice,

a life preserver,

fingers slipping from a buoy,

metaphorically;

I've thrown a few pills more than too many down my throat.

I've thrown a whole bottle of pills in the toilet and flushed them away.

I've thrown my mind, and

my heart, and

my soul (which is just the memory we leave)

into words

on pages

as digits

in code

from my tongue

the look of my eyes glaring over my nose;

I've thrown my head back,

lifted eyes to the sky,

and screamed.

I've thrown my choice.

I've thrown your voice;

please throw me mine.