Poem in which my doppelgänger

dives toward the light again, 
a kamikaze pilot. What I mean is,
I recall the slightly crazed contestants
in Takeshi's Castle, running through a maze 
and aiming for a platform that swings above 
what looks like a blender full of mud. 
Meaning, how everything depends 
on getting to the palace, really a fortress 
dipped in DayGlo colors— while in the under-
brush, other players make garbled noises 
like a million scraped knees on gravel,
or parachuting moth wings.  In every quest 
story, it's not so much what for or what 
it's worth that the hero goes through crisis
after crisis—Individuation is what they
call it: how a stronger, wiser self
supposedly emerges after each test,
dusting off the rubble, straightening
her suit of Teflon, all limbs still
hopefully intact. At what price,
this light that scintillates? How much,
if only for the splinter that drives
itself so deep, I cannot ever
forget it.

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