There was a character in a James Bond movie,
He felt no pain,
It was a great source of anguish for the guy,
He hurt all the time.

Death has a way of sobering up a day,
Just something about it,
Such a great source of pain,
The loss so much for some.

I’ve had my share of loss,
Sudden, life-altering deaths,
Family, friends, each layering on scars
Somehow shielding my soul from death.

I’ve grown to accept that death will come,
Grabbing someone,
Maybe another relative, maybe a friend,
I hope neither. Me, either.

I worry that I’m that character,
Not able to feel the sadness when people die,
Maybe because the ache from my family’s loses
Have jaded my outlook on grief.

Move on, go forward,
“Get busy living, Red.”
Too sober some might think, although,
Others might realize I’m drunk with life.

So how is it, that I don’t belly up to the grieving bar,
I don’t know, not cold-hearted, just accepting of the end,
Saddened by the losses, not saddled by death.
My time will come and I hope people say a toast and move on.

That would be enough,
No grieving,

Committed (Part 1) was posted earlier today if you want to check it out.

Sometimes a day gets in the way
Of writing in the moment.
On this day when I got to go all out on kind of burpees,
I had hoped that I would write just after
My first glam HIIT class.

Instead, there were emails,
Uniforms to collect,
Answering of delicate questions like what I think about
Abortion and Trump and
The lighter and infinitely more personal,
“Do you like tacos with chorizo?”

“Is there any other way?”
A good answer, I thought.

But back to being committed,
This morning was, “committed” in the sense of a mental institution,
Crazy, deranged, insane,
All terms that might be assigned to people waking and
Doing a class of high intensity interval training.
Come on, admit it, swimming, running, lifting,
Those don’t sound so bad in the early morning hours
Before the sun rises.

Tabata, lunges, burpees, and push-ups until your arms wear out?

So there I was, on a Friday in the dark,
Getting ready to run a few less miles (see what I did there)
In a gym with about ten or twelve others,
All women and almost all older than my half plus century (or so).
Why? Why was I there?
Because despite my gruff exterior, absence of caring for most stuff, and
Frequent self-absorption, I can support a friend
On a quest to make a change.
Besides, misery and company is one thing,
Suffering, bitching, and laughing is how we roll. Bad student alert!!

(Of which I am, go read Committed (Part 1) for elaboration).

Momma said, “Be careful what you say,”
So I’ll leave commentary about class alone,
Let it be known, though, that I sweated a lot, got my heart rate up, and
Became the insolent little snit that succeeded in high school,
Made it through college a few times, and now feels free to offer commentary
On whatever bullshit hypocrisy exists
When people try to teach me something… Too duchy?

Then again, it’s also fun
Trying to figure out if Buffett, Nine Inch Nails, and the Little River Band
Can be put on a station called Yacht Rock.
Some would argue that Bob Marley would have to be included,
But I’d nix that and suggest the reggae contribution come from Tosh or Isaacs.
Maybe Committed Rock would be better…

Still though, after such an intense class, the craziness running through our veins
Led to visions of angry roosters attacking giant fathers with their young offspring,
Dogs with more bite than bark, and 100,000 maniacs camping on a plantation.
Sounds like another band for the committed rock station.

I’m not too sure what happened between deciding to go to class and its end,
A few things were reaffirmed,
Somehow I know the words to that pump up the jam song,
I’m not a fan of choreographed fitness classes, and
I have some good friends.

One of them who is in fitness-favor dire straits this summer. (Sinister laughing…)

How about that, another band for the station.

What have I done,
I’m the worst kind of student,
Unmoved by bass infused music,
Unwilling to do what I don’t want to do
Only wanting class to end.
Such are the attributes I bring
To some morning boot camp BS.
My friends twisted my fragile arms,
Not to forcefully, I’ll add,
And now, I sit,
Just a constitutional away
From what should surely
Have me committed.

(Part 2 after class…)

In my journal today, I wrote,
“Eff booster clubs.”
Not really, but I hope a wide audience will read this
And be offended,
Which might suggest
That I should have spelled out the offensive word…
Oh, I’m sorry, I did, booster…

Sports has become a money grab.
Sports has become an image authenticator.
Sports has become so out of balance
That I’m writing this agave style
And I still believe what I’m saying.

Sports is not about the gear.
Sports is about playing a game.

Fashion is for the runway,
Community chests are for the needy
And it’s gross the EXTRA amount of money the athletic fashionistas
Want to outfit a team.
Wouldn’t it be better to donate the money to charity
Rather than some new UnderNikeAddidas whatever wear.

When did sports lose any semblance
Of being something that teaches life lessons?
I suppose when the money grabbers,
Masking as protectors of the realm of sports insanity
Decided to put a fee on this or that
So their little son or daughter might look good
Playing an effing game.

You know what looks good? Skill. Sportsmanship. Competition.

And when did volunteer coaches start getting paid?
Do I not know what volunteer means?

Please know, I coach three sports.
I played three sports in high school.
I burned out on college sports about three weeks into it.
I was an average player in all my sports,
But I love what sports can do for a person.
I don’t love what sports are doing to people.
I loathe the fundraising, especially for the trivial
Or for the few.
Special jackets, special shooting shirts, special bullshit to me.
Volunteer coaches should know the deal coming in,
There aren’t getting paid out of the school’s coffers,
So why mine?
Again, I ask, what does volunteer mean?
Shouldn’t volunteers appreciate the thank you?
Isn’t that why they volunteered?

Or are they cashing in on the money pit that sports have become?

The harsh reality is that sports only pay off for a limited few.
Great, they earned it and whatever comes their way is kudos to them,
But for the rest of the families who are living in denial or
Sort of footing the bill for the other kids, I say,
Eff that.

I’d rather have a bunch of kids in awful uniforms
Learning to play together because they understood adversity,
Commitment, and hard work, rather than getting a spot on the team
Because they got to wear the most fly gear.

So my journal was right,
At least as how I see things,
One more time, quit asking me for money.
I paid already.

My friends who really know me,
The ones who get past the veneer,
Know that within the philosophical poet Cox
There is an inappropriate, immature, and
Highly sarcastic dude.

My friends also know,
That I wear my emotions clearly,
Not hiding disdain or annoyances,
Although, joy sometimes has a hard time
Escaping the serious upper layers.

If I had to describe me,
I might go, Sam Malone, “simple guy, complex world,”
But that doesn’t seem quite right,
For on this morning run,
Chaotic might describe me best.

The run started as they all do,
Cold, dark, idle chit-chat.
There were the normal aches and pains,
Runners know them well,
Non-runners don’t.

We trudged up the hill
And my isolationist tendencies took over.
My pace dropped, nature’s sounds were amplified,
The creek, unseen birds, the aria that is sunrise
Played off in the distance.

That moment was beautiful, peaceful,
Then things went haywire.
Maybe there was a surge of testosterone,
A little manliness to crank up my pace,
Some ego to challenge my solo existence.

The run ended in a blaze of slowness
That is the pace I run,
With sweat pouring and endorphins pumping
The aforementioned “haywiriness” nearly fully percolated,
I stretched, to take care of the running aches.


Hard balls on soft mats.
Nut coffee, cream or no cream.
Low hanging fruit.


Magic 8-Balls,
Two Magic 8-Balls lifted to the sky,
Boiled peanuts at Hyman’s in Charleston.


The whole coffee conversation revolved around balls,
The inappropriateness sort of hidden,
But right there in your face
If you had the range and shallowness to put it there.
Then there were innocent talks of tacos and mailboxes
Each sending me, and a couple of others,
Back to high school, no, probably more like middle school
When this sort of joking was all the rage,
Who am I kidding, without any Freudian psychoanalysis,
It’s still effing funny.

Balls, Balls, Balls,
The hanging and the swaying of the balls,
If Poe had written that it would be a classic
And maybe banana hammocks and Vienna Sausages
Wouldn’t be such blue humor,
But alas, it was time for work,
We all had to go,
For it was

Hump day.

Ahhh haaa, haaa, haaa!