It’s days like this
When I miss the James River,
Its wide crossing,
Its still flow,
The way it told the forecast,
The breeze it partnered with,
The way time slowed by its presence.

It’s days like this
When I wish I’d never picked up a ball,
Never experienced what winning felt like,
The joy,
The ego rush,
The adrenaline,
The way everything felt right after a victory.

It’s days like this
When I can’t fathom ten more years,
A decade seems so far away,
But I know it will be here too quickly,
So much will have changed by then,
Yet, I bet work will still be just as it was

Hanging with my son today,
A rabbit hole of self-discovery,
One and the same,
A hanging and realization
That he and I are cut from the same mold,
Only he’s much smarter than me.

We braved the Easter world of new diners
In fancy new buildings,
Of course, it wasn’t up to diner standards,
Or maybe our palettes are changing,
For mine was overly fried, sloppily arranged,
His barely adequate for dipping
And the waitress’ hickey,
Offered a little too much information.

Off to a music store,
A chain of six-string proportion
Where the stores out west and the local outlet
Seem to have a liberal employee sharing policy
That only serves to demonstrate
Having a skill, be it musician, gamer, athlete
Means nothing when providing service
Or whoring every serviceable offering from the store.

Throughout the philosophy of life raged,
My simple, maybe even rudimentary wisdom,
Put up against his limitless vision,
Unbounded by the chaste philosophical stoicism
I’ve created to protect myself from the practical life
I was rebelled against in school.
A fork became payola money,
A spoon was the gatekeepers of creative opportunities,
A straw wrapper, torn and tattered, was a band hoping to make it,
And rising from the table, a knife
Enlightenment, genius, higher planes of thinking,
That creatives hope to achieve
Without needing a knife or fork.

Our debate was more Sienfeldian than Silva,
As we tried to figure out
How to have this and that
Without bending the knife
To satisfy forks and spoons.
My truth is,
I do whatever the eff I think is good,
Like it or don’t
Just be nice if you don’t
And sincere if you do.
Then again, my creative obstacles are not driven by forks or spoons,
Perhaps age has helped me come to grips with that.

But then, it got real for me,
Not philosophical, but sort of spiritual,
Am I allowed to say “sort of” on Easter,
We listened to some music from Africa, not Toto,
Solid, mind stopping, conversation halting music,
Then came, Comfortably Numb,
I drifted off in that good way guitars bring a nod,
Only to be pushed further into passenger seat ambivalence
By Spiders, and the hyped distortion of Wilco
Then came, Bad Love from Clapton,
I faded into guitar solitude,
Dropped further by She’s Gone, a Michael Hill’s Blues Mob anthem
And finally massaged back to a non-drooling state
By Europa, the Santana version.

That could have ended my day right there,
Except that I had a rambling brain,
Something triggered my heart rate,
It jumped without any stimulation, probably caffeine or sugar
From the diner or just maybe
I was rising from the cloud of contentment
That is such a poison to growth and development.
Each song had put me closer to euphoria,
Each one leaving me with visions of the guitar guys
Loving what they do,
Having the music stop their time
While allowing us to experience every second, beat, note,
And feel our auditory erotic version of their ecstatic moments.

Being the musical village idiot,
I knew I would never achieve that feeling with a Strat, but,
Why couldn’t I find a higher awareness through running?
Why not become so immersed in what I’m doing from a mental standpoint
That my physical experience rivals those I have
Listening to Floyd, Clapton, Santana, and the others.
My heart was beating so fast, I took a couple of breaths,
Knowing that my challenges are to push the mental, emotional, and spiritual boundaries,
To get over the just running, losing weight, trying not to get hurt, each
Experiences I’ve been settling for.
I need to exercise in a guitar solo energy,
Wrapped in time, each muscle tuned to the next move, producing results
That takes me somewhere else.

Game on…

What was left of a full moon
Peeked through a hodgepodge of clouds
Making the night kind of light.

Before me were hills, lots of hills,
Some the provenience of the good mother
Others clearly residing in my tormented dominion.

I swung my legs back and forth attempting to loosen
Both hamstrings and apathy
For I’ve lost a drive to reclaim youthful distances.

Clearly, the hills would have to be conquered,
Especially, the mental ones,
If the run would be of any benefit.

So in the emerging light of morning
I took off with steps so awkward
That doubt was barking right away.

The first hill, at least from the good mother,
Rose quickly and with a sharp incline
That drove my heart rate up.

Thoughts of demons past, the ones that never go away,
Brought their sniping memories in force
Somehow I dodged their bullets and headed downhill to the pond.

Where the second hill rose for nearly a mile,
A steep incline in the middle brought to surface naysayers,
The self-generated angry thoughts questioning purpose and pride.

Somehow I ran away from those, too.
Through an abandoned lot, past the beer distributor, by the social club,
And heading down the long hill, I found my way.

Running on the railroad tracks, fighting the rocks,
Worrying about a train,
Just chugging along towards the rising sun in the east.

The little spur changed my negativity,
Putting me on track to accept another long hill,
One I would have never tried twenty minutes prior.

Few cars were out this early,
The road was typical Pennsylvania with few places to bail,
But it’s peak called out my doubt, challenged my commitment.

Game on, lean it, chopping steps,
Breathe, breathe, breathe,
Relax, breath, relax…done.

It’s there, at the top of McFarlan
Where the consequences of training came to light,
All the miles, all the meals, all the meditations.

I’m ready for this race,
Ready to get out there, turn off my brain, and just run.
Ready to be done.

The rest of this run was mostly a downhill cruise,
Until I got back to other side of hill number one,
The one with the demons howling their made up speech.

I saw them there again, Thing 1 and Thing 2,
Each taunting, each trying to add tension to my easy going way,
I blasted them with southern styled middle fingers and smiled.

Maybe it was Emerson who suggested I rely on me,
Perhaps this early run, when the moon and mood conspired against me
Was the sort of resurrection I needed before this marathon.

I willed it.
I got it.
Now, it’s up to me to do something with these realizations.

What is it,
Who knows?
Thank God,
Or whomever
Was the one
Coming up with
Life’s logarithms,
The cosmos
Offering suggestions,
Things to take away
The swelling,
Staving off the nothing time,
Relieving annoyances
In stuff that probably
Is more distraction
Than entertainment,
Certainly less about satisfaction
Than ho-hum whatever.

Early risers,
Just a few this morning,
It is Good Friday,
It is the day after the Mueller Report.
Maybe people are settling with God.
Maybe people are tired from
All the swamp soul selling.
At least a few early risers are here.

close up view of plasma
Photo by Pixabay on

Energy flows,
Shared by the cosmos,
Given to others,
Borrowed from nature,
From one form to another,
Neither created,
Nor destroyed,
Just there,
To be molded into function,
Or just.
Then released,
Back to the community
For it’s next purpose.

***Author’s note: I don’t usually write about these kinds of things or use this kind of slang, well, because my mother reads the blog, but this was just too much for me to pass on. In an effort to distill the harshness of unmentionable acts, I will rely on slang terms or descriptions thereof.

Read at your own peril, Mom.


There are some things for slinging’…
Mud, hash, tv entertainment, but
Never should anyone ever think it appropriate
To do battle with the
One-eyed purple headed yogurt slinger
In an effin’ steam room by the pool where people swim.
Sure the hot temperatures,
The relative privacy of the foggy door, and
An imagination steeped in the internet’s debauchery
Might make rubbin’ one out
Seem like the thing to do, but
No, take your hairy ass palms home
And do your thing in the privacy of your home.

The idea of taking the short one for a public beat down
Is not appealing in the least.
Plus the thought of the clean up in aisle seven
Is difficult when there is nothing there but a swimsuit to wipe things up.
I guess the biological consequences of too much stimulation
Will be left behind by the dragon slayer (selfish, don’t you think)
Becoming someone else’s problem to deal with.
Note to self, chest waders in the steam…
What is wrong with people?
Pink Floyd had it right with the Fletcher Memorial Home,
Maybe we could put the public masturbators in there, too.
They could stand in a circular formation jerking to their
Pathetic phalangeal penile patois slingin’ far away from the steam room.

***Author’s Note: Remember, if the rules don’t say, “Masturbating in the steam room is not allowed,” people might think it is okay. I’m just saying, people need to be told. I’m worried that the man in the glass is concussed. At least in one of his brains…

Sorry, Mom.