Yesterday, I watched anime,
Sometimes I do that,
Not really understanding what it’s about,
Maybe because I’m too old,
Although, I did grow up on Speed Racer,
Which is sort of anime, I suppose.

This one was different than the others,
A music video of sorts,
A confluence of pop, country, and anger
With a message one of the songs suggested
I shouldn’t even try to figure out the meaning.
Of course, I didn’t listen.

Instead, a took a deep dive,
Free falling through each chapter, scene or song
And attempting to attach my meaning
The artistic expression before me.
My spin picked up its pace with the action of the show
Putting my heart rate and leg ache higher than usual.

I saw death,
I saw cruelty,
I saw the gratuitous ways we objectify each other,
There was hope,
There was revenge,
There was good rising to the top.

The end of the video came soon enough,
My hoodie was drenched in sweat,
Little puddles pooled on the floor under my bike.
I never knew I was sweating,
Lost in the video, absorbed by the music.
Tomorrow I may watch anime again.

The other day another youthful fantasy
Got destroyed
When a sitcom siren was reportedly involved
In a naked knife-wielding domestic dispute.

Not sure who was supposed to be naked,
But either way,
It kind of killed the memory
Of what she brought to the table.

So with the gossipy news
Taking away the salacious thoughts
I was left with morning conversations
With the coolest old heads I know.

We ran through the dark,
Comparing food choices
That increasing include fewer bouts with sugar
And greater experimentation with lifestyle changes.

When cruised into the morning
Listening to a hoodied meathead
Grunt over creaking knees
As they provided a porn soundtrack to simple leg extensions.

We gathered at the watering hole
A table at the Y where swill coffee goes down
Better than the reality of whatever happens
During a shutdown week.

Farts on planes,
Attempts to move the burning air,
Recirculating an old friend’s Army story of
Clearing back blast areas.

Just another Friday with my mates…

Knowing when it’s good,
The feeling of accomplishment,
Storied moments elusive and fleeting
When age couples with disinterest,
Knowing when it’s good,
A welcome relief.

Charging up a hill after weeks of patience,
Reckless, bolstered with determination
Unbound by the constraints
Of doubt, worry, responsibility
Just letting it fly,
The motor running hot,
Stupidity carrying the day.

The order of things doesn’t matter,
Whether avoiding Satanic graffiti,
Stories of broken hearts, or just hoping
To keep up with the fleetest of the group
It did not matter,
It was good,
It was the beginning of something new.

When new places go old school
I’ve got to say that I’m all in.
Don’t call things retro,
Just know,
Simple is better,
Like going Rocky and Apollo
Sprinting down the beach,
Gulls confused and
Yoga posers unsure.
Only old school souls who feel primal urges
Know how great it feels to bang out a run
Over sand and crashing
Jersey Shore waves,
Especially before sunrise.
Then, after a few hours
Of contemplating the summer of ’61
When balls flew out at a record pace,
It’s time to test the muscles
Against gravity and father time.
Luckily, the Jersey Shore Mecca
Is just a twenty minute walk away
With real iron,
A sweat smell,
A crooked ass water cooler,
Pictures of Arnold everywhere,
And a vibe put down by heavy metal.
Old school, not an effing health club or fitness center,
A gym full of all the couldn’t give a crap
About wellness, warm up sets, or whiny ass soccer moms
Because this is a joint
Where “pick them up and put them down”
Rings true with each rep, each set,
Each appropriately expressive grunt
And all that heavy work.

Best fifty I’ve dropped in a long time…

black metal armchair
Photo by Michael Morse on

I hope my compadres are hurting too.
We have taken on a ridiculous challenge
And my abs are singing the blues,
They echo from the hollow rock of being sedentary
Which I’m not,
Except for the lack of core work,
The couch,
And those yummy ice cream bars.
It seems unfair that we work so hard,
Burning fuel in the dark morning hours,
Running, falling, dodging the traffic,
Only to neglect discipline in other areas of fitness,
In nutrition, and the sinful hydration practices.
We pay the price, then some idiot… me,
Says something stupid and another says, “Okay,”
And then we are tummy terrorists
Destroying our egos and abs.

Loving it!

The park was never as dark as this morning,
One truck was already there,
No one was inside,
It weirded me out.

The back of the truck was loaded with weights,
Waiting to fulfill their duty
Of being picked up and put down
By an apprehensive and slightly nutty band of runners.

As the sun rose,
The bars began to stir,
The planning came together,
The group chipped away.

There was music,
There was laughter,
There were geese,
There was a good time.

In the end, there was also enlightenment,
Okay, more of a realization,
Twenty-thousand is just a number,
Will and support, that’s how we are.

Cranking out repetitions,
Churning out the miles,
All because we know we can,
All in the presence slightly nutty friends.

So, the creek didn’t rise,
Cottonmouth didn’t stop a workout,
No “doubtful” messages from the 8-ball,
Just an honest probing of us…success all around.