real winter coming
flash freezes, near zero temps
real winter coming
real winter coming
flash freezes, near zero temps
Flashbacks and out of body experiences
Can kind of be the same
When the past comes to life.
In these cosmic times when
The writing on the wall
Seems to be spaced unevenly or at least
One’s feelings should be noted
For the chi we carry rides
On karma surf boards
Everywhere we go,
Especially around tables
Where the banter is brief, banal, and
Sooo rich for the writing.
First, a disclaimer, anonymity stripped away is more fun
Because what fun is it to just hang out
With nothing being invested in the beauty of being in a group?
Runners, weight lifters, 9-5 slummers, or worst of all, teachers,
Bring something of fault to the tables where they gather.
All of our unattractive stuff should be appreciated,
Dare I suggest, illuminated…
Perfection is not part of the equation,
Which is why wackos can stand in a US city
Without being in a state
Holding signs that say, “Inexplicable Exonoration,”
Or some fecal matter like that.
We should treasure the outliers,
Making every attempt to find our edges, too.
That’s not to say that we should be hurting people,
To quote my learned professor, ” People are not for hurting.”
That said, put on your seat belts because…
No, the disclaimer is that I write about what I hear,
What I see, and I find it all amusing,
As it was as a twenty-one year old kid sitting at a table in Paul’s Deli
With a bunch of other barely legal knuckle draggers
Downing six dollar pitchers, baskets of fries, and Hot Hollies,
Easy, they were subs, hoagies to my northern friends.
What I would give for one of my younger southern friends
To hang with my new older friends
Dropping our immature brand of redneck appreciation on each other
Which was often humor delivered to pierce the soul
Of another in the way that only really good friends are allowed to do.
My old-young friends would rag me about my clothes,
That I wrote poetry…they wanted to know if it was about them…
That my chin was square
That I liked jazz
That I breathed,
It didn’t matter because it was always followed
With comebacks until someone found a crossed-the-line button.
For one friend, it was his early onset pattern of disappearing hair
Which brought out a game changing “eff you”
And a return to the pitchers, fries, and Hollies.
What would be great about the collision of old and new
Would be hearing the more mature and less personal stories of now
Punctuated by the twang of my southern friends saying wang
And then laughing like a bunch of guys sitting around a bonfire
Doing whatever they do between attemps at avoiding the smoke
And seeing who can stand closest to the heat.
They would hoot and holler
With all the hillbilly intonations
Suburban southern kids can muster.
Then they’d get into their lifted Toyota trucks
And drive off into the night
Listening to Hank Williams, Jr. and Duran Duran.
I was rocking a Ford Escape hatchback.
Eff you, it’s still a sore point for me.
So back to the table thoughts,
Paul’s Deli was friendly combat,
The morning coffee table is a flurry of stuff
From running, to corporate America,
To boarderline hashtag humor (my fav),
Parenting, middle-aged schlock…
It deserves to be documented.
Which is what I do,
I hear things,
I see things,
I write them down.
Recently, those things have been put into the public domain
Without the anonymity of “I’m just training for a marathon,”
But with the full fledged nakedness of a whistle blower,
(not that slang for E’s last name because I’d rather build bridges).
Always a bridge builder…
My days of being a male and just out of adolescence are long gone,
While the defective male gene is still a part of my DNA,
I’ve got it under semi contol
With a bit if humility,
A healthy dose of perspective, and
The right amount of maturity.
Don’t get me wrong,
Stupid jokes are awesome,
I’m done wasting time on caca that I want nothing to do with,
And since my long lost days of closing Paul’s Deli,
I’ve learned to play nice (eff the -ly, I didn’t want a rhyme there, Mom…)
Okay, play nicely most of the time.
So, on this morning
Where for the first time in my life
I was the early riser,
Which has more to do with my lack of communication
Than with my emerging ascension to a fitness warrior,
I ran through a lame ass snow storm
Realizing how much I enjoy running in the morning and
How much better it is in the company of others.
I’m also realizing how important
Not like geriatrics folding towels,
Apparently, the DMG is amplified in senility,
I mean, just hanging out, “conversating,” in a most healthy way
To bring out an inexplicable exhiliration to the end of a run.
I wish the wackos in DC would chant that.
To my friends, you might be in here,
But only if you read yourself into it,
If that’s you,
Enough to keep it going,
That’s about where I’d like to be
On that edge where if things get pushed
A little harder
I might not be able to keep going.
They talk of the faults
Of taking life too easy,
All cozy and comfortable,
They counter with the idea
That it’s all more interesting at the outer limits.
I’d love to know and
That’s up to me,
Pushing ahead with all my might,
Pulling along with an equal effort,
Out there past my limitations.
Not that Joe Jackson song,
But the idea that all the rigamorole
Is not so heavy a burden,
Rather, it’s a flimsy tissue
Meant to be broken through
With one inspired snot rocket.
Passing through the constraints,
The airborn potential pearl
Is free of the limitations imposed
By the sanitary catch all
And well on its way
To challenging both gravity and stasis,
Either, the result of too little ambition
Or too much apathy.
Snot, it’s not who we are,
We are survivors, thinkers, dreamers,
People who can do more than wait for a sneeze,
Maybe we can do sixty percent more,
And if we can shoot mucous through some one-ply
Who knows what is possible when we are
Routine has a way
Of making spontaneity cautious,
Of making adventure untenable,
Of putting acceptance into an unwieldy place.
Then there is the idea that a routine
Is a foundation for things like
Finding paths in the snow,
Running down the middle of a dark road,
Or under bright stars
In the moments before sunrise.
I love those routines,
The cold and dark,
The frozen breath banter
Making the feels like temperature
Nothing but a conversation piece.
For it’s in those heart-pounding meet-ups
Where the repetition of one stride after another
Takes me away from the routines
Of going to work,
Watching talking heads banter about treason and liberty,
Or just sleeping my life away.
This month, the one built on so many failed resolutions,
Is proving to be the sort of break I’ve needed,
One where I’m taking leave of my excuses, my limitations,
Thirty-one days of living a routine filled with challenge,
Adventure, and “bull-shit” that staves off apathy.
The rewards are plenty of laughter,
A chance to stretch my social hesitancy,
An opportunity to test my resolve,
And an occasion to get outside of my normal routine.
It’s a bit ridiculous to see
Kids squinting at 3×5 cards
With the tiniest scribbling
Of a semester’s worth of notes
As a safety net for not studying
When right there
At their beck and call
And coming in at roughly
The same size
Is every answer
To nearly every question
Humans have strived to answer
In that unfortunately named device,
Smart phone, which
Rests with its seductive nature,
And so little association
With the reason for the note card.
Becoming a leaning tower
Nearly falling to the left.
So lost, so found,
Confused, all the same.
Not believing an end,
A clock’s ring so arbitrary,
Good vibes always flow.
Convincing a soul
An art of restitution
Get busy living
What I wish people knew is
Whatever the secret is
To not being whatever is
What we are.
(Not sure how poetic that be.)
I’m calling out to my new friends,
It’s an S-O-S which could easily turn into LOL
Or I’m crazy at 5150,
Then again, I might be 10-36
(a snake in the park-Busch Gardens code, circa 1983-I think),
So just go with this randomness, 10-4, “Roger that,”
And understand that the original call for help
Is just so that we understand
That we are all just people
Trying to survive here,
But often times spending our efforts effing things up.
Going for money,
Going for control,
Going for gratification or
Garnering support for our manufactured crises
Rarely happens to my mornings of
Running in the cold and dark
(Sometimes I have a flashlight, sometimes not)
Making them all the more fun,
Since we are not out there for the money,
Exercising a little control, and
Full of loads of gratification
As I get to hear about others
And their life experiences
That leaves me feeling
Not just in the physical domain,
But also in the philosophical,
Bull shit kind of way
That being around REAL people allows.
We are life.
We are the show.
We are the ones finding meaning,
Wrestling with our questions,
Waxing on, or off, about the idiocy of
Please don’t misinterpret,
In am no actualized New Age convert.
My questions are in there, maybe even out there,
Why am I assertively negative,
Able to bitch in a single bound,
Faster to quip than a speeding bullet?
I know why…
It feels authentic to me,
A genetic pull towards a realization
That the way I see the world is the way it must be
And I have come to this realization in moments
When my hubris runs into the touchy feeling mamby-pamby esoteric
Way that the spiritual stretchers take honest to goodness misery
And present it an R2D2 symphony of hoots and whistles
Where pretend positivity hides actual misery
In some hot dogma of lotus this and that.
Again, don’t get me wrong,
Yoga has its place,
But it can be just as over the top
As any fitness fad,
Including my beloved running in the cold and dark.
So as I review my ranting ways,
And the joy of getting out there with other creatures of the morn,
Am I what I hate?…
A PASSIVE, CHAKRA SEARCHING BUNNY
WHO DARES TO HIDE BEHIND
THE GOODNESS OF CHRYSTALS,
HUFFING INSENSE STICKS, AND
SWEATING TO TIBETAN SINGING BOWLS
DURING SESSIONs OF INSPIRED SIGHING
SO THAT I MIGHT CURRY SYMPATHY FROM
OTHER RHYTHMIC BREATHING SWEAT HOGS
WHO THINK A SUTRA IS SOMETHING TO STITCH
MEANING TO THEIR REAL HOUSEWIFE-HUSBAND
STYLE OF LIVING LIFE.
Nope, that’s not me.
I’ll take this moment to brave the #-jurors,
Own my lack of understanding
Of the ethereal power of masking emotional failures
With the timely expression of some
So that I might proclaim myself
Neither passive, polite, or politically correct,
But in love with that bizarre culture that is all at once glowing,
If not in that way that the Superman molecule chamber
Stole positivity from the potential of some good, old fashioned
Adolescent inspired, sarcastic, irreverent, and drama-free
My truth is that I don’t want
Too much of me out there,
(funny since I’m a blogging poet…)
I’m sincerely selective about who I let in,
Seriously sarcastic, unafraid of being struck by lightning for misstatement,
And a fragile jumble of failures
THAT ARE FOR ME TO WORK THROUGH
WITHOUT THE CAFFEINE INDUCED SELF-SERVING THERAPY
THAT A RECTANGULAR TABLE IS ILL-SUITED FOR.
Geometrically, it is all wrong:
Too many edges (I would be one)
Too many corners (Me, again)
To much space for the kind of comfortable intimacy therapy requires.
Sure, it’s no job interview with an office in the offer,
That’s different and an HR nightmare,
Probably more than somewhat off the rails.
So instead of dropping an overly affected mic and
Parachuting into a well-established routine of potential lunacy,
I just run,
Leaving my insecurities with me and wondering what it would be like
To surf in the morning and ski in the afternoon
Instead of watching teenaged kids bounce volleyballs off the ceiling
While talking about STEM bull shit
About the terminal cracking velocity of an egg
Dropped down a stairwell and protected by various thicknesses of bubble wrap.
The egg is already broken. Its job is to make a chicken. It can’t do that, so it needs a plan B, which is to feed a person. If it’s one of those STEM eggs, it can’t do that either as some egg head politician, professor, or parent thinks it’s a good idea to drop sustenance in the bowels of schools for the intellectual understanding of physics rather than scrambling pompous educational theory and frying that egg up for someone who really needs it.
Eff your STEM and its lack of social awareness for getting food where it is needed.
Back to the real rant…
Nope, I rather just hang with my new friends
Sure that their ideas and goals
Are probably not much different than mine,
-Laugh stuff off
Especially where I’m concerned
For no amount of running,
No quantity of downward dogs,
And no measure of desperation
Should move me to go from feeling like a victim
To victimizing a group of runner’s high junkies
With my down and out depressive energy.
Not that I have any, mom.
I’m just ranting,
Spewing my negative in that assertive way I proudly announced earlier,
Without the enlightened positivity
That drains me of my life force,
So, purveyors of Pollyanna positivity,
Cultivators of phony problems,
You’re giving us honest negatives a bad name.