Get over the hills
Age is an inconvenience
Stay a youthful course

Movement is one key
Keeping the brain going too
Soreness is not sore

Attitude is all
Be alert for soul sappers
Charge over the hills

A random collection,
Songs, not people,
We aren’t supposed to gather,
Social distancing and all,
No this is a random collection of songs
Courtesy of some algorithm
As part of a music streaming service
That thinks I want to listen to
Blues from Lincoln Center,
Norah Jones, and Wilson Pickett.

I didn’t think I did,
But damned if I’m not enjoying this,
Soulful, and as I write
Jerry Garcia is doing that Jerry thing
Through my old headphone jack headphones
That is letting me stay free of the social distraction
Talking, paying attention to the news, and
Discussions about the efficacy of school
During these times of viral loads and
Simple hygienic practices.

Way to go Spotify,
I’m digging this collection,
Only I’m a bit worried that I might be a shallow dude
Not in touch with the depths of who I am,
Often settling for what is before me
Not knowing what else is in there
To charge my batteries.
To make life more flavorful,
To get by.
How is it that some damn computer program
Calculating and predicting the dopamine-producing
Musical preferences of my golden milk sipping psyche
Can do more for me than experiencing life
In such a diverse and soulful way?
Could it be that I’m lazy,
Prone to the easy way out,
Self-quarantining my adventurous side
For a subtle experience
Of crossing off the days?

Nothing like a shutdown,
To show how things are missed,
How things are wanted,
When they aren’t there anymore,
So much to do,
So many to be with,
So missed
When they are taken away.

Ah, Spotify, my imagination can’t be taken,
Thank you for tapping into it,
Bringing it alive,
I’ll get out today,
And as you have programmed,
Fitz just sang, “Today is gonna be my day.”

So it is.

If this thing gets real bad,
If we run out of the essential paper,
I’m going out back,
Dropping my ass like my dog,
And hoping for the best.

Then I’ll start a little fire,
Burn off the waste,
Drag my hind parts in the grass, and
Go read a book,

Because there won’t be sports to watch,
YouTube has commercials again,
Work will be closed,

Conveniences will be gone
I’ll have to be

Human, again.

Sometimes it’s all a waste,
Sometimes not,
The drive, the traffic
The memories,
The cold,
The dark mornings,
The same songs,
The same breakfasts,
The same coffee,

But I’ll be damned
If I let the routine
Creep into my life,
Stealing the hope
From any seismic activity or
Continental shifting
Be it prophesy or heresy
I’m living this life to get faster,
Kind of a Santino way
Except I plan on getting past the toll booth
And LIVING a long ass time.

Give me that coffee,
Give me those breakfasts,
Let me listen to those songs,
Wake up on the darkest of mornings,
Even when they’re cold,
So I can create new memories,
Beat the traffic, whether driving alone or on the smoothest road
Because none of it, not one bit
Is a waste.

waking up or just getting to bed?
a simple enough question,
but nothing is ever as easy
as it should be.

4:00 comes early,
I suppose a lot of people
are up this early,
so its nothing special,
just a necessary time to wake,
to run,
to run with friends,
making it most necessary
I suppose
the most important time of day.

for me…

then there’s the complexity
of waking up,
whatever it means to see things correctly,
the social issues,
the political shit,
the unfortunate terms for however people explain
what it means to sacrifice individualism
for being considered a team player,
goodness knows I hate that.

so, I voluntarily rise,
as often as the winds allow,
long after I’ve gone to bed,
simply because I can,
it makes me feel “woked up,” and
I like the people I run with so much.
it truly is that simple.

the right thing, though,
a work in progress I am,
as life gets a lot more complex
with each hashtag movement,
with each dumbass person not respecting others,
with all that happens after the sun rises.

I’ll keep waking there as well
for with the sun comes renewal.

This day,
One where singularity
Fell to Murphy’s Law
When on LSD, a long, slow run,
And totally channeling my carnivore cravings,
I locked in on the thought of a burger
To pass the hours on the repurposed train bed.

A broiler was broken leaving only the King’s chicken,
I’d much rather have had a three-cheese sandwich at that point,
But since there was no option for that,
I went ahead and ordered the fried bird my way
Only to get it
Their standard way.

Oh well.

It’s been cool this week,
The focus being taut, stretched across so many thoughts
Retirement, too far away…
Rising Juniors, unfortunately unfunded…
Running, each step another in an awesome journey.
Keeping my mind focused has seen a casualty or two,
Crossword puzzles, journaling, anger. Each I’m okay letting go of.

There was a discussion about needles moving for aging men,
My friend claiming his youthful age was starting to accept stagnation
Something I could never think would happen,
For to think things like that cannot happen again
Is to accept the beginning of the end
Acceptance of decline,

No way, man.

I can’t allow my mind to go there,
Never, sometimes, always maybe and ready,
The idea of being prepared is appealing
To a guy who is up for a run,
Down with a swim, or cool riding a bike,
Distance, time, whatever, it all feels good
Because to be in the race is the place to be.

So bring all challenges,
Turtles in the road,
Ship’s ladder climbs,
Humid half-marathons,
Unwanted fast-food chicken,
Dreams of emptying the tank, and
Whatever else life can bring.

Age loses here, Chief.

People talk about math as
The universal language.
They point to improvement based
On metrics like speed, WAR, or test scores.

Call me old, fifties,
Call me oppositional, eff you,
But I just don’t see math
In those terms.

Life is not quantifiable,
Life is not boiled down to some metric,
Life isn’t a percentage based exercise,
Life is what you make of it.

Look, age is creeping in,
Some of what I could do at thirty
I don’t try anymore…basketball.
I just can’t get up and down the floor anymore.

Other stuff, though,
I can do those things just fine, yes, really.
I don’t need numbers to figure that shit out.
Jump, don’t jump. Moves, all in…

I’m just sick of sports becoming
A white coat wearing slide rule sliding
Graphing calculator clearing
Lab for the people who could never play.

I’m sick of my job being boiled down
To a GPA instead of intestinal fortitude,
Resilience, and hard work.
Tell that to the pipers, parents, principals, and politicians.

In fact, I’m calling me out,
I might just go play some basketball,
I’m perfect for the game since I can just stand in the corner
And wait to shoot the three.

As for the other life things limited by age,
I’m a doctor of sorts, robes neatly folded downstairs,
I have access to the dementia of a friend, and
That’s all I have to say about that.

Sometimes we must remind ourselves
That we are here to get at it,
We are not here to sit around,
To be sedated by the idiot box, or
Get caught in the net.

Sometimes we have to get out there,
Put comfort to the side,
Dare to challenge the limitations we allow
When we don’t accept our role
In whatever is the grand design.

Always, we should always find our potential
In the meaningful ways that we can,
Whether upright, exercising our mechanical advantages, or
While thinking, taking stock of
The mindful magnificence we possess.

Always find a path,
Beit a walk, a run, or a ride in pursuit of what it means to be human.
Lose yourself in thought on the meaning of effort,
The satisfaction of challenges, and the rewards
Of engaging in risk as to know what is possible.