Embarking on a solo afternoon,
There wasn’t a bit of trepidation,
No fear of falling,
No mask, just me, my dog, and streaming tunes
Hours of streaming,
Old tunes,
New tunes,
Those that brought up old memories,
Those that could make new ones under the right conditions,
It’s been awesome.

Dinner has passed,
Friends are doing dishes, drinking margaritas,
And whatever else they do on Saturdays in May
When the temperatures are low,
The tensions are high,
And the crowd is all home.

Not me,
I’m stretching out,
Done with “a ghost is born,”
Done with “The Clarence Greenwood Recordings,” and
Deep into “The Story of the Ghost,”
All start to finish, a proper listening for sure.

Saturday morning,
The regular coffee is fresh,
Flavorful, more so than normal,
Maybe I’m paying more attention,
Since everything is so wrong right now,
That my brain is recalibrating,
Taking stock, losing its acceptance
Of the cushy life, the rat race,
Training, competitive spirit,
If for only the time it takes
To savor this regular coffee.

Saturday morning,
The skies are gray,
Lighter than before a storm,
Maybe I’m more discerning of grayscale
Since everything is so wrong right now,
My appreciation for the subdued light
Rising with the hope for rain
To wash the pollen away
Creating little currents of yellow
That will allow my eyes to stop itching
And my nose to stop running.

Saturday morning,
The same as Friday morning,
The fresh coffee indulgence,
They non-committal sky,
Mindfulness and allergies,
Each there just like yesterday
As new routines and habits
Become the new way.
Today will pass with another month
Of Saturdays
Before the old way returns.

close up photo of wires on headphones
Photo by Aleks Magnusson on Pexels.com

Every day lately has been a Saturday,
The sky is dark,
Rain is falling,
The lights are off,
My dog is snoring,
I’ve started listening to “Dark Side of the Moon”
As I wonder if I’m wasting
This perfect napping type of day.
I know I should be doing something,
My legs are sore, my back is sore,
Not that running ache,
But the good kind of sore,
Muscular, temporary,
The kind a serious nap on a rainy day
Would do some serious help to.
Tomorrow will be Saturday, again,
Time will go just as it has today,
Although, the sun might be out,
The air fresh,
The trails soaked with water,
Mud all over the place,
Not the best time to run,
But a good day to test this malaise
Where each day is a Saturday.

Just Go Along for the Ride

Writing between the lines is tough
When equilibrium is taken away in a rye way.
At the risk of being overly enamored with myself,
I am proclaiming this to be an all-out rip off of Bukowski.
Not because of some pent up emotion,
But because in my current state,
I make about as much sense as him.

It’s a Saturday,
Nice, gray skies with cool temperatures,
My overly analytical sensibilities
Have been working overdrive today
As I counseled my son through breakfast,
His understanding of the abstract
And beliefs in them that they are concrete is
Driving me crazy because he forgets it’s practicality
That pays the bills.
After putting together a fine batch of patio furniture,
I’m finally enjoying my deck,
With the aforementioned rye, plus a little agave,
And a baked potato that was slow cooked to a perfect consistency.
In between, I explained the facts of my son’s life to his mother,
Probably received by her blind eyes as the messages were only texts,
Then with the skilled oration of
A one-time loser never made it with the ladies man,
I tried to explain the facts of my son’s life to his stepmother.

More rye, please…

It’s not even 4:00 on this Saturday,
There is bound to be more
As this evening’s social introductions get made
Between us and them,
Adversaries only in a theoretical sense…
Present and ex introducing ex to present,
Yeah, it’s healthy to make friends and there’s
Me taking it all in,
Recognizing this invasion of Saturday night fodder is good for the blogger
And hoping there might be some crazy shit going down
Without me being directly involved.
Local haunts might be called upon, specifically, the
One sharing the same name as my Italian uncle,
Who once sliced me with a weed whacker and made Jaws jokes
Before we headed to the beach,
I miss that guy,
His drunken reverie, his overdeveloped sense of masculinity,
Although, it would have been better had he toned it all down.

More agave, please…

You see, this is how it is,
Everywhere is a cluster Fox,
Unless, of course, it’s good for something,
And who am I to say,
Anything is not worthwhile?
Seriously, the sort of drunken ramblings of a WordPress wizard
Are not nearly as important as whatever the sober set have going on.(Ha!)
Old Charles B put his life out there for all of us,
One long drunken rant of insanity and wretchedness.
Maybe I could have gone that way,
Exposing the hypocrisy of all I encountered today,
But that would serve no purpose,
Making me less than a Cox and truly a dick.
All I can really say, is that this is a fine day,
The new furniture, absolutely worth the cost,
My beverage distorted perception being appropriate for my deck.
I’ll add, the baked potato I just ate, well worth the wait,
Fluffy, buttery, and full of the flavor Idaho can bring.
I’m glad the heavy conversations are over
And now for the introductions…

More rye and agave, please. Is Tito around?

Putting it to my commitment,
Shoved aside,
As positive peer pressure
Proved it’s worth
For a ten spot.

Having dominion over me,
Sent worn legs napping
As a recovery began
Following a hilly run.

Monopolizing my creative soul,
His stories, his lyrics,
Just his effing energy
Making me think differently
About how I became me.

Hoops, burgers with tots,
Boring ass football, and
Some Irish spiritual hydration
Are putting this long day
Back into a fuzzy haze similar
To the drizzle that challenged me earlier.

Thank goodness I accepted…