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…

“It seemed to exist only to maintain itself.” Joan Didion

Thanks, Netflix, for destroying Saturday night.
My not so well-read self
Has been introduced to a lifeline of writing
That has brought tears flowing
For some reason, I can’t yet understand.

I need to move to LA or maybe back to NY
To figure out the machinations that create routine
Or go as her beloved Doors, breaking through whatever,
Whatever it is on the other side
Of wherever it is we go when
These new ideas get us scribbling ideas
About the excitement of novelty or
The frustration of dealing with reality
Or the drip on the forehead of boredom.

Thanks, Netflix, for raising my Saturday night.
My quantifiable style of creating
Has been exposed to a straight jacket of writing
That can squeeze out every bit of reflective honesty that
For some reason, I haven’t been able to tackle.

I need to turn in or maybe get out
To live the exquisite experiences that allow variety
Or go as her beloved Doors, living in the deep and wide
Wherever that takes us when
Fresh gobbles up stale
Leaving cupboards bare and naked
With renewed spirits
Basking in the warmth of an autumn day.

Get on with it.

Grinding down the eyebrows,
Doing the zombie shop at a yard sale,
Dissecting a catcher’s mitt,
Sleeping the afternoon away,
Hanging with new folks,
Old ones too, The Millers and Jameson,
Watching Dave induct Pearl Jam,
Good night…