Sixty-three degrees today,
Five to eight inches of snow tomorrow,
My dog and I are sitting on the deck
In full denial of the weather,
Very presidential, huh?

I napped today
Under the inspiration of something viral
And totally ignoring the doctor’s plea
To get a flu shot.
Heck, I’m already sick. Why risk it?

The nap was crazy.
Soundscapes provided the soundtrack
To dreams that went Seinfeld
Giving me a line that I’m not sure of,
Something about labor past fifty and a massage.

Maybe the nap drew from Rectify,
Which I had watched prior to shutting down.
In it, a character was pregnant,
The older characters were dealing with moving on,
And the sister was about to make a relationship play.

The show was good fodder for sleep
With my sinuses full
And a cough that is thick and heavy,
But it’s good to know my spirits are still alive
These few months past fifty.

As the hours near for non-stop weather coverage,
There will be great anticipation in the house for a snow day,
But right now I’m sitting in a cool breeze
Listing to a far off hammer pounding away
Wishing this was year round weather.

It feels very Williamsburg.
Virginia, not New York.
Birds are chirping and feather thin clouds lace the sky.
Too bad it’s going to snow.
Too bad there’s no massage.

Summer vacation had barely started when George made the decision to give up on his summer resolutions. He popped the cork on a bottle of Kentucky’s finest and got serious with a race to beat the melting ice cubes. He also gave up on reading, instead turning to Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee and watching with hazy intent Jerry Seinfeld and Margaret Cho amuse the hell out of each other. George thought, “It’s cool when comedians laugh at each other.” That only lasted thirty minutes and there was more ice to race, so his glass was conscripted for another battle and the channel was changed to AXS and Bruce Springsteen in the uncomfortable position of having to watch people sing his songs while he waited to accept an award. George, bordering on foggy, could almost hear Bruce say, “Beautiful,” as Emmylou Harris sang with her angelic voice. He thought of Bruce, “That’s cool that he likes what she’s doing with his song.” All too soon, that show was over, but the bag of ice still offered a challenge and George was home alone, so he decided, “What the hell,” and flipped to PBS. There were the Highway Men, kind of a cross between the Beatles and Cream for country music. Each member, Willie, Waylon, Johnny, and Kris, sang a song of their own and songs written for the group. The guys all stood in awe of each other, appreciating the skills and magic of the others to make music that was cutting through the whiskey and showing George what gratitude and appreciation for the craftsmanship of others was all about. The PBS fundraising barkers came on and George’s pit bull needed his last nightly walk, so George broke from his search for cowboy boots on the Internet and waddled down the hall. They went into the soupy night and walked to Crick’s favorite spot. George looked to the sky, recently cleared of smog and clouds by quick hitting storms, to see the Big Dipper, it was so close that he thought he could almost drink from the gourd. A smile broke his momentary spirits inspired delusion. He smiled because of his realization that the beauty he saw in the sky was the result of another artist, One making it all possible. George and Crick headed back to the house. Willie was picking his raggedy looking guitar and letting loose with a most beautiful tune. The guys looked on, strumming and smiling, on-stage witnesses to Willie’s inspiration. George wondered if Bruce would like this song and how Jerry and Margaret would appreciate the talent of Willie. He quickly swallowed the last of the whiskey, crunching a thin piece of ice just before it melted, and turned off the television. The stairs proved to be an inconvenience, just as moving the dog off his spot would be. With his pillow just starting to find the right shape, George thanked God for everything and fell into a deep sleep, smiling, of course.

Paleo was getting old
All those fruits, veges, and meats
Had made my caveman motivations
Long for the psychedelia of a wanton weekend
With a bunch of reckless eating

The binge started with pizza
Meat lovers with I don’t even know what meat
Since my glasses were at home
And I couldn’t see well enough to count the carcasses
I was about to inhale
The crust was perfect
Thin with crunch and chew
Homemade sauce and the best cheeses
Four glasses of cider and
Friday was done

Saturday continued the gorging
A bagel buried in cream cheese
A brisket sandwich buried in barbecue sauce
Leftover sloppy joe led
To Sunday’s grazing
With bagel’s, PBJs, and
A pizza and crepe dinner
Where two slices of pepperoni opened
For four cinnamon and orange crepes
Rolled by local Kennett Squaricans,
Not too tightly
And with a touch that
Would make the Mandlebaums proud

It’s Tuesday and I can’t wait
For some fruit
Some veges
And I just saw a recipe for coconut crusted drum sticks
I suppose sideswiping my nutritional commitment
Was okay
But all I got for it
Was sluggish and guilty
Those days of pulling an Oscar
And devouring whatever
Don’t appeal to me anymore
At least not all of the time

The moment veiled
The beauty of a steamy June morning
My eyes
Still blinking sleep away
Caught some Seinfeldian
American Gothic
Twilight Zone scene

As I by passed the speed bump
Up ahead
I looked to my right
Seeing the sprawl of transient living
Busting at the studs
Of my neighbor’s suburban rented town home
The boxes and furniture
Were ready for a picking
And the rules of the lease
Were being respected
By the nicotine nagged tenants

This morning
There they stood
Rough and ragged
He without the pitch fork
Sipped from a stained coffee mug
And dragged on a freshly lit cigarette
She stood close missing the java
But more in love with her
Burning stick
Than any pregnant woman
Should ever be

Thank goodness Elaine wasn’t there

The morning dew
Had no chance
Against the smoke
Of these two

Neither did the fetus.