Driving Home

Mile 10:

There’s a hot girl on a motorcycle. She throws a wave to every biker she passes. Few, if any, toss it back. She’s hunched low, stretched out over the tank, her shirt blowing up revealing a pale pink bra when she accelerates. I’m envious instantly.

Mile 12:

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Oh, the things we find ourselves saying when a kindred spirit we meet
As hours run late the phone battery dispatches warnings quickly dismissed
Letters combining
into words
into sentences
into stories
Talking, sharing, caring, connecting without agenda
Discovering safety in the bond of a fellow wave rider
Familiar with the push and pull, ebb and flow, high and low
wonderful non-aloneness
The wifi signal stays strong keeping the link, but the eyelids grow heavy
Pauses grow longer as the next day’s commitments creep in
Another time

Saturday Night

Another throwback post, this time from a random Saturday 7 years ago. I was so artsy in my lack of capitalization. Oh silly 29 yr old self.

deciding that i’d had enough of the stuffiness of my apartment and had sufficiently lost untold hours in front of the television in an HGTV® trance, i packed my satchel full of books, grabbed my car keys, said farewell to the cats and hit the road.

what? yes, I’m looking at you and typing with an accusatory tone…

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Poem For People That Are Understandably Too Busy To Read Poetry

Poetry became a topic of conversation tonight. So I offer this gem I found years ago. I bring it with me from site to site. It still remains one of my favorites.

Relax. This won’t last long.
Or if it does, or if the lines
make you sleepy or bored,
give in to sleep, turn on
the T.V., deal the cards.
This poem is built to withstand
such things. Its feelings
cannot be hurt. They exist
somewhere in the poet,
and I am far away.
Pick it up anytime. Start it
in the middle if you wish.
It is as approachable as melodrama,
and can offer you violence
if it is violence you like. Look,
there’s a man on a sidewalk;
the way his leg is quivering
he’ll never be the same again.
This is your poem
and I know you’re busy at the office
or the kids are into your last nerve.
Maybe it’s sex you’ve always wanted.
Well, they lie together
like the party’s unbuttoned coats,
slumped on the bed
waiting for drunken arms to move them.
I don’t think you want me to go on;
everyone has his expectations, but this
is a poem for the entire family.
Right now, Budweiser
is dripping from a waterfall,
deodorants are hissing into armpits
of people you resemble,
and the two lovers are dressing now,
saying farewell.
I don’t know what music this poem
can come up with, but clearly
it’s needed. For it’s apparent
they will never see each other again
and we need music for this
because there was never music when he or she
left you standing on the corner.
You see, I want this poem to be nicer
than life. I want you to look at it
when anxiety zigzags your stomach
and the last tranquilizer is gone
and you need someone to tell you
I’ll be here when you want me
like the sound inside a shell.
The poem is saying that to you now.
But don’t give anything for this poem.
It doesn’t expect much. It will never say more
than listening can explain.
Just keep it in your attache case
or in your house. And if you’re not asleep
by now, or bored beyond sense,
the poem wants you to laugh. Laugh at
yourself, laugh at this poem, at all poetry.
Come on:

Good. Now here’s what poetry can do.

Imagine yourself a caterpillar.
There’s an awful shrug and, suddenly,
You’re beautiful for as long as you live.

Stephen Dunn

Random Act of Awesome

Seeking to escape the soccer fervor that has taken over my workplace’s break room I went out for lunch today. Besides, I had my own victories to celebrate. I made it to the end of another week without un-aliving anyone and I discovered a frequent buyer card with only the slot marked “FREE” remaining.

I’m so glad I did because that’s where I witnessed a Random Act of Awesome! (Why did she capitalize that? – Don’t worry you’ll find out.)

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PB & J

It’s 8:30 at night and I haven’t eaten anything in hours. I’m starving. I hate having to eat. Where’s my Jetsons future with flying cars and one button push automated food delivery systems built into every home? Better still, where are the little fucking full meal pills I can toss back and force down with a few gulps of whatever liquid is handy?

It’s two days before pay day and my options are limited. The kale has wilted, the tomatoes have shriveled, the frozen meals are reserved, it’s too hot for soup, and the almond milk must be preserved for precious morning coffee. Light from the open frigerator door makes my eyes water. The eerie after storm glow is filtering in through the blinds casting the rest of my usually cheery kitchen in a yellow-hued and dust mote filtered wash. The effort required to flip the light switch on is too great.

Too much idle time has passed. The volume of the waves are ramping up, the thundering of each heart beat like a physical manifestation.
This day, crash.
This week, crash.
These months, crash.

Suddenly conscious of the wafts of cool air, I’m snapped back.
Fuck, I’m starving.

I spy it on the counter as I turn from slamming the refrigerator door shut. A loaf of bread lies half hidden under a week’s worth of mail never opened, but dutifully brought in from the box. Where there’s bread, there’s hope. Other ingredients assembled I am crestfallen when I spy the tag. Mockingly it reads, “sell by JUN 07”. A fleeting, suspicious sniff reveals only a slightly sour smell. A quick inspection several slices deep shows no obvious signs of mold and at this I let slip a sigh of relief.

The understated peanut butter and jelly sandwich is – has been – will always be – a balm when I am soul sick and weary.


Learning to Drive & Figuring it Out

Originally posted in another place at another time… It’s relevant enough to bring around here for a repeat.

This has turned out to be quite the introspective weekend for me. Among other things written in other places, I found myself thinking about the lessons we’re taught by our parents. If they set out to teach us these lessons specifically or if they just happen by a stroke of fate and we only realize it years later.

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