My baby’s 44 years old this week.
I’m happy we’re both healthy and alive,
pursuing the peculiar goals we seek,
amid the love of family. We thrive
on upward-trending paths, in each technique
applied to learn yet more while we survive.
If I’ve a prayer today, it’s not unique:
to be as well when he is 45.
It’s not majestic ocean on display.
No mountain top provides wide-angled view.
A canyon isn’t carved and can’t convey
by marbled walls and caverns glimpses to
prehistory. Instead my mundane way
is common and pedestrian. In lieu
of spectacle, what soothes my eyes and feet
is dappled shade and verdance on the street.
The end’s in sight, although the work’s not done.
I see ahead of me a focused light
that isn’t aimed at me to smash or stun.
The end’s in sight.
I thought I had a million words to write
but 50,000 in, I think my run
is near complete – from seed to bud to height.
I’ll cut and augment; editing is fun.
I like the way this led and how it quite
suggests a second story spun from one.
The end’s in sight.
It’s Southern California warm today.
It’s nearly Vegas hot at 9 a.m.
I planned to walk to BART, but this display
of temperature, predicted well by them
in media, will make my will okay
a prudent bus ride. Only time will stem
this tide of heat – the forecast calls for cooling.
Tomorrow will relieve today’s unspooling.
I’m nodding to unusual today.
The rest of June and even some July
will be irregular. Across the bay
I won’t be much. I’ll pack a bag and fly.
I’ll dine on different food and watch a play
I hope to like. And maybe I’ll deny
myself some comfort habits growing stale.
I start this morning detouring my trail.
The lesson from self-injuries last week,
that’s reinforced as I take days to heal,
is all about developing technique
to slow my speed ingesting any meal,
and with deliberate pace let acts unreel.
Okay to walk as fast as is my wont
when I set forth to shop or on a jaunt
across this town or underneath the bay,
I must observe the pavement, lest it haunt
my steps and trip my feet along the way.
My stress relief when I was 17
was solitaire, with cards, of course alone.
Repeated shuffles, deals and decks my scene,
for this was long before iPad or -Phone.
My mind would range untethered while I played.
My worries would abate; ideas arose.
My fingers moved as order was arrayed.
I practiced Patience with the games I chose.
The shuffles lapsed. I let new programs deal
until a week ago. I opened then
a deck and rediscovered the appeal
of tactile game and taking time again.
My hands recalled the version I preferred,
and since I’ve been amused and gently stirred.
I stabbed my index finger with a nail.
A fingernail. I can’t believe I did
this harm with such an unintended flail –
I only set about to pop a lid
and snack on peanuts. Fragile’s grown to frail,
my skin as thin as tissue paper, rid
of elasticity. And then among
my mouth reward, I bit and bruised my tongue.
I understand I can’t live in the past –
all protocols are digital and wide
(but shallow). Algorithmic lists are vast,
and poorly paid employees can’t decide.
But lately I feel prodded and harassed
with emails, passwords, policies supplied
by institutions claiming they protect me –
intrusive robots queuing to inspect me.
A half a billion packages
are transiting each day.
I guess it’s not surprising if
mine doesn’t find its way.
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