some factoids re me:

I live in LA (Cali).
I like to jog, to stay fit,
bonus is that got great
killer long legs, another
smoke smothering reason
to run my **** off

now the big secret!

am only human,
au courant, single, in bested~
busted, heart recovery mode,
looking for a rebound takeaway,
and “really cautious”
ain’t a word in my vocab
(just a little version)
borm elemental stuff

don’t! mock, critique,
hell, don’t even speak,
a romantic idiot believes
that love is impossibly
hard to uncover, ergo,
grab it like when you
smell it close by,
yum, like warm oven
fresh brioche bread

Anyway,
(set the scene, my momma sez)

love to endorphin~run by
water, Palisades Park, my haunt,
run along Ocean Avenue,
breathtaking panoramic
views of Santa Monica Bay
from atop the sandstone bluffs

believe it, my eyes drift upward,
checking out the scenery,
checking out the scene,
writing/ singing/ watch
feedbacking my reality,
check, check, and checking
as well, the competition ,
the lionesses, and the lions

eyes up, toe down,
slight irregular
sidewalk jutting,
me tumbling,
scratches,multicolored
bruises in many places
surely to follow in the
shortly thereafter, but my
ankle is screaming at me,
clearly more upsetting
than
a typical normative,
upsetting upset regretting

eyes closed, combo
of brilliant sun,  +
pain waves rendering
me semi-blinded,
hearing functioning,
voice saying, let me
please, let us
take a quick 👀

he had me at the
us,^
now acting cool,
overlooking him over,
easy, but required me to
overlook as well
my twisted agoniste

(ageoniste: A muscle that is controlled by the action of an antagonist with which it is
paired (paired!!!*)

still groan whimpering,
tres tres embarrassing
and hopefully endearing,
hearing this: “Hi! it’s Michael,
need an ambulance at this location,
probably just a twisted ankle,
assorted contusions, possible
concussion, needs a full set
of x-rays..

Ok. Who has an ambulance service
on speed dial

on and  on the story
gies, flows, cries and
finally cracks:

this dark tan slim man
is an ER doc, who
picks
packs
pecks
me up,
but wont
tell me his last name
or why he only smiles
so sadly

somewhere on the way
he says:

cant stay with you
but you’ll be all fixed up
and soon be better,
and when your running
always be looking ahead
five, maybe ten feet

I
do the most
unpredictable
unlikely
ridiculous
thing I’ve
ever done:
weeping don’t leave me,
repeatedly repeatedly,
and he renders tender
with its
just a fender ******
and you will most excellently
recover

somewhere
on the ride
I believe
he quiet cautiously whispers
you’re beautiful and lovely
but I dare not
no longer allows himself
to get involved with patients,
it always end badly

a year later,
wrote my next poem

stray thought: hard earned wisdom

is there any other kind?

the easy come easy go kind
kinda never sticks around
long enough to make an
indentation just like facts
memorized for a school test
gone so quick you never truly
had them to keep, beyond the
inevitable ending by a bell ringing

the earning is hard, painful oft,
gained usually at great cost
which makes sense, long,
or even short,  created to be
savored, favored, and welcomed
every time it from recesses it
comes unconsciously summoned


but never confuse smarts
with wisdom,
snarts (snarky smarts)
can be obtained, purchased,
but wisdom is always
and only
    hard e a r n e d

I.
Box fans and mowers drone below,
distant traffic murmurs through summer’s heat.
Memory presses: teeth and old thunder.
Regret. Punishment. Hope. Repeat.

My ears ring with histories,
sometimes cicadas, sometimes sermons,
sometimes her humming, barefoot by the creek,
sometimes the sting of my father’s belt.

Sunlight slants through bloated magnolia leaves,
thick as tongues,
slick with old rain.
It stains the walls with a color like yolk,
like aging joy.

II.
I wake in moonlight,
before the rumble.
Step barefoot onto concrete
still warm from the last sun.

The sky is full of stubborn stars,
hung from the last funeral.
I watch. I wait.
No birds yet. No breeze.
I stay.

I tell myself this is peace.
But the silence knows better.

I thought I fell again into an old friend,
but it seems it was only a mirror.
I roll the dice, convinced I can pay the price,
on about she screams out but I can’t hear her.

Who’s worse, the one who steals the memories
or the one who just gives them away?
It seems whatever is remaining of me
is the only part I didn’t wish to stay.
I’ve got fingertips pressed to the temple,
pushing inward forcing it to shake.
I’ve won the battles of heart but not the mental;
my brain fires pebbles at the glass hoping it will break.

Take the path less walked on
make sure to leave no tracks behind.
Even if it ends up being wrong,
you won’t be able to change your mind.
There won’t be any mile markers,
no breadcrumbs and lacking footprint.
The hunting dogs coming won’t be barkers;
next time drop your fingernails or lint.

Who’s worse, the one who steals the memories
or the one who just gives them away?
Don’t mean to keep them in the treasuries
but didn’t expect to see them stray.
I’ve got fingertips pressed to the temple,
pushing inward forcing it to shake.
With each thought just more sentimental
but I’m questioning if those feelings are fake.

Put your foot down on the gas
say “shut up and drive”
and with each town we pass,
I’m surprised we made it out alive.
This may just be the last
time that I emotionally dump or strive.
No this isn’t confession, it’s not mass,
it’s a witch hunt in the shape of a bee hive.

Who’s worse, the one who steals the memories
or the one who just gives them away?
Turned centuries into accessories
then didn’t like how much they weigh.
I’ve got fingertips pressed to the temple,
pushing inward forcing it to shake.
It stopped being a problem or detrimental
when I laid the dead flowers at the wake.

I love days like this
late day sunshine, early summer bliss.
The magnolia smells of home,
no matter how displaced
June breeze, calm and playful
your hand on my bare waist.

Sometimes I stare out beyond what I can see
and wonder who else has been.
Ancient southern trees
covered in spanish moss where leaves grow thin.
The night approaches
a lone rider with no name
the cover of darkness imposed
and fashions mystery just the same.

Growing restless in the thickness of heat
solstice tastes like sugar and a hidden moon
something mindless and indistinct.
Burning for as long as an eye can blink,
gentle little light of beetle make the way
know it could lead me somewhere far, far off
but here, I so wish to stay.