That kind of day

Today is the kind of day to go out and commit some misdemeanors, hunker down under a railroad overpass and sip a cup of coffee with a little something in it, smoke some cigarettes and try to read the hazmat codes as the trains roll  by.  Sulphur dioxide, that’s a 1079 and good old benzine, that’s an eleven fourteen.

Ride off along the railroad tracks and across some posted land, sweating up a game trail hot-boxing in your gore-tex under a drizzling rain.

Today is the kind of day for laying up in a south Willamette valley bungalow weaning yourself off the dilaudid.  Slowly moving broken bones and torn muscles and wondering what will ever replace the sweet ache of the body healing?

Put a little Smoky Robinson on and try to follow the tracks of those tears running down the faces of all of us: the poor, sorry, hopelessly grown. It is embarrassing to want it so bad, like air-balling three-pointers embarrassing to admit that yes, you really do just want one more day in your 10-year-old body with your ten-year old thoughts and trying- by the pure power of belief- to seriously stop growing up. Stop it in its tracks like a tank of benzine, failing inspection.

There’s nothing you can do man, and it’s going to be okay.



4 Responses to That kind of day

  1. The forlornness is part and parcel to this world of form. “Grown ups” world. I cross my bridge to the world of *space* as often as I can. Keep the balance my friend…. you know the way.

    • Besides, you grow up but you don’t have to grow old where it counts: inside your head. Think of your granddad, running across that big yard filled with mole holes and God-knows-what, flying a kite Grandma made him out of old Christmas wrapping paper. And he did it just because. Because he, too, remembered that trapped inside that 90-year-old man was a little guy who still caught tadpoles and crawdads — and knew the joy of flying a kite.