(appy-polly-logies to Mr. Charles)
I woke up with a sour stomach. It was raining again, and it was the middle of the night. That’s how I knew when I overdid it–I woke up in the middle of the night. It was that back of the throat burn, some sort of habañero salsa chaser taste with it. I stretched out my legs and shifted position, but that wasn’t going to do it. I brushed my teeth, let the dog out one last time, and moved my things from the couch to the bedroom. I read a little bit, but the beeps and boops coming from my phone were too much and I decided to see what videos the kids were posting these days. While I was flipping through with slow flicks of my finger, I saw a few videos of idiots running through a city. They were very clever and very acrobatic, but they were really only running. The flips and such were lucky. I started thinking about the times we should’ve been filming our runs through cities, through towns, through neighborhoods. How many six-second clips could we have stacked up in those years? How many wall-walks and yard surfs? How many near crashes and real crashes? Our videos would’ve gotten a lot of likes, I told myself. We could’ve maybe gotten some gas money out of the deal. Real-life Jackass, but captured for all to see, instead of just for us to endure. We had good war stories, but no war. It was just us, running through life like those idiots running through cities. I chewed two antacids, drank half a glass of water, and then opened the window a crack to hear the pitter-patter from multiple downspouts. The videos would have to wait.

(Everything accelerating now)
Feel that rush come over you
When you realize you can have anything you ever wanted
Inescapable sunrise, the way you burn
and let me bask in it
Intoxicating radiance
“Wait until you meet her” is my chorus
(and how I love to sing it!)
You’ll find what you want when you’re not looking for it
(Every time)
Let’s balance the gasps and deep sighs as this year ends

Two cats from St. Petersburg talking to two cats from New Yahk in my favorite pub in the United States. Street drummer slathered in silver rapping away around the corner looks like a Greek goddess of drum n’ bass. Couple of buskers playing multiple instruments in front of a giant iron. Ah, Asheville. Smiles all around on two cask IPAs, and thoughts of her, eyes the color of Green Man’s beard. We’ll walk the walk, soon. Anticipation is part of the sweetness.

I measure you out a week at a time

and busy myself in burying the past.

New opportunities come and go, but

I don’t know which ones lead to a future

of peace. I tell myself the best I can do

is to not get lost in the things I can’t change.

It’s really not that dramatic, though.

Being happy is as easy

as waking up in the morning and moving closer

to you in the dim light, confident in the extra hours

ahead in an unplanned day with you.

The silent paradise of what it feels like to settle back

into sleep and not count the hours is as close to heaven

as I can get, and that is more than enough.