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Look both ways in life's blinding bowl of cherries. Mind the poisonous gaps.
Today I am supposed to celebrate surviving three years into my seventh decade. I am glad to be alive. But such luck is a banal accomplishment, since each day when I wake up not dead (yet), I know I did nothing to deserve the pleasure of such a long and mostly good life. I may have stopped smoking 20 years ago, but I didn’t for the 30 before that. I spent thousands of hours throwing my body along faster than any bird can fly. I never crashed. Many did. I was lucky.
Today I meet the threshold of my end times. Will I survive one more year like my father? Four more like Mom? Less, like my sister, cousin, grandfathers, or grandmums? Today I will stop counting up and start counting down. Ten more? Twenty? And my health? Status quo would be a wonderful thing – but it will get worse – it’s a reality everyone dislikes (including me).
Ten years ago, I ran 20 miles of 26.2-mile marathons (walked the other six). Five years ago, I walked briskly for 13 miles on Saturday mornings until one day my body said, we need to rest. I sat on a bench and I wondered what it was – it was my now well-stented heart.
Nowadays, because low blood flow reduces needed oxygen and other stuff in blood from my leg muscles, I manage a quarter mile without a bench or a tree trunk or wall to sit on. A two and a half to three-mile walk is a big day, and I find tired and sore invades me as my body recovers.
It’s morning. I’m here and you are too. Now what? Wanna go for a walk?
Look both ways with contemplative wonder for life and its privileges.
Mind the gaps but live in the moment.
In the doctor’s office—
a computer, printer,
some chairs, and an exam
table we won’t use;
latex gloves, a biohazard
box, and two other waste cans;
a sink that may get used.
On the wall a framed art print.
Voices in the hall 20 minutes
after my appointed time, but it’s
okay. I can write this poem
and be glad I’m alive. Knock.
Two doctors walk in. My regular guy
and his knockout resident from
the A&M med school. We greet,
shake, talk small, then good news.
Return in six months. Shake again.
I drive home. Stop for gas.
I wear a smile—cuz good news.
Look both ways driving home, for good news and bad.
Check the tires and mind the gaps.
Doctors sure have changed over the years—for the mo’ betta’.
Come to me. Closer.
Stand before me, your naked
judgmental ass, as I hold
in my hand
this fine blood red wine,
and my 45 (or is it 9mm?)
And you tell me what?
I am old, too old?
When I pull this trigger
and the bullet leaves
the holey end of this
pistolla headed for
your ugly mug,
Will it matter
that you will never
see and never be
as old as I—better
not to been born at all.
And you will have died
(not that anyone will
give a fuck)
at the hand of an old
washed-up and worthless
poet fuck who, after
you cried and fell dead,
Turned and wrote a poem
about cappin’ your
nasty smelly ass—
arrogant mother fucker!
How dare you,
Call me a dinosaur?
Look both ways before calling the firing line clear.
Mind the gaps and old farts who write poems.
it’s nine o’clock at night again. some are dressing to go out, not me—too tired.
too tired for anything but sleep, yet, here I sit
writing this poem about being too tired to do anything,
including write this fucking ridiculous poem
or prose or whatever the hell it is.
it’s absurd to fight off sleep like this, like a child fighting the inevitable,
but if I give in now, I will wake at two or three in the morning,
in the middle of the night, flummoxed.
I’ll sit here and drink water (after I pee); wishing I was sleeping.
maybe there’s an unused nightmare out there waiting for me,
to give inspiration or whatever nightmares do for us.
why? tell me why. I want to know why it is that I will try for a few more minutes
to pretend that I can…what? what can I do?
is there a world full of people out there who cannot
or will not do what I can do?
bless their hearts as the conceited among us write away
nodding at the overstuffed closet.
who needs competition from hidden talent?
right here and right now, exhausted with limited cognitive ability to crank
one out by jerking off my brain and spewing words to the page and saying,
fuck yah, man! a poet. I write this sputum. so what?
it turns out that how I feel and what I say, I am—
and you are too—holy shit, that is exactly how I feel!
am I pissed off about nothing? just fucked up and angry
for the very reason of no reason. we need help. are we crazy?
it sucks for me and I’m sorry it sucks for you, but it’s so fucking true.
it’s us. not me alone. not you alone. misery love, love, loves company.
that’s how it works to be human. nothing can save us except writing.
Look both ways. It’s the middle of the night and every form of refuge has its prison.
Mind the gaps and the sidewalk cracks for the want to—the reason of no reason.
No dog
in the fight?
No skin in the game?
Is it win or lose tonight,
or is it all the same?
Why fret so?
We should not be
in such a stew
of sleepless nights
with what we know
when worries bubble
in brainless brew.
Why lose sleep
over what if thoughts?
Solutions to problems—
none that matter.
Dreams fill empty gaps
where a mind creates mystery;
a dramatic telling
of the heart’s striving,
yet somehow
still surviving.
A reality set apart,
within each dream
suffering its own malady.
Look both ways with sleepless obsession into endless obscure what ifs.
Sleep in the gaps of neurotic tension.
On break, having coffee,
at a walk-to place from work.
Age came up.
Larry could always make me laugh,
a raised brow or expression,
his subtlety with humor,
the ability to play it straight
with a sincerity of stupidity.
We volunteered numbers,
all 40-somethings.
Larry looked serious.
“I just have one question.”
He’d set the bait. I knew better,
but one must play along.
I took the hook,
lest all fun be spoiled.
He looked straight at me,
and patiently awaited my response.
He was from the Buckeye State.
We met as underage roommates.
Both junior Air Force enlisted. Later
each married Texas gals
both opted for university:
Larry to UT, I to A&M.
As roommates, Larry thought me loud,
badly behaved, and unworthy of him.
He was classical. I was rock ‘n roll.
Incompatible, but no harm done.
Twenty years later
while wrapping up military careers
as Air Force officers,
he was a chopper pilot who served in Nam,
I was a B-52 crew dog.
When our paths again crossed,
we were distant friends, no more.
I asked, what’s your question, Colonel?
He asked, “If you are younger than I am, why
do you look so much older?”
I’m older than Larry now.
Rest in peace, my funny friend.
©Bill Reynolds
Look both ways. Mind the gaps.
All the best stories are past, or soon will be.
Remember.
“I am strong, but I am tired, Stephen, tired of always having to be the strong one, of always having to do the right thing.” Brenda Joyce, An Impossible Attraction
I’m not always much of anything.
I’ve been an old white man for a long time,
a branded stereotype with good teeth
and a bad attitude,
apparently not supposed to ask for
some things, cuz I am old and white.
It’s okay. Perhaps they’re fucking right.
Equality is in, unless you happen to be
old…
white…
and have what’s left of an old hard on.
Others were (and still are) treated like shit
by white guys. Nazis were, are, white,
male; no fucking idea how old fits.
Some old men are idiots, non-millennial
impotent bastards who hate everyone,
and everything, especially women.
Stereotyped, hairless shit heads
with nothing to do
but make mankind worse.
It’s a tough world, but we can try
to make it better each day.
To make it last.
©Bill Reynolds, 6/13/2019
Look and listen both ways for real equality. At least, don’t be unkind.
Mind the gaps like lifelines with stories to tell.
I live my life on a road
somewhere among stop
and smell the roses,
live this day like it’s your last,
or be active and get shit done.
Torn a little between bitchin’
‘bout being old and its baggage
and happy as hell to be so well.
Lucky is what they say, privileged
to be no worse, like dead ya’ know.
I used to say — live fast, love hard,
and die young. Like the Meat Loaf song,
two out of three ain’t bad, and besides,
I’m still having fun wonderin’
and wanderin’ up-n-down this ol’ road.
It’s time for some wildflowers
and maybe tomorrow I will
stop and look them over, and live that day
like it’s my last, dance like y’all ain’t lookin’
maybe I’ll even find a way
to get some shit done.
©Bill Reynolds 6/4/2019
Live, love, and look both ways. Find and mind all the gaps. Live well.
broken
dirty
people who want to feel better
puzzles and problems
edit to make it better
fix by ignoring edits
aligning painting adjusting
solving brightening or darkening
and resolving
healing and being healed
fixed or broken
repeat
© Bill Reynolds 5/30/2019
Look both ways and mind the gaps.
If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it unless it’s poetry.
Always fix a poem.
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