The Blender


Three thirty in the morning
Post-meridian malaise
And Sonny Boy Williamson
Irrigate the viscera
Sixty-three years spent
Climbing, calling, cajoling
Being called, being cajoled
Climbed upon, broken
And build back to your typical
Normally aspirated internal
Combustion engine
Firing on eight yet
Remembering the fall
The rain those hot
Canyon winds offering no mercy

Nine one three six oh
Was a dream
Is a journey
May tumble towards tomorrow
Although not before the relief
Pitcher starts throwing heat
In the bullpen

I remember Robert
Remarking once long
Long ago in a city by the sea
A city taken for granted
And turned to dust
The guy from Wilmette said

“We’re written up for our deeds
Not our dreams.”

And for our misdemeanors
Felonies and infractions
He might have added

Then there was the Knute
Rockne type from Ohio
Who actually believed hope was the best
Thing going… still is!

I don’t have to learn to forget
Anymore… that’s easy
It’s the beautiful and bittersweet
Flavors of compassion and equanimity
I’m throwing into the blender


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