Poetry

Chill Days, 29 (334.)

The more I think about taking my time,
the more time I spend thinking.
Until I’m just thinking.
One would think the brain
gets better as it turns,
and maybe it does,
but I’m never sure about my so-called progress.
Always was something of a doubter,
maybe even some kind of downer
when people really get to talking.
When you dig deep enough
to escape the sun,
why feign surprise
when it gets dark?
I can shine a light in these tunnels.
The abyss is not as scary as it seems.
Self-improvement behooves every person,
as existence is here to give us
that limited gift
known as time.
It’s been said over and over again,
but one never knows how much time
they have.
I don’t know how much time I have.
But I still take my time.
As someone said once,
all good things in time.
So I ruminate.
I should really act, though.
To turn time thinking
into something exponential.
Growth is the hope.
I avert my eyes from the clock
and start moving.

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Poetry

Chill Days, 28 (333.)

It looks like half of us
base most of our lives around coffee,
and some days I wonder
what this does to the environment,
with the way coffee production
uses so much water,
but I really don’t know much about it
and I should do some research.
I’ve also read a lot of bios
that state boldly
“Don’t substitute [insert food or beverage here] for a personality.”
And I took that personally.
’cause for a hot minute,
I think I considered making my coffee addiction
about one-third of my Tinder profile.
Are there days when I don’t drink coffee?
Sure, but they’re rare.
Almost as rare as the days
when I drink only one cup of coffee.
Do I run on coffee?
Of course not – I drink water too, I stay hydrated.
Does most of my energy come from coffee?
Probably not, I eat food too.
Would I still be me without coffee?
Yes. Yes I would still be me without the caffeine.
Will I test this theory?
Maybe.
If I stop drinking the mean electric beans,
I’ll test myself for existence every day
and keep you posted.
Thank you, for handling my
ridiculous musings.
This has been a poem predominated by coffee
as I try to convince everyone
that I don’t base my life around coffee.

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Poetry

Chill Days, 26 (331.)

If I let it all out,
and showed my real self,
I’d have to tell folks
I have a crush on most everyone.
I can find reasons to like most folks,
and enjoy most peoples’ company.
Someone once told me
I could love anybody,
and that might be true too;
I could probably find reasons
and myriad ways
to love most everybody.
Please don’t be afraid to hop in my well:
it’s deep, it’s wide,
and it’s got room for all.

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Poetry

Chill Days, 24 (329.)

The car repairs
cost maybe a little more, but maybe a little less
than I anticipated,
I had a broad window for the cost of that shit,
knowing how when one thing is broken,
a few other things are probably broken.
I had to get up pretty early to get there,
though I still hit “Snooze”
a couple times,
and I squeezed in a half-hour
of Animal Crossing before I left.
Took me like ten minutes
to reconnect the battery,
which would have been embarrassing
if someone was watching me
unless it was Truman Show-style,
then I’d just shrug it off
and laugh at the absurdity.
Parasitic drains, man.
They sound cooler than they are.
Hopefully, with some time and some money,
this car will be
okay for driving around town.
I’m crossing my fingers, you know?
Please just give me something
I can drive for fifteen minutes.
Thanks.

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Poetry

Chill Days, 22 (327.)

How many save rooms
have saved themselves for the hero,
how many upgrades
have felt down because they
sat unnoticed until the hero came along,
how many treasure chests
were plopped in random places
by unseen servants decades ago
only to sit, untarnished but unopened,
unneeded, until the hero found some keys,
how many swords had to be enchanted
to resist the inevitable rust
that eats away at all things
as they sat on fancy pedestals,
sculpted by a master artisan some centuries ago,
just waiting to be gripped by the chosen one,
how much time, how much space, how much empty
everything had to just wait, and wait,
and wait for that fucking call to adventure,
Press Start to Begin,
how many castles and fortresses and mad dungeons
had to use their entire budgets
to keep the goblins and orcs and skeletons occupied,
how many gold coins does it take to run
an antagonistic empire,
and which empires aren’t antagonistic,
if the hero fights the dark lord
is the hero not antagonizing that villain,
it’s so funny
how so many mighty games and stories
revolve around big empty places
that are there
just for some good fool to come along
and explore them.

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Poetry

Chill Days, 21 (326.)

Saturday night,
and it’s a Nintendo night,
I haven’t had one of these in a while.
I know Animal Crossing
is keeping a lot of folks from losing hope,
but I played it for a few months in a row,
at least a few hours a day,
and I burnt myself out.
I had to put it down.
Folks talked about the updates,
the additions, the slight changes to some things
that expanded the game, and I
wasn’t pulled in.
Until now.
My brother bought himself a Nintendo Switch
just to play Animal Crossing
(I think a woman he likes may have influenced that decision)
and I’ve watched him slowly learn the game.
He’s having a pretty good time,
and tonight, I had the TV to myself.
So I turned on my dusty Nintendo Switch
and I started downloading a demo
and a free game
and I thought to myself
“Why don’t I see what’s happening in Animal Crossing?”
Oh gosh.
I’m back to my own sort of grind,
and for the first time in a long time,
I told myself
“Maybe I’ll wake up before noon tomorrow.”
Yep, it’s for turnips.
It’s kinda sad, but also kinda funny,
that my better habits
only come about in response to Animal Crossing.
Wholesome game of the year, saving us from the pandemic,
and ourselves.
I may need to go to bed soon –
I’ve gotta get up early
to buy them sweet stalks!

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Poetry

Chill Days, 20 (325.)

This fucking guy
can lug three fully-loaded guns
across a radioactive wasteland,
with extra ammo to boot,
along with ten bottles of water,
and ten pounds of food,
as well as armor that goes over his clothes.
Then he picks up every piece of scrap he sees,
just to make sure he has enough material
to build shelter and defenses back at base.
If he spots a wild animal, he kills it,
and he uses each part of it,
for food or crafting –
that shit is heavy, too.
I can’t imagine
being this dude in the post-apocalypse,
but by the gods,
he’s who I’ve become.
Thanks, Fallout 4,
I’m having a great time
(don’t tell anyone, it’s probably weird
that I’m enjoying the wasteland.)

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