Poetry

Chill Days, 19 (324.)

The meeting is set,
for a time heretofore agreed upon
and there’s no amount of hand-wringing
that will get me out of it.
I’ll have to go to bed a bit earlier than usual;
I’ll have to wake up
and prepare for a show.
For the most part,
I’m putting on the show,
but there’s always a bit of trepidation
when the results fall on you.
In this case, you is me.
The results fall on me.
And then they’re forever tied to me.
So the meeting is set,
and I’ll have to make sure
I do my best in the morning.
A night owl’s
worst daymare.

Standard
Poetry

Chill Days, 17 (322.)

Water
Coffee
Pizza, leftover
Cheesy bread, leftover
Second bottle
Second cup
Stay hydrated
Stay caffeinated
Keep your energy going
Food
Water
Shelter
Rest
Don’t stay up late
Please don’t stay up late
Oh god, 4 AM doesn’t scare you
Just
Please wake up at a decent hour
Please get some kind of work done
Please try your best
Please try
Please

Standard
Poetry

Chill Days, 16 (321.)

Descending
to the end of something,
the year, I guess,
and it’s funny
that I had to complete onboarding tasks
from a little more than a year ago.
I could have sworn
I went through all that stuff last November,
but it’s possible
that I had to do it again
’cause most volunteers only stick around
for a year.
I’m certainly an odd duck,
choosing to serve for another year.
Oh well.
I like the people I work with,
and things are all upended right now.
I want to stick with folks I know,
and do good work
that I can mostly believe in.
I’m forgetting what positivity is,
in the middle of this fucked up pandemic,
but I like to think
I might remember optimism
if I can just take a well-deserved break.

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Poetry

Chill Days, 15 (320.)

I won’t be chill about this one.
I understand that most of the world is that way,
and in this case, I just want the game to reflect my life,
but come on, developers; come on, modders; just
fucking program left-handed weapons.
Please.
I get into the game. I immerse myself.
This time, I named the character after myself,
for Chris’s sake. (That’s me.)
I’m left-handed. Do I use the mouse left-handed? Well, no.
Do I hold the controller left-handed? Well, I’m not sure …
a controller requires two hands to operate, so that’s a wash.
Would I hold a gun left-handed? Yes. Fuck yes.
Would I swing a sword left-handed? Of course.
Would I drink water with my right hand while
taking out bad guys with my left? Naturally!
All I’m saying is, I’m left-handed, and I’m proud.
I’d just really appreciate
the option for the character to reflect that.
Maybe I’ve gotta
start some kind of petition.
Or maybe I’ll just make
my own damn game, where the character
is a leftie by default,
but just for all of you, the majority of the world,
I’ll include the option
to make the character right-handed.
That’s only fair, I think.
How nice of this hypothetical future me.

Standard
Poetry

Chill Days, 14 (319.)

It’s funny, the way that music
sometimes clings like lichen
until I can’t remember a time it wasn’t there.
If I’m the biggest rock in my life,
then some music just sticks to me
and gives me a life beyond my own.
There’s dancing, there’s jamming, there’s
singing, singing is the best,
with or without an audience.
Sometimes I don’t like the music
that perches upon my stony face,
but given some time, I can usually
come around to embracing it.
While it plays, who needs words?
I’ll let this music
weave its way into my thoughts.

Standard
Poetry

Chill Days, 13 (318.)

For the first time in a long time
I awoke before 8 AM,
it was around 7:30
and I didn’t necessarily have to shower.
So I threw on some clothes,
combed my hair,
and heated up coffee.
I talked my way through a Zoom call,
and it went well, I think.
But damn, after that,
I wasn’t sure what to do with my day.
There’s work to do, but it’s all so …

nebulous.
So I looked at some things,
read up on presentations I’d be doing
in the near future, then I just felt
super tired.
I lay down on my bed
to rest my eyes,
and lo and behold,
I slept for almost two hours.
Yeesh.
Now I’ve tricked myself into thinking
I’m living my normal day,
waking up late
and staying awake until the sun says hello.

No.
I can’t do that anymore.
I’ve got to go to bed
before 2 AM.
That way,
even if I want to sleep in,
it won’t go much further
beyond, like, 10.
I can do this.
I can turn my weird schedule around.
Early to bed, early to rise,
will probably help me wear a disguise.
I’m a 9-to-5 warrior, just like you.

I sigh.
I never really wanted to be
a 9-to-5 guy, but then again,
I never really wanted to work, either.
I do important things.
I believe I make some kind of positive difference,
no matter how small it may be.
So I’ll adapt to this
9-to-5 timeframe,
and keep on
keepin’ on.

Standard
Poetry

Chill Days, 12 (317.)

It’s been a three coffee kind of day,
and that’s okay,
’cause I met God tonight.
They traveled in a Domino’s delivery box
and looked suspiciously like pizza
topped with pepperoni and bacon.
The bread part checks out –
God’s child is made of bread,
and I like to think
that the New Testament God
would be cool with that bread
being a daughter.
J can be whoever They want to be.
God’s presence can be too much for some folks,
and it’s certainly deadly to me,
when They appear in a Domino’s delivery box,
and my diabetic body needs insulin to break down that bread.
As I pulled the syringe from my stomach,
I bled,
and I accidentally
lowered my sweater onto that liquid red.
Nothing some towels and water can’t fix.
Still, it has been a three coffee kind of day,
and although that’s okay,
it’s rare.
My hands get jittery as I reach
for another dismembered piece
of the spawn of God,
bread and meat and veggies all,
this is my body and my blood
and a bit of my soul,
how do you like the ranch dressing?
I think that’s J’s spirit.
I soaked Their body in Their spirit,
the holy ranch dressing ghost,
and everything was inside out
as the ghost became the shell
and the bread become the treat
and the body went through Hell
and now They all meet inside of me,
God, Their Spawn, Their Spirit, all capitalized
out of reverence and shaking
hungry joy.
The coffee might be
the devil that tempts me,
and it’s a Biblical reunion
all up in my belly.
In a few hours I’ll remember Revelations
as I take
an apocalyptic trip to the restroom.

Standard
Poetry

Chill Days, 11 (316.)

Night coffee sits in the pot again,
and some nights I go to bed at 4 AM
and some days I wake up at 8 anyway,
and I wonder why I drink so much
coffee all day,
then on the weekends I’ll sleep in
’til 1 or 2, that’s right,
the middle of the afternoon,
now it gets dark so early
I don’t know when evening comes,
but it rears its head
and hides the sun.

All this is to say
I’ve got bad habits
I’ve been meaning to change.

Standard
Poetry

Chill Days, 10 (315.)

The Weeknd finally came to stay,
and I’ve got all that good shit
stuck in my head.
I move from synthwave
to classical to jazz
to metal and now, to poppy stuff.
I’m okay with my own eclectic tastes,
but some days
I stop and wonder
if there’s room in my head for all this music
when I haven’t memorized a song
in literal years.
I always have the general feel,
and the chorus, both are down pat,
but the real words –
if you asked me to recite the lyrics,
I’d be lost.
Time
to make room in my head.

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