After a run, purged words fall onto the page

Sunday mornings are for running. I’m not fast and I suspect that I look like an asthmatic old man struggling against every step. Regardless, though, I run. The main reason I run is to let my mind wander without a sense of where I am or what I do. But by far the coolest part of a run is when I get back to my favorite chair, grab a pen, and let words flow.

This poem was the output of last Sunday’s run….maybe today will yield some other collection of words….

the debt i owe

Life has ways of reminding me of the debt I owe

The llano sings stories: Hughes’ frosting and Baca’s Gato…

I may run, but words chase me

ringing my line like an unrepentant bill collector

 

I want to bake my own cake and be

my own center of a rippled lake, but…

the barrio was my Micelangelo:

Every alcohol and weed-laced fight chiseled

me – not into a perfect David – but…

an imperfect chuck of hard-edged rock

 

Angels pity us because we can’t see that

there are no shadows without the light

and while vultures circle over me because they think

they see an easy meal

my pen remains my sword

and I use to pay

the debt I owe

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