2/7/09 Saturday • Running Log

5 miles
Audubon Park
65 degrees and sunny
5:15 PM
Mizuno Precision

I ran an easy five miles after work at Southern Runner today with Kristin and Fitz. Fitz was tooting a Five Happiness tune. I think we got to hear the first four cuts, four of the five happinesses. We ran into his ex, Kelly, who was having some shoe issues. We tried to help her out then sent her and Fitz on their way. I think that she got to hear the last, the fifth happiness.

I felt fine. My hamstring is still letting me know that it's not quite all there. But I was relatively pain free all day and it didn't tweak out too badly on the run. I'm becoming more optimistic about it. All in all a good run. The weather was absolutely beautiful.

2/6/09 On a Shelf: Homage to Dr. Seuss

The people and places and things that I see
are never so private and secret to me.

I feel them and touch them and live them each day
and view them as the steps on the path, the Way.

If I were to keep them all to myself
I'd just as soon put my soul on a shelf.

2/5/09 Sweet Pain (Feb. O8)

Insanity is all around me,
And she is a woman.

She is kind.
She is callous.
She is strong
small
thin
wild.

She has no real idea
what she wants.

She makes me feel
like no one else.

Why does it hurt
so much
then?
Why then
does it seem like

torture

to be away from her?
to be near her?

She is also wiry
bright eyed
intense.
She seems to
always want
to be the boss.

She cares deeply,
her language
inadvertently
curt,
authoritative.

She is gentle
and loves to dance.

Why then
do I feel like
a man

who owes someone
an explanation?

She is also curvy
and full
of laughter,
frenetic,
intensely distrustful
of men.

She has a
monstrous

work ethic

and a profound
propensity

for smiling.

Why why why then
is she just
outside
my reach?

Insanity is all around me,
like a shroud

of sweet pain.

2/5/09 Cold Night Run (Dec. '07)

running in the night
the beauty is the night
in the wind lashing about
(not back in ya)
slapping
your knees
your cheeks
your cheeks

hard slapping
on your knuckles
the tip of your nose
your ears sticking
out below the
bottom of a
hat already pulled
as far down
as it will go

hair pasted in a
postmodern
architectural
creation never
before seen
west of
Singapore

or, perhaps,
someplace more
exotic,
someplace like
New Orleans
where it's proper
to wear a
sleeve
on your head
at least it's
baby blue

Streetcars grind
and hum
and screech
and clang,
sometimes
shooting a
stacatto spark,
a short,

a long
blue arc
pops off the
wheels as they
trundle under the
mighty, ancient
live oaks
older than me,
older than we
will ever get
to be

or not to be
like that.

At least I'm
not cold.
It's cold
out here,
you know?