Eat plenty of oatmeal.

Sauna every season,
Roll in the snow,
Naked.

Laugh, until you cry,
Cry, until you laugh.

Leave a love note,
For no reason.

Take long, lazy, walks,
Behold Mother Earth.

Hug tightly,
Tease lightly,
Kiss tenderly,
yet mightily.

Listen always,
Heart open.

Forgive quickly.

Love lavishly.

And…

Every day,

Every single day,

Pray,
Pray,
Pray.


~ PE Kaplan

When she was young,
her mother asked,
"Why rush ahead,
without thinking,
about the consequences?"

She ignored the question,
thought, "Like you care, Ma."
and to spite her mother,
she spited herself,
went on her not-so-merry way.

Now,
a lifetime later
broken,
anxious,
addicted
medicated,
she peers out,
from behind
the shade drawn window,
with half closed eyelids
a mouse peeking out its' hole,
afraid of the consequences.

He called to straighten her out,
To announce his disappointment.

In no uncertain terms, he rammed it home,
Her failure to notify him was inexcusable.

He blasted her, recounted his disappointment,
“You were supposed to visit, you said you’d stop by.”
He shrieked, “Our friendship is a ruse, a joke to you,
You fooled me, I thought you cared.”

Overwhelmed, wordless, she, lost in his pain,
Was defenseless, knew no proof would suffice,
Understood the meaning, guilty as charged.

She listened silently, finally, felt a shift,
His rage discharged, breathless, indignant,
He awaited her pathetic excuse.

With a shallow breath she illuminated him.

A single, empty, cabin,
On a distant island,
Barren, cold, alone,
Marooned.

“***** you!” down he slammed the phone.

Not sure why yard sales didn’t make the Stress Scale ‘cause the uptick in adrenaline, the ramped-up apprehension of letting stuff go, especially stuff that's been around for a while, the feeling of loss, picturing someone with your old stuffed pony, it’s painful.

This saying goodbye to things brings an emotional dilemma, a mixed-up sense of knowing it's high time for the thing-a-ma-bob with no actual relevance, to be dumped while some queasy feeling of unexpected meaning to the thing erupts.  

And an inner kid sputters, "No, please not my wacha-ma-call-it, no, I’m not ready yet.” or your favorite uncle's favorite chipped ashtray along with the obnoxious bric-a-brac, knick-knack, from; who was it again, suddenly becomes the Hope Diamond.

Yep, yard sales are tough, your private junk out for all the world, to ******, to turn upside down and sour-faced putting it down, as you breathe a sigh of relief the bozo didn’t take home your treasured, dusty paper weight with the faded shamrock inside.

Seriously, yard sales are like putting your whole life on the front page, exposed to strangers, because friends with your best interest in mind, tell you to simplify, clean out, move on, start anew after they’ve witnessed your life fly apart…

Like a paper napkin flies up into a gust of wind, swirls upwards  catches forever on a branch and these self-same, well-meaning pals are incapable of your need to keep the rusty tea kettle, the one you boiled water in to make tea for your sweetheart every day.

Then, when finally you’ve sorted through it all and it’s laid out defenseless in the grass, beside the “House for Sale” sign, you spot some **** fool, your dead mother's "Old Faithful" trivet held high, the one she got on the only vacation she ever had, yelling,  "Hey sis, will ya take a dime for this?"

And the raindrops begin to fall.

They knew him well, knew he cared,
Attention and sweets, he would share.

"Thunder and Lightning" a girl, a boy,
One brought worry, the other joy.

He's gone now, went down to rest,
He did his job, passed the test.

Treat all the same, no matter what,
Love all the same, no matter what.

The jig is up us, for us who know each dawn delivers
A renewed sense of dread, despair, disillusionment; another day in,
Day out slog, the persistent, insistent fear of, fill in the blank,
An absolute knowing in the end, nothing really matters.

A tranced-out going through the motions at a meaningless job,
The mechanical everything's fine exchange, the pasted on smiles,
The inevitable, "How ya doing, how's it going?",
Muttered absent mindedly on the work-a-day-rat-wheel.

One thought that saves the day; the ride home, the solace of
The burn of the *****, the quick numb out effect straight into the 
Blood brain barrier without a hitch, the fear lifting, down into the dark Chamber of no real care and slowly, surely, relief arrives.

And deep inside this numb town, a desperado appears, calls the shots, Schmoozes slyly, "Hey compadre, give me your fear, and
I give you my self-righteous willfulness in return, and best of all,
I’ll deliver you your very own smothering mother of oblivion."

Awakened, head pound, brain fog, dry as a desert, need water now, And Like clockwork, a barely audible patient inner voice asks,
“Is this the really the life you want?” and without hesitation,
The regular repetitive retort, “Yup, one more day at a time.”