It was 29° (f) degrees this morning with a waning gibbous (¾) moon. Still, as we started our run, it was dark enough that the world was rendered in black and white. Lisa was a sepia print of herself while Charles was a large, quiet shadow, a dark visual noise pattern.

We usually jog from our dorm, down to and along New Haven Harbor and back. Lisa and I love the ocean. The wind was in our faces this morning and there were no sparkling moon refractions in our direction, which made the water musou and colorless.

I’ve gotten my outfit down to a science, leggings under shorts, four long sleeve, dry-wicking spandex tops (layering is important), a power-wool-earflap-beanie, thermal neck gaiter and quantum, icebreaker gloves (with touch-screen compatibility) - you gotta dress warmly but be able to shed layers as needed.

I listen to audiobooks while we run. Right now I’m on book 5 of the ‘The Expanse’ series. I don’t have time to read anything fun these days, so I listen to science-fiction/fantasy while I workout. I love the new AirPod Pro feature that automatically turns the sound down if anyone talks.

I wear a fitbit charge around my right ankle and my Apple watch as well - they both track my run - the fitbit is more accurate but my watch sends my workout stats to my siblings - we’re uhh, sort of competitive.

At first, as we came up on the harbor, it was impossible to see the intersection of the two dark oceans - the great terrestrial and the greater galactic - but as we turned for home, there was an atmospheric scatter of blue at the edge of the horizon, heralding the sunrise on our retreating backs.

musou = one of the darkest shades of black

Classic style of Born shoes have been known using leather, instead of synthetic man made materials. As you know, leather is a natural moisture wicking agent and helps keep the foot dryer and cooler. Another special feature of Born shoes is the Dryz sock linings that is available in Born shoes sport style.

Most newer laptops have an S-video output built-in. You have probably guessed already that these www.facebook.com toms shoes outlet video outputs send the video signal to your TV. You guessed right. Hours of paddling can be enjoyed in this remote yet easily accessible location surrounded by Prospertown Wildlife Management Area. Neither gas nor electric motors are permitted, but since the lake is not patrolled regularly, a few tend to slip in now and then. Nevertheless, these waters rarely become crowded, even on the hottest summer weekend.

Evening Weddings ?These may be black tie, formal, or informal. But black-tie dress implies that a man is expected to show up in a tuxedo and women should wear a long or short cocktail dress. If the occasion is listed as ormal or informal? the man can wear a dark suit in navy, black, or charcoal grey ?with a beautiful dress shirt, jeweled silk tie, and a pocket square in a color tone to complement the tie.

Reports regarding child labor surface periodically. Children crawling in mines, faces ashen,  body deformed. The agile fingers of famished infants weaving soccer ***** for their more privileged counterparts in the USA. Incredulously, I recognized from a few angled lines at the end of the drive Charlie's ever-present scrap metal pile. Cedar and deciduous trees in the wooded areas were distinguishable from one another in simple, but deftly penciled strokes and swirls. He'd even captured the farm's power sources - tractors with hay wagons, the farm truck, pea-sized draft horses, and two diminutive figures in the front yard..

It should be mentioned that if you move to their playground, you will find there a real criminal wild level. It is the only level where murders happen because a fight for swag is carried there. You try to nap a piece?of property from the jaws, even if it is your own property, but the things for you may be finished badly.

Face and strap color - Another new trend in watch design is with the dials and straps. Watches, both expensive and cheap, are now being made in bold and exciting colors. Just be careful about buying a colored watch if it is going to be your everyday watch.

Having learned under the tutelage of LOSTerminds Damon Lindelof and Carlton Cuse, it's understandable that the talented (babyandyUSA-March-11) twosome that are Horowitz and Kitsis want to do nothing less than shoot for the stars by crafting and equally compelling world filled with good and evil character, not to mention life and death stakes. Unfortunately, the one thing that really seems to have gotten, well lost this season is the fun. In other words, when you're responsible for writing a show about handsome princes, damsels in distress, witches, fairy-godmothers, etc鈥?it would be nice if an episode could go by that doesn't involve a grisly ****** or loss of limbs..  2013-03-14.

doopth..doopth..doopth..
the intonation of a gavel
upon a felted block

order, orrrder,

i now call to order this
washday gathering
of the
metaphysical
analytical
socks
drawer # 1793

all rise and come to toetip
for the grand entry of
the great thrice darned heel

kazoos squeak  the intro
to the ode to joy
an old grey golf sock is
ushered in to sit slouched
on the top of the washer/dryer.
he observes the following proceedings.

now to business

the agenda for the day

1. groove and the toe socks
table their report on the
systematic eradication of toejam.

2.the tradditionalists continue
the open discussion on,
wool versus synthetic,
for winterwear.

3.we have a vote scheduled
on the referedum matter:
do we allow sandals and thongs
guest status in this drawer.

4.the metaphysicists update
us on the age old conundrum;
"where do the odd socks go?"
at present they are devling
into the posibilities of
superposition of states,
as presented by
the schrodinger's cat theory.

5. the analytical group are meanwhile, surveying the remaining
evenless socks;
to obtain data on the pairless state of being

6. and finally, we welcome a deposition from the natralists;
with regard to use of bamboo
and hemp to allow for the wicking
of footwater, for a longer lasting
freshness of the base arch construction.

please feel free to attend one or
more of these discussions, contributions and /or questions
will be taken after the presentations.

i am also asked to inform you, that
the metatarsals group has a table of goods for sale, at the leftside of the wash basket.
items include:
new elastics and darning equipment.
books on special this meet are;
the ever popular
"how not to become a sock puppet"
and the tragic
"my life as a duster"
then there is the new offering of
"sox and jox:
the art of underwear
diplomacy."
and one last item of note:
a reminder that membership fees,
(of one clean toe clipping) are due
before next months gathering
go now,
enjoy the gathering.

and may the foot be with you

Time stopped in the dark street illuminated with sparking electric bulbs, sputtering cold light from their beings onto the shining asphalt upon which my feet pound, blood pounding in my ears, drumming a tempo which I cannot begin to understand. Why am I running, these streets made of oblivion shining slick like the scales of a great beast beyond human recollection, something older than we can ever hope to be. Pounding again, beads of moisture fixing themselves to myself, my face chest hair dripping as my hands like swords pointed pump in semicircles, wicking moisture to be replaced with the tears of the incessant storm raging from the heavens; god knows my light-winged thoughts of vigilante vendetta, I’m racing for blood other than that which lights my eyes with the fire of blazing vengeful purpose – this god sees, he sends the storm to make known his rage through which I fight because this within me is bigger than myself, consuming my mind with one-track riots I am racing to destroy this evil with my humble hands, the power I feel beneath my skin, my body more capable when roused with blind ferocity I become a demon, I have black-winged spirits leaving fire in my wake, each step pounding pounding, separating water from stone, stone cracking fire springing up beneath my footprints occupying empty space left by my electric heels, I transfer the energy brimming within me to the pavement because I cannot possibly contain it all. Hands like blades cutting merciless, cleaving wind and water alike as each stride heavy with effort carries me closer to my destination, I am no longer dependent on the strength of my body i let the boundless energy beneath the seams of this reality consume me, I am theirs to do their bidding. I know this road never ends, but I will never stop running. The rain no longer falls beside me, my force is greater than that of gravity, I drag it in my wake – time has slowed as my steps drum a tattoo on the black pavement, the frequency, the tempo ever-increasing to a frenzied rate I hear angels singing songs of sorrow for what I am about to do, but they understand I must and they are there for me – their chorus reaffirms, encourages invigorates frenzy into a force uncontainable, unstoppable by methods divine or mundane, resolves, time stops I hear nothing but the heartbreaking din of angels their voices drown out the world I am theirs as I reach the edge with little conviction and heavy faith I cast my arms behind me as I slide through the air...all has slowed as my feet leave the ground, my arms divine wings I am intent on my goal I take one final breath and close my eyes as the raindrop I have sought collides with my forehead, the purest note sounds as it breaks upon my brow. Visions and memory of light explode into being, enveloping me in the splendor of all things willing as I, like the rain, spread myself to the whole of existence I vanish, no longer static and constrained but a part of all things.
        I hum to the tune of time, sonorous; I have become part of the peaceful wind kissing all things. Here I am content, I strike chords within the hearts of lovers and romantics winded by their own passions – I have joined the choir and taken up my fabled robes, welcome home.
        Welcome home.

ashtrays, mugs and
moments: rattle within, outside their place.
our brittle, needy bones
support head,
appetite-shorn body: Bouldering.
Walking. |Wicking. Mushing bridges
churning-over water, tide.
High-regard neighbor’s children re-
move plastic decorations while that grandpa
hangs-- alive,
stayed-- in unused gutters, -o! Wind and
snow-flaked, grassy yardstomps lead us
with body-**** coats to-
doors, somedays-ies and happenstance
below mortuaries, toe-
tags, dangling shoe-string,
draping clothes'-
line our spindly, warrowed hallways
between blankets, sweaty
feelers lie, their
harrowed, heaving trunks hold night-trees/
palms aloft and hopeful.

a glint, a chance, a something.
wicker furniture, lace.
a bed, a "yes." Please,
a you.

there are soft little pieces of forever shoved into the corners of your teeth
on the granite slabs of mountainous look-outs,
you sharpen
long walking sticks from boughs of fragrant juniper.
and forget to pass the small berries to the birds that like them

its been a long time

wicking out the passion from moments that will out live us.
and trying to understand the fine pulverized sand in the fissures:
spreading out like veins across boulders that support
the weight.
our bodies-
carefully outlining the places where silent embryos come apart,

dragging the backs of our fingernails across the green-grey stone with open palms
to catch the stardust we
think
tumbles out of the ether-

casting off all of my anger.  as i watch the tiny
flecks of destiny caught in the tips of your eyelashes as they close-
and the greatest tragedy of all,

as the blue becomes blue.
this (and only this)-
no one to share the view

The little shnurple speads its wings
and sings of heaven's hellish kings
Adrift on memories future flung
Swinging, belting all eight lungs.
Awash, it never comes nor goes
It just is, what no one knows.
Flicking from the back of minds
Dismisplacing the meanest kinds.

Tick-Wicking prickles
Fig-Wiggling giggles
*** for tat
It neither qualms nor quibbles
Just lifts is hairy airs and sniffles.

i.
i jar spare change for my trip home.
it’s moved away from me recently,
it sleeps across concrete rivers now.

i jar my change for the ferryman,
he will recognize me soon.
i will make this migration often,
and soon he will wink at me when i come to sit in his boat-
he knows what’s pulling me down the river.

and when i come collapse
into your arms,
my weariness will melt away,
wicking away in the warmth of you.

and i’ll be home,
for a while.


ii.
ice clenched between my teeth
i pull away from you
ferryman doesn’t wink this time.
he knows how bitter it is.

iii.
my spare change tink-tinks into the bottom of my jar.

the cold on my skin
is worth it.

summer wouldn’t be as sweet without the snow.

It started out simple
Innocent, if you will
It was cold that morning
   And the next
        And the one after that
            And the following one

"I'm cold"
"Moisture wicking"
"Keeps the sun off"
What lie shall I say today?

It started out innocently
To the untrained eyes

Now they ask
How I survive?
How can I bare the heat?
How do I not melt?

"Best foot forward
You represent now
Be mindful of your look"

Would I still look presentable
If you saw the battles
I lost against my own self
Would that show strength and courage?

Or would I be shunned once more,
For things I could not control
And memories that linger at night
Would you care if I lie once more?

a silent cry
followed by violent shouts
sullen coves
darkened funeral spouts

the undertaker dressed in black
eyes of coal
he never looks back

widow (maker)
spun around
her dresses long
her feelings down

empty shoals
crowned in blue
legs of scars
moon, new

hear her cry
head thrown back
sobbing swallowed
coughing hack

skin transluscent
soft yet untouched
nocturnal creature
fallow of *****

withdraw the bow
pull the sword
unappreciated spied my lord

empty cages open and shut
downward spiral
a violent cuck

harrowed adventure
blighted by (sh)fame
ignorant ties
hollow frame

guilty no more
follow on back
open your mouth
scream from of the lack

trust embellished
overly surmised
internal wicking
her sad lonesome eyes

the wind shakes the windows in their dressings like a child trying to wake its dead mother . you touch my face with the back of your hand, soft as the things that will be tanned in the slurry of our boiled- brains .      there is a clank from the cast radiator that     musters courage      up from floorboards below .   the mice run
scared.
your brow is deerskin that is pulled formfitting across my    dry,
      cupped           fingers
it wants small holes put in it as it                                      wears
suppler
into
a look
just
like kissing wool

the
heather inside the layers
that get put on-


wicking off like collagen

as the wintry madness finds us

Nothing can move me to poetry today,
the pieces kept coming and the juggler
had a terrible time choosing and it was
not poetic,
nor ballet,
the wrong shoes were on the wrong feet,
the keyboard bruises these tired fingers,
that were grabbing and clutching and
holding onto nothing,
that was mine,
feeling hips and muscles that have,
bent and pulled like pork without
that satisfaction,
cause I try,
and I try,
and I try,
but the day is over and we were left,
or we left,
all behind, unable to do more,
as the clock kept ticking,
and our coats and skin kept wicking
rain from the sky,
we left them in chaos,
we left them in a hurry,
this was no theory,
necks and backs and vertebrae,
could all swear that we had carried
the weight of their world,
my two sons and I, in April
which is good for many things...

Another Sunday morning
Crouched in the beam of headlights
Steam coming off coffee and breath
Fumbling to pin race bib to pants

A romance
Of sorts; this dance I’m addicted to
Those magic numbers: 5k, 13.1, and
The boss lady: 26.2 (I’m coming after you)
But why? Friends ask
You’re crazy they say on posts
Of me on each early Sunday

I say nothing back, but heart the comment
I can’t explain what the rhythmic pound; the sound
of New Balanced footstrike does
For the broken part of me
How the week’s aggression
That needs suppressing is sweated out
And gathered up in Nike’s moisture-wicking fabric

How weaving through the crowd of neophytes
Wearing today’s race shirt, alternately
Sprinting then walking

And the kids, eager, then over it
The moms reclaiming a body that sheltered
The now-strollered baby
The geriatrics, shoes well-used
Nimble limbs, not brittle but abused
From pounding pavement years before this

This environment, atmosphere
Big race crowds or small informal
Stopwatch race; doesn’t matter
Just involved; a part of this kinship
Unspoken club affiliation; in passing
Not a wave, but nod
A head bob of appreciation
For another’s association;
Obsession with times, miles,
Post-race selfie smiles
Because I know there will come a day
That my body will betray
My runner’s soul.

But for now I stand at the start
Ready for race gun and one more mile

Sunset

Viking pyres sinking
by degrees from North Manitou
annealing the portside window

on an overnight flight to Dublin
spilling dye downtown high
above the left field bleachers

finger painting suburban skies
of my childhood racing
to beat the streetlights

floating fire on Lake Superior
too many times to count
Malibu two nights one July

sashaying drunk on magenta  
going off to pout in the dark
when I called you a show off

you’ve seen me at my worst
I know all your florid secrets
little wonder we’ve grown

to resemble one another
incandescent palettes leached
wicking gunmetal horizons.

Burning night wicking skywards,
Sometimes lost in wisps,
Smoke swirls, whispers, worlds.
A flickering dance,
So much up to the chance breath
Of air through the gathering
Close, ghosts of what is
Left behind or gone before.

Past loves and lies flaming,
Lost to blaming, regret or time.
I forget which.
Transient, tragic, senseless,
Nonsense bickering.
Bundles of chores and joy,
Puffs of years blown by like seeds.

For birth and death, my love,
Of breath and living you
Precious sprite-bright flame.
Fight hard, shine sharp against
The darkness cut.
I treasure your pieces.

Sunset

Remember North Manitou
years ago? pressed up against
the portside window
on an overnight flight to Dublin,
spilling dye downtown
above the left field bleachers,
finger painting the suburban skies
of my childhood racing
to beat the streetlights,
floating fire on Lake Superior
too many times to count, Malibu
two nights one July,
sashaying drunk on magenta,  
going off to pout in the dark
when I called you a show off.
You’ve seen me at my worst,
I know your all your florid secrets,
little wonder we’ve grown
to resemble one another,
incandescent palettes leached
wicking gunmetal horizons.

splayed in the grass
      my wool socks speak the sun first,
    warm talisman.

so much for
                       complex
    idols.
                  itch-free
                  moisture wicking,

      three shades of blue.

I'm stuck in an education
If I am am I an institute in self-conservation
Conserving my thoughts and energy for the meditating heralding change in the drop sleeves of doing something better with plants
In the autumn, knowing of the seasons and the hurling flings that throw Fred's problems at and Harry hurt ya'
Rolling up the sleeves, with the punches doing something better for a change than fighting the little wings
Gaining ambiguity, ambition in this from the little wing, and redacting resting war pieces, once again in a dark alley away
Sold out by the Ganges, we are at the back alley once again
Where it used to flood in the underwhelming light of the free talking, and are we really doing this praying in the freakish dark
If you want to **** yourself in film-noir, then, do it wicking light, flickering cigarette and luminescent wickedness and gumption in grumpy faces, Eliot Ness
Shot the mess down, in the pool of blood
Shot the mess in, down in the pool
Everywhere, everyone was trying to make sense of the unfurling crew crawling through strange crew
Cash rules everyone around messenger of peace, mirages of the sage temerity of the herald of emerald Gerald Ford tides, shortest eyebrows in the quickest drugs for the lasting merging
Of mussing and sullied feelings, where the cars roam
Thouest shiny car, where do you remember to reach India, the houseplants wait for your arrival, blind in love