Carry That Weight 20 minutes to 11 and I've got nothing to say.
I edited some blog posts, brought bins of breakables
down to the cellar for my wife and I cleaned out
the trunk of an old car that is sitting in the
backyard. It was full of books. Had to oil the key to get the lock to turn
just like my wife oiled me with the promise
of kettle corn and other things,
incentive for me to lift and lug
more stuff and re-injure my right arm. I tried to lift a chest freezer by myself
and something let go in my arm,
something popped where the forearm meets the bicep.
Hurts like a son of a gun when I try to
do complicated things like make a sharp
left turn in the car, reach into a coat pocket
or carry a loaded dresser on on my back
without being loaded myself. I hate physical limitations.
I hate that I can't dunk a basketball.
I hate that I can't keep up with Lance
Armstrong or is that Lance Bass I can't keep
up with? I don't know.
I hate that I can't drink like I use to.
A couple of beers these days and I feel
dehydrated.
I hate that I can't eat like I use to.
I could scarf a fully loaded pizza
all by myself and not gain a freaking
pound. Now I think about pizza and the pants
get tight
and no, I don't have some sick pizza fetish
sexual fantasy,
or maybe I do. I'm not telling But anyway, for not having anything to say
and being injured, limited restriction on
my lifting, I still carry a lot of weight but not as much at my waist or gut because in all fairness to myself
I've reduced.
Isn't reducing a cooking term?
Cooking terms make me drool. Weight limits or not,
I lift things by compensating
with my left arm and think things through before bulling my way in. I'm good at bulling
and not so good at bullshitting. Although, I just bullshitted my way through this
poem.
I edited some blog posts, brought bins of breakables
down to the cellar for my wife and I cleaned out
the trunk of an old car that is sitting in the
backyard. It was full of books. Had to oil the key to get the lock to turn
just like my wife oiled me with the promise
of kettle corn and other things,
incentive for me to lift and lug
more stuff and re-injure my right arm. I tried to lift a chest freezer by myself
and something let go in my arm,
something popped where the forearm meets the bicep.
Hurts like a son of a gun when I try to
do complicated things like make a sharp
left turn in the car, reach into a coat pocket
or carry a loaded dresser on on my back
without being loaded myself. I hate physical limitations.
I hate that I can't dunk a basketball.
I hate that I can't keep up with Lance
Armstrong or is that Lance Bass I can't keep
up with? I don't know.
I hate that I can't drink like I use to.
A couple of beers these days and I feel
dehydrated.
I hate that I can't eat like I use to.
I could scarf a fully loaded pizza
all by myself and not gain a freaking
pound. Now I think about pizza and the pants
get tight
and no, I don't have some sick pizza fetish
sexual fantasy,
or maybe I do. I'm not telling But anyway, for not having anything to say
and being injured, limited restriction on
my lifting, I still carry a lot of weight but not as much at my waist or gut because in all fairness to myself
I've reduced.
Isn't reducing a cooking term?
Cooking terms make me drool. Weight limits or not,
I lift things by compensating
with my left arm and think things through before bulling my way in. I'm good at bulling
and not so good at bullshitting. Although, I just bullshitted my way through this
poem.
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