Just a run

Life: Uneventful
Poetry seeps through my sweat
and boring haiku
My shoes are tied, my bandana is tied, the Dodgers and the Mets are tied, bottom of the eighth inning. I look my door, juggling my keys, Nick's cds and my music machine. I rush down my hill, as

Back to You
by John Mayer unsubtlely kills my hearing. The song is so melodious, but my mind is cluttered and reminded of dull sore of reality. My feet hurt, already. They will be numb. My breath is heavy. I am out of shape.
I
am
worthless.

Brushfire Fairytales
doesn't let me down. I have let me down. I have done nothing to better myself. And now, Jack Johnson is telling me to slow down? I think not, my acoustic friend. I think not. I am thankful when Son et Lumiereby The Mars Volta starts up and bumrushes my insides.I walk to Matt's house, exactly where Nick said he would be. Three mutts sprint at me, rabies clouding their motion, I assume. I wave at the door, laughing, but not smiling. Putting out my friendly hand, as if to say, "Stop Barking!" No avail. I stand, cars drifting and skidding on Halsey. The door goes unanswered, and I put my music back in my head.

Clarity
what a great song, I mean, it can pick me out of any hole when I'm feeling down.No other John Mayer song (Other than Heart of Life, thanks Reaney) can do that. I walk back to Halsey, honing my high notes in an obscene fashion. I just run, controling my pace with the clap of the hands in the back of the song.

Home
by Marc Broussard pushes me up Nick's hill and through the mud. I pause the Blues rock when I get to his house. I say, "You weren't at Matt's house."
"Yeah, sorry."
"It's okay."
"Here's Vampire Weekend and Rogue Wave."
"Thanks." Eyeing my bandana covering my head. "Grow your hair back."
"It will grow, but I'm liking it now. It's working for me."
"Are you getting the ladies?"
"I wasn't before." We both laugh. I wave at Nick and his brother as I run away.
By the time

Fortune Faded
by the Chili Peppers comes on, I'm practically sprinting up 148th. Some (punk) adolescent runs up the hill on the parallel golf course. I pick up my pace. Yeah, nobody asked me to, but I ain't lettin' no punk kid win a race he doesn't know he's competing. Why not go to Burnside, Joel? Because I hate Burnside, that's why. Whatever, you're going. Fine.

I'm Totally Not Down With Rob's Alien
Minus the Bear plays as I stretch my flat feet at the intersection. A group of four, differently-shaded men walk to the MAX stop. Temptation is my friend. "Hey, how're you doing?" rings like an oversized bell in my head. What stops me from walking over to these men? Racism. No, actually, the element of surprise just doesn't seem worth it today. I keep going.

Worldplay
has to stop. I jog past Playschool Daycare. "Jason Mraz, you must stop singing now." I pause the cleverly resounding music. I remember the piledrivers and the molestation. There was even a court case about one of the owners pushing a little black girl down some stairs. It seems odd now that the sign out front says "State-certified." That state must be made of fools. I push my eyes against the locked and alarmed door. It seems so small, quaint, even. I mutter to myself, "This was my childhood. Most of it.""Let go of your roots [and grow]."

There's a Good Reason These Tables Are Numbered Honey, You Just Haven't Figured it Out Yet
That funny band from Vegas sings. I round the corner of 160th and Burnside, and run North. Two Obviously cool men in cool jersies and basketball[er] shorts move in the opposite direction of the sidewalk. It sounds like he asks,
"Do you work for the Post Office?"
"The Post Office?" as I run past him and his supercool buddy.
He laughs and says something unbeknownst to me, yet still crude to his friend.
I am looking back and running forward as he yells, "Get out my face! GET Out My Face!" to me. It reminds me of Martin, except this man is serious. Huh.
You are so right, Panic!, It Doesn't feel like a night out with no one sizing me up.
I keep running to the next light at Glisan and pass another man. "You have a good day." That's all I say to him. I wanted to start a running conversation about what "to hope" is in Spanish, but move on, letting him wonder who the hell I was.

Theme
the one from Eternal Sunshine by Jon Brion, lets my pace slow down. Some woman sorting tomatoes outside the Farmer's Market on 162nd and Glisan is moving into her sixties. Her grey hair shines under the mild sunlight.

40 Oz. to Freedom
by Sublime starts as I'm halfway down my street. It doesn't seem to fit my mood from the previous songs, but only Kate Winslet and Jim Carrey can keep me satisfied, and I don't think they live in Portland, anyway. I cross the street slowly after a car passes, only to cross back when I get to my house. As I sprint down my empty driveway, I realize why this song is necessary.
"Ohhh, I'm not going BACK!" Nowell ska-croons.

My laces still tied, sure, but looser. My bandana is on sideways, and in an Upset, the Mets have made three runs in the Top of the Ninth. The Dodgers have lost, and I feel a whole lot better.