Musings of JR Simmang

I have passed these marbled, garbled hallways so my shoulders graze the pallid walkways all the while watching days and days dither to a soundless wail. The night upon me’s overcrowding; the moon above is light abounding, The wind’s blowing a resounding whisper straight from the bowels of Hell. I thought I might be quickly losing all manner of my mindful choosing and slinking back the acrid boozing shadows of the dell, when at once came a knocking, a swiftly rapping, grain-fed socking, scratching at the tender backing of my gently nodding skull. It was a subtle reminder of the end of it my dear, the indubitable end of the line I feared, it would be the last time that I neared the confusion in the water wells. My legacy was no longer wanted, the land my fathers bore was haunted with my bequested chivalry undaunted and I turned on my liquid heels. I turned to wave a goodbye goodnighted, the final prayer unrequited. With all the wanting, sifting slighted, ...

As most of you know, I am a contributing poet to Writers Digest. I say "contributing." I mean that I post a poem every so often on Robert Brewer's blog. It's fun. This week, we had a challenge. We were to write a rispetto. As I was informed (because I had never heard of this form before), it is a poem with two different forms. The first form is comprised of two quatrains, each with iambic tetrameter. The other form is a hendecasyllabic (eight syllables) 8-line stanza. Here's my attempt at the second form. Yardwork It's no longer winter, he says to me under the falling dead leaves of the oak in the back yard. It's becoming a time where the world wakes up from her slumber and shakes off death. It's certainly better than the alternative. What's that, I ask, impatiently, staring at his empty hands, while mine clutch tightly the old plastic rake that has been an eyesore in the eyesore of the plastic shed. It's that death itself walks among the...

That Saturday was a bright one. The sun seemed to shine on despite the oppressive silence that currently threatened to overwhelm the house. He stood on the landing, elbows on the rail, while his eyes travelled to the front door. This house was just another house; it had walls and doors and windows. It looked like the Summer's house, Buffy and Dawn walking through the kitchen while Angel peered in through the blinds. That's one of the reasons he loved it so. His room was located on the second floor, just to the right at the landing and into the dappled sunlight of prebubescence. His room, only accessible through the stairs (or the window via the oak tree, and trust him, he tried) smelled like him (he liked Givenchy, lavender, and vanilla. Sometimes, his girlfriends would wear Moonlight Path, a fragrance that was discontinued, but some idolatrous girls still clung to their bottles of lotion and bodywash), looked like him (the shutters pulled down but open, the walls a color...

You're graceful all around, drinking in the soul of me. I cannot help but stare, sometimes at the back of your head, because that's all I can see of you. And that, sometimes, is enough.

It was an odd fog this morning, cresting like a wave in the silence of the night upon the broken shores of Deadman's Hollow. I belong to the sea, he said, his windows rolled down, as if sending an invitation to the pallid blanket over the city. The Road, he thinks, is a narrow strip of suicide, never changing, and gritty. There is no more here than a constant expanse to an endless arrow. The scenery starts looking the same. At least it shares this with the sea, around you is nothing but water and you think you could drown in the constant reflection of salty tide. There is unidirectionality, a oneness of everything. It's a battle of wits to convince yourself that the age you race toward is also what propels you forward, every bump in the road is a new wrinkle... But it pains him to think this as his wheels do all the work. In the ocean, he thinks, he'd put in his miles on his hands. The salt-air burning scars into his face. The sun bea...

In response to a WD prompt: In the right light, his hair almost cast a shadow. "Well, seeing as how I don't have a choice in the matter, I suppose I'll have to go with eyesight." He, Dr Manne, had me strapped to a cold, sterile, surgical steel operating table. I didn't remember how I got there. "Eyesight? Typical." "That's the one I want dulled." "Oh. Interesting. Willingly blind." He was stooped over a table, his shoulders hunched with anticipation. I was catching mainly the echo off the plain white walls. "I want you to enhance my sixth sense." I heard a clang and what sounded like the rapid rearranging of metal pieces of a metal tray. When he spoke, his voice came out in starts and stops. "The sixth sense?" he sputtered. "That's what I said. I want you to enhance my sixth sense." He laughed, slowly at first, with the gurgle building steam in the pit of his stomach, then reached a Vesuvian expl...

Good day, folks. Today's post is of a different direction. It's the first of several that are going to go into detail about what I am going to do to get fit and GoRuck/Highland Games strong. Several of you already know that I am both gluten- and dairy- free. It's biological. However, having to exlude these things from my diet has had an immense effect on my physique and metabolism. I am no longer sluggish, my focus has improved, I sleep better, and fat has had a hard time sticking around my midsection. Workouts feel more effective, as my endurance has also increased. Wheat is a killer. Dairy comes from a cow. Anyways, my stats are this: I am 5' 9.5" and barely kicking 150 lbs. My one rep max deadlift is 110. I can squat my body weight. My bench is 90. I'm not that great. But, I've started a new regimen, and I'm going to start tracking now. Yesterday, my workout was this: 1.5 mile run/warm-up 5 rounds of 30 feet suitcase carry, heaviest weight (60...