#twerk
Let's tell you a story,
Of art & of dance,
Not all that gory.
She was that dancer,
Not just an ordinary one,
A bar dancer in all her glory.
COVID-19 made it hard to work,
So, she started working online,
And began to twerk from home.
She was safe this way,
From the two viruses,
Both COVID and ***
Plugged on to the revolution,
Clients were happy online,
And she made good money.
Mar 11, 2025
Mar 11, 2025 at 7:59 PM UTC
With scrunched and bushy furrowed brow
I ponder precise circumstances
when consciousness got born
Tracing back lineage of self,
an arbitrary individual unpredictable as the Dow
Reckoning series of events
sustained life similar to sowing seed of corn
Ruminating fragile nascent organisms
at mercy of fate flourished, and how
Taxing me mind asper each score
composed bards to toot their own horn
Aware just slightest off beat fluke
determined from millennia ago or now
That particular organism,
whether one celled entity
or beings that can mourn,
The loss of kindred members –
food for thought since pledging marital vow
this poet, whose presence
a fluke of circumstances possibly torn
At any point in distant past
rendering me absent unable to utter wow
At what crapshoot of circumstances
wrought Matthew Scott Harris to be
Cognizant of genealogy
wove World Wide Web
following threads back in time
Albeit not more than a couple generations –
whereby emigrants did flee
From supposed eastern European swath
in general finding reason to rhyme
For no reason, just as other creatures
great or small occupy themselves with glee
Or just groveling along at
bare ***** knuckle existence without a dime
Less apt to own luxury how **** sapiens
purportedly evolved from mon-key
Whereby harsh ill fate tempts them
into life of crime
When perhaps riches with kingly figures
loomed large in family tree
Branching back in the day
Glorious personalities
populated genealogy to boot
Twisting tortured destiny somewhere
in one direction along the killer highway
Setting stage for rags,
when august ancestry buried in loot
Yet tis quite frivolous
bemoaning present woes or even pray
To win lottery turning attention
how our ancestral gingko or newt
Dwelt in rich primordial egg drop soup
wantonly in massive bay
Inexorably transformed
(by dint of dice throw) per flora to take root
As well fauna to mutate into species
and genus on land to assay
Giving rise to variety to an assortment
of animals and plants
And this one speck of flotsam
in particular owns a passion for contra dance
Whereby others –
from massive beasts to self taught amazing ants
Scurry hither and yon to and fro perhaps
contemplating genetic grants
To be alive for mere blink of an eye
all due (in my view) to chance.
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 11:09 PM UTC
I had an ********
Not because I'm some sick **** who gets off on girls crying
but instead, because I got to hold her in my arms one last time
I found it odd
that she was taking comfort from her insanity by confiding in the very person who had caused it
as if she were finding solace in the arms of her problem
and as the apocalyptic rain outside locked us in that car like a coffin I would have gladly been buried in
I remarked to myself that her smell reminded me of cherry blossom trees.
A tree that I don't think I've even even seen in real life,
much less smelled before.
When I was in Korea I wrote her an e-mail
It said something like
"Hey, I don't know if you care anymore but you were right all along and I'm just now realizing that"
I never sent it
but I didn't delete it either and so for days afterward it haunted me
My e-mail drafts folder screaming out the number "1".
After we were finished but before the dust had settled we spoke a lot about regret and she said things like
"I'm glad we tried but we both knew it would end up like this."
Well I sure as **** didn't. Why the hell do you think I tried in the first place.
I think it became very important to her not to be one of my regrets.
Which makes sense, right? No one wants to be a regret
and so I resolved that if she ever asked me if I regretted her, if I regretted us I would instead ask her a question in response.
I would ask her if I helped her in any way.
If I helped her take control of her nerves
If I helped her get a hold of her anxiety
much like a sexually frustrated boy holding onto a crying girl during a rainstorm
And if she answered yes to my question,
If she said "Yes, Mike you did help me."
Then I would answer her question about regret by saying no
I don't need to worry about that though.
I don't need to worry about her asking me anything
because since I've been back from Korea, she's said exactly three words to me.
They were said at a party of a mutual friend of ours about six months since we had last spoken.
The words were "Can you twerk?"
And if we take our imaginary camera now and shift it out of that house
down the street
to a new street
to a new city
to my street
to my house
to my room
to my laptop
to my e-mail drafts folder
it still screams out the number "1"
And as we stood in the circle of our mutual friends and poked fun at a ridiculous dance craze
something cut through the haze of alcohol that hung in the air in order to penetrate my nostril
and for a brief instant
I was reminded of a tree that I don't think I've even seen in real life
much less smelled before.
Jan 28, 2018
Jan 28, 2018 at 2:26 PM UTC
A girl named Mc Stickle
Was in quite a pickle
This girl had every reason to hide
Her lines wouldn't work
For attention, she twerked
Oh this girl, oh this generation, oh my.
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 1:35 PM UTC