"guiltily" poems
a borrowed pencil
coaxing out words
it never knew it had
in the hands
of another
guiltily.
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 1:36 AM UTC
your gusto
ripping through my veins
'merican flags
trump supporters
platinum beer
fireworks flaring
fires visible atop seedy peeled-paint rvs
technicolor lights amped up on edgy recreational vehicles
4000 (BRIGHT BLUE), 6000 (BRIGHT GREEN), 750XR ON-AND-ON-AND
covered in dirt and filth
eating meat
sizzled atop
flames atop
charcoal bricks and lighter fluid
complimented by krafts brand
mac n cheese
i am apart of it
you know
your triumph burns sticky, out of my skin
guiltily i came into being
birthed inside anthracitic sediments and lighter fluid
scratching, writhing, biting
at the mercy
of a hyper-paint / subtle-death encrusted
reality
Nov 25, 2016
Nov 25, 2016 at 8:52 PM UTC
Turn the kitchen sink on. Wait 36 seconds. Turn the sink off. Count the sides of the kitchen doorway. One, two, three. Put socks on, walk to the bathroom. Take socks off. Turn the bathroom sink on. Wait 36 seconds. Turn the sink off. Count the sides of the bathroom doorway. One, two, three. Put socks on. The whole procedure had been finely polished into a smooth six minutes. Exactly. Justin’s day can now begin. He finishes his normal routine and leaves the house. He checks the gutter. He’s not checking for anything specific, but it’s sixth in his morning ritual and must be done.
Today he found something. There’s a girl, passed out. She is wearing an excessively short turquoise sequined dress, with matching stilettos. Justin was at a loss. The gutter was not empty. Should he call the police? He took her shoe. He ran. Six blocks later, he stopped. He was In front of his favourite coffee shop. It was an intimidating place, with a tattoo and piercing service offered, while you wait for your coffee. He liked it because the address was 666. He was worried the police he hadn't phoned would be searching for the stiletto he had stolen. Who would have known he would turn to a life of crime? Just earlier, while the bathroom sink was on, he had been thinking of complementing the local parking officer (the one with the limp) on his ability to write tickets. Now here he was, holding the glittering fruit of his crime. Maybe he could return it to the young lady. She seemed nice enough, from what little he knew of her. But what if she questioned him? Best have an excuse prepared. He could say he saw a spider climbing into it. His chivalry had saved her from a nasty bug bite. No, he couldn't pull that off. He would pretend to be a poet, that’s what he’d do. Poets are known for being strange. So he set about writing her a poem.
*Turquoise like the rain,
off you go, down the drain.
With a dress, short like our fleeting existence,
that could really do with some more distance.
I took your heel to 666,
left you a poem in the mix.*
Justin was in fact quite proud of his apparent literary side. He rejected -yet again- a discount on tattoos, and left the coffee shop. He walked back to his gutter, Finding once again the girl, passed out. Slipping the stiletto back into place on her foot, he looked around guiltily, double checking the police hadn't followed him. He went inside. He went to bed. The next morning, he forgot to turn the kitchen sink on. He didn’t wait 36 seconds. Didn’t turn the sink off. Didn’t count the sides of the kitchen doorway. One, two, three. Didn’t put socks on. Didn’t walk to the bathroom. Didn’t take socks off. Didn’t turn the bathroom sink on. Didn’t wait 36 seconds. Didn’t turn the sink off. Didn’t count the sides of the bathroom doorway. One, two, three. Didn’t put socks on.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 2:20 AM UTC
”against your will were you created,
against your will were you born,
against your will do you live,
against your will will you die, and
against your will will you stand in judgment before the
King of kings, the Holy One, blessed be He.”
Rabbi Elazar HaKappar (C.170 - C.200 CE)
(Ha Kappar: the one who made and gave atonement)
<§>
***in these, the years of my erosive declination,
when the noble prize, time for introspection,
once was a chore of delaying, now no longer can be off-put,
the certainties of Elazar, offer guidable satisfactions***
***the nighttime review, resurrecting my life, the gaps,
the untaken actions, those dream-schemes speak loudest,
memories of what should have been, are a litany of what ifs,
prosecutorial accusations of crass wastage***
***against my will, the charges brought,
against my will, plead guiltily my innocence,
against my will, knowingly, time’s erasure judgment,
secures my fate, all the granular cells causal dissipation***
***my warped willingness to be a coward,
it was my meditative, to natural be the lesser man,
choosing the safety premise, the road most oft trod,
the addition of my meager totality, willing given***
Even if all these land mine/roadblocks
and summary judgements are against my will,
willingly do I confess, in all innocence, my guilt,
“if it be my will”
Apr 4, 2021
Apr 4, 2021 at 2:45 PM UTC
A drugstore pallid in waning light, always illuminated in halogen halos.
I am earless with music.
Black metal loud in clanging sets and blows-
foreshadowing the smell of cleaning solution,
air freshener and the outside
sweet at my back
all steeped deep in the rip roaring undertone torrent of cigarette smoke
blended with cheap perfume until I cannot tell the difference.
There is a limp familiarity to the underlying odor
born partially of personal encounter and-
nestled in the hive mind of social experience.
A distillation of regret and remorse,
of lonely,
of irrelevance;
this black hole swallows my voice the way of my ears,
eaten by rust.
Four cans of beans,
kidneys,
in cans squeezed without any power against sagging swells
melting into other curves
and I swerve close and around guiltily,
noting you only as the source of this pungent spring.
You are smiling apologies
ignorant of my apparent inhumanity-
blind to my selfish hands..
Pinioning belly flesh,
flattening,
reaching
and gaining attendance from a better man
retrieving every dropped can.
I’m retreating,
shaken,
tense to alternatively slacken.
My sweat slippery palms with whitened red sharp fingers feel foreign
and I am surrounded by razors then shaving cream,
moving from shampoo to conditioner,
the whole store is infected with smell.
Staring at nail clippers/snipers clipping touch smooth sooth my tense mind-
don’t look
**don’t
look**
I can sense little else but dread
drawing closer
you are now crouched so close I’m gagging,
taken forcefully-swept away in an olfactory flood
roiling in rot,
currents of solitude exude from your smiling sullen appearance when I turn to you
fumbling
with my electric ears,
surfacing
in a breath of Amish silence
broken with simple request
and I want to scream at you that I am not a man to ask opinions of
that it does not matter what fake nails she glues to her body
that she is excluded and I don’t know why.
I choose swirls of cream suspended within watery milk,
over childish lady bugs framed by yellow
or dots of red alternating to black,
an epitaph to a lifelike effigy.
Dec 10, 2010
Dec 10, 2010 at 1:42 AM UTC
I want to enjoy life to the fullest,
eating my heart out,
enjoying these heavenly cookies
without a care.
But as I eat, guiltily,
the weight down below gets heavier and heavier,
and thoughts of judgment
and looks, they begin to come back with a vengeance.
I'm enjoying life right now,
but I will pay the price later.
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 2:41 PM UTC
Eyes open
Mild panic
Look around
(Quiet)
Realize
Pause
Process
(Quiet)
(Quiet)
(Quiet)
Glow-in-the-dark stars
None to speak of
(Quiet)
(Quiet)
(Quiet)
Conclude
Roll out of bed
Careful not to wake you
(Quiet)
Locate shirt
Pull on jeans
(Quiet)
Still dark
You like dark
(Quiet)
Phone
Keys
Wallet
Headphones
(Quiet)
Stand
Hand on door
Wait
Look
Still asleep
(Quiet)
Paper from your notebook
Pen from nightstand
Calligraphy pen
Didn't know that
(Quiet)
You wrote down a dream last night
"Dreamed I was safe, happy, in love"
Says sleepy cursive
(Quiet)
(Quiet)
(Quiet)
Write below
"So did I"
(Quiet)
Back to door
Don't look back
Don't look back
Don't look back
(Quiet)
Look back
(Quiet)
(Quiet)
(Quiet)
Open door
Escape
(Quiet)
Through your hall
(Quiet)
Messy kitchen
Don't remember seeing this
Must have been dark
(Quiet)
Shoes must have been kicked off
Found them
Close front door
Still dark outside
(Quiet)
(Quiet)
(Quiet)
Too early for train
Too far to walk
(Quiet)
(Quiet)
(Quiet)
Smile guiltily
(Quiet)
(Quiet)
(Quiet).
Jul 18, 2017
Jul 18, 2017 at 11:09 AM UTC
I tell everything.
You look at me guiltily --
I understand you.
Nov 3, 2023
Nov 3, 2023 at 3:30 AM UTC
What's in a name?
Let me tell you a story,
Of how my life changed,
And how my name changed,
Every time it appeared on the newspaper.
Replaced by a pseudonym,
Something to do with courage,
I was namelessly admired, slandered, and debated over,
Media’s Exclusive Coverage!
The newspaper headline read in big block letters:
“14 YEAR OLD GIRL SAVES SIX KINDERGARTNERS”,
That made me smile.
Just maybe I thought we had come that extra mile.
But no for I noticed,
My name was changed,
And the Printing Department was not at fault.
That’s just how my country dealt with ****** assault.
I never asked them to hide my name,
They had presumed, of course, that I was ashamed,
Of saving lives. It took me a minute to remember,
I had called Jyoti Nirbhaya for years.
I wanted them to know who I was,
Hiding I thought was for criminals,
Until I realized that I WAS one when,
On returning from the hospital I saw,
Pain in my mother’s,
Anger in my father’s,
And disgust in my relatives’ eyes.
No idea why a part of me had come expecting pride.
In school my “friends” guiltily refrained from talking to me,
Neither were my teachers too happy to see,
That I had returned to the same school,
Bringing with me my painful story,
Which I had mistaken as one of glory.
And when I went to receive the “Bravery Award”,
Only the trophy didn’t read compensation award.
They looked at me with too kind eyes calling me a “hero”
Their smiles told me they meant violated.
As I received the award,
I saw they were trying really hard,
To not let it show,
That they wanted me to know,
The difference between:
Bullet marks on the chest to bite marks on the breast,
Blue around the eyes to blue around the thighs,
Scratches on the fists to cuts on the wrists,
Loud screams in the cold to muffled screams against the cold,
The red of the torn ligament to the red of the torn *****
The difference between a soldier’s and a victim’s blood.
And suddenly I felt as if I was,
The rescued,
Not the rescuer,
The maimed,
Not the fighter,
The oppressed,
Not the rebel,
The hostage,
Not the warrior,
I thought myself to be.
What’s in a name?
Apparently, a lot.
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 11:36 AM UTC
Chorus, string Music Box, 8. Daud Mazmur
Why does yawning slap my face?
I don't wake Yawn's slumbering
while I work, except when tired. Mercy please.
Healing bones, working.Yawning.
Waiting and churning fear into butter.
And U? How long have U curdled
my milk? Soul food & Paneer satisfies.
Save me some of that satisfaction
leftover. When I wake, yawning,
dead tired, who hears my need for snacks?
I'm tired of sighing,
of sleeping in Noah's bed,
floating on crocodile tears.
I can't swim no more with these eyes.
They're too old, swollen from too many fights.
U go. A timeout for a few hours, while I rest the no.
I hear Yawn's snore,
I know the dinner's ready;
Enemies sit; I share the butter without shame,
and suddenly we are not disappointed.
We have guiltily repented.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 8:00 PM UTC
I had purchased the tickets home ten days in advance to force myself to get back to reality and civilization. My hands were weak from the constant shoveling; my liver the same. Each hour that had passed underneath that sun seemed like a punishment from God himself; a hot whipping sensation that singed the back of my hair and left permanent burn marks streaked across my back. There was no way I would ever forget the constant ridicule and insult from the other workers as I clumsily painted instant concrete on bricks which would soon be a house I would never see. The struggles of the white man seemed to bring a pleasure to the mexican work force that I would never understand which I was both jealous and disgusted by.
Lemino came over gripping a pick axe, large and the color of of a recently picked coconut. "Hey white boy, you need some water?" He threw me a muddied water bottle in a puddle of my sweat. "Thanks Lem. I can barely lift my ********* head in this heat, how do you do it?" Lemino looked up at the sun. "I don't know man." He lifted his finger to the noon hanging sun and said, "Sometimes I just think of the Sun as my woman and I never take no **** from Her so why's that any different." He took a sip of his own water and walked off, his back completely dry and cracked with a mix of mud and concrete.
Jesus, I thought. For someone like that and someone like me to be working on the same house made me wonder why I had ever been brought here in the first place. How did I get here? Why had I been punished so for my work in school, my excellent obedience with peers and with the community? I was not a religious man but I grew up in the land of the free and the brave, how had it come to this? I drank the entire bottle of water throwing it on the sizzling grey brown ground.
"Hey white boy!," screamed a voice from the rooftop. "Throw that **** away or I'll beat the **** out of you when the day is done." ****** I knew someone would see me during any act of comfort or clumsiness. The mexican hyenas chuckled as I stalked guiltily over to empty water bottle. The ten or twelve workers, all shirtless and brown, stood chuckling down on me like some horrific Greek chorus secretly whispering and planning my doomed fate either at a late night discoteca or some run down bar down by the water. Oh lord, how cometh taunt me so?
---
Jun 21, 2011
Jun 21, 2011 at 4:09 PM UTC
Are we nearly there Dad?
Is it very far?
Oh he is going to drive me mad
We had just got in the car
Are we nearly there Dad?
Have we far to go?
Oh God this is bad
We had only gone a mile or so
Are we nearly there Dad?
Is it far away?
Why don’t you take out your i-pad
There must be games you can play
Are we nearly there Dad?
I really have to ***
I know this is sad
I think he’s doing this deliberately
Are we nearly there Dad?
Is it much further?
I’m losing what patience I had
I will be done for ******
Are we nearly there Dad?
This is taking a long time
Please, please stop asking lad
Before I commit an awful crime
Are we nearly there Dad?
This is not much fun
You are getting on my nerves a tad
Please give it over Son
Are we nearly there Dad?
I am feeling very sick
Just one more problem to add
I am at the end of my wick
Are we nearly there Dad?
I am really bored
I hope this is just a fad
He might stop if he’s ignored
Are we nearly there Dad?
He asked rather sleepily
If he sleeps I will be glad
I thought, rather guiltily
Are we nearly there Dadeeee?
He started to whine
Why must he keep on and on at me
I really feel like crying
Are we nearly there Dad?
I said yes, five minutes more
It was a white lie, what a cad
But at last, I heard him snore.
Are we nearly there Dad?
I said "yes son, eventually"
“I just want to go home Dad!!”
he began screaming incessantly
Are we nearly there Dad?
Louder and louder he screams
It’s been years since those trips we had
But I still hear him in my dreams!
Are we nearly there Grandad?
my grandchildren ask me now
these days I don't find it too bad
I've gotten used to it somehow!
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 3:39 PM UTC
Nocturne,
whence she calls me
Nocturne,
whither I call back
After hours, when all
the lights turn out
but mine
I hear birdsongs
as the sun turns on
the sky
Nocturne
whence she calls me
Nocturne
whither I call back
Nocturne,
whence she calls me
Nocturne
Best never to look back
After lights out, and all
the streetlight seeps
through sidewalks
I see her there
she turns the sun
back on
Nocturne,
whence she calls me
Nocturne
I reply
Nocturne
I turn guiltily
Sometimes dreams remind
Sometimes dreams remind
Some dreams rewind time
Sometimes dreams rewind
Some dreams rewind time
Nocturne,
as she calls me
slowly I reply
Nocturne,
shill she calls me
Guiltfully I close my eyes
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 1:18 AM UTC
If someone ever gets me a box of those little word magnets you can put on your fridge
I'll be gone for hours whenever I go to get a snack.
I love words.
I love the challenge of saying something meaningful
With a jumbled stack of them all scrambled up.
I love words.
Having them there to swirl around and make strings of
Like a child makes popcorn garlands for the Christmas tree
Comforts me
In a way that pulling them from thin air can't.
It marries my two soothing balms- expression and mindless motion.
If I see them in a friend's house or a store,
I disappear for... sometimes hours, to be frank.
My English teacher had them on the board.
I made myself late for the following class every day
Because I couldn't keep my fingers off those words.
Finding purchase, somehow,
Tactility,
It satisfies a wild craving in my heart
That mere thinking and typing just can't satiate.
It's really absurd.
Once I visited my friend,
And I wandered into her kitchen to get sodas for us both
And she found me there an hour later
Sliding little black and white type words
Along her stainless steal freezer compartment.
She said, "What are you doing?"
And I jumped, pulled back from some focused, faraway place,
And guiltily realized the sodas were warm.
I love words.
I love touching the things I love,
Feeling their existence.
I love limits on words,
I love figuring them out,
Because even with the tiniest amount of them
You CAN say what you need to say,
If only you distill the meaning to its essence.
I just... I really
Love
Words.
If I ever get my hands on those silly little magnets,
I honestly don't think I'll ever make it past the refrigerator door again.
That's why I don't buy them myself.
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 8:16 PM UTC
I remember the exact moment we met,
You told me my blue eyes matched my dress
And with blood taking hostage of my cheeks,
I made fun of your German name.
Yes, I can remember
the first time I snuck home to our bed, guiltily
lifting the feather comforter we spent hours picking out
in Bed Bath and Beyond.
A blanket that now weighed as much as a semi truck
crushed around your sleeping body.
Lying beside you, no dreams came
to relieve me from my reprehensible thoughts.
But it became easier. So easy, that one night
I didn’t feel a thing when I slid under those weightless covers,
Kissing you goodnight, mumbling something
about ******** coming in late.
I remember the exact moment we met.
His black rimmed glasses and off balance smile
As he handed me a cup of jungle juice in a dim, packed house.
His compliments felt all wrong,
Like they should have been coming out of your mouth
But I drank them in
faster than the jungle juice in my ***** plastic cup.
Your face
the day you walked into our room,
that’s what I remember, and wish I could forget, most of all.
I’d coached myself for this moment a so many times
I guess I never thought it would actually come.
I don’t know what was worse, the lies
falling from my mouth, or you believing them
because you believed so much in me.
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 1:56 PM UTC
I feel this inhuman suffocation
when I step out into
that officially sponsored
fog machine artificial haze
to start the music blaring from
speakers that don't say a thing
Spitting throat lumps and grinds
lurching like scary monsters
controlled by raving mad super creeps
hiding behind walls of
electronic lies
and vinyl appropriations
committed to automation
in
beats making stage cages swing like
stray lanterns filled with
questionable electrocuties -
wild tarts that can't be broken
but you can stare all you want
at
Black-light-blemish-broken-razor-testimony
obscured with slashed fishnet and
splashed neon body paint
Move to the wavelengths
going to grave lengths
as
my dead beats facilitate this
Deja Vu machine world
of
backdoor audition submission
courtesy of half massed scrubstep poser pseudo-players
and maneaters planted on dance floors
Wearing short skirts low cut shirts
high heels long hair and plenty of
emotional baggage
and
I find myself feeling somewhat sorry
and guiltily enticed by the decadent
conspicuous consumption and sinister
seduction I cannot escape
until
The song crescendos and I slam an invisible hand
into the wreck chords
from now until the end of rhyme
I want to stop the whole thing
but this is what I signed up for
this is my punishment
so
with reluctant crossfader switchblade hands
I scratch the noise back into the air
and out of my head
because
the
beatings
must
go
on
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 1:16 PM UTC
An occasional gust of wind will lift the translucent white voile curtains and then drop them like a child losing interest. The effect is like flash photography, a burst of sudden sunlight that paints our irises, then quickly fades.
It’s a cool Paris morning. In the low 50s. The windows are open and we forgot to turn on the heat. It’s perfect ‘under the covers’ weather. We’ve succumbed to laziness, refusing to get out of bed. Lazing-in is new enough to us that we’re defining it with a gamut of synonyms.
“Listlessness, torpor,” Peter says, his index finger tracking the slow twirl of the ceiling fan.
“Stupor, slumberous, supineness, ” I updog.
“Ooh! total submissiveness,” Peter said, drawing the last word out like it’s *****
“Every man’s dream,” I confirm.
“Inertia,” he says, triumphant in finding an engineering word.
“Good one,” I compliment. “Lifeless, loafing laggard,” I add.
There’s a knock at the door.
We look at each other guiltily, like we’ve been caught.
“We ordered breakfast last night,” Peter remembers.
“Oh, yeah,” I said, “you get it,” I suggested.
“Why me?” he whined.
“Because you can wear less and because what if it’s an ax murderer?”
“These people work for your grandmother, she employs ax murderers?”
“It could be a revolution - this is France - it happens.”
There’s another knock.
“Get it!,” I bleated, like a helpless goat.
“Am I expendable?” he asked, as a man might plead to a lynch mob.
“Women and children first,” I remind him.
There’s a third knock.
“Ok,” he says resignedly, as he rises, draws on shorts and heads for the door.
“You’re my hero,” I assure him, before I pull the sheet up over my head in case it IS an ax murderer.
Jun 3, 2023
Jun 3, 2023 at 9:06 AM UTC
**The Marginal Difference
Tween Child And Adult**
awake Sunday stuff to do...
another unit of life decapsulated,
where one will compromise
with all those lofty
make believe dreamy would-be goals
that course thru the brain,
when sleepy morphs into
the to do list at the premier of today's
wacky wakey consciousness movie
and a poem forms on lips
that have not yet been
coffee'd
into adult responsibility
the list purview'd,
and you purvey,
foresee, attending,
bend back that pointer finger
looking right at ya guiltily
one and enough,
believe getting that one done,
will be
satisfyingly crossed off that
grownup
groaning
tatooed list
of the unavoidable
one will make the
marginal difference....
tween child and adult
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 8:58 AM UTC
no matter how much i sleep, rest, or nap i'm exhausted
i've taken to yawning in my favorite class.
no matter how easy i take it, my body still aches when i move
it's frankly rather disquieting.
no matter how much i clear out of my head, i'm still hurting
letting go of difficult situations is hard.
no matter how ahead i get, i'm still stressed for the next thing
the rapidity of life is eating away at me.
no matter how kind i am to those around me, i still know shame
impulsivity of emotion is a thinker's nightmare.
no matter how much faith i have, i still feel uncertain
my god is for me, but it feels like life is against me.
no matter how mature i am, i am still undercut by those older than me
focusing on the positive is not going to be theraputic right now.
no matter how much control i have, i'm still shackled to my anxiety
i cannot just "calm down" to ease your or my own conscience.
no matter how many decisions i make, there is still much left undone
slowing down is a luxury, one i take guiltily and not without consequence.
no matter how much i improve, i'm still bound to expectation of perfection
humanity is not perfect, and neither am i, broken and inadequate, but we try, oh we try.
no matter how much joy is in my life, i still feel the crushing weight of depression.
i said i was doing better
no matter how much i am validated by my loved ones, i still hurt myself
my eating disorder has infected my system completely, down to my bones.
no matter how many breaks i take i'm still being driven into the ground
crying because of household tasks is pathetic.
no matter how much i try to pretend life is not stressful, it's
digging itself into my heart and soul.
i am not okay, and those who know it are trying to keep themselves afloat
i can't escape this tired, this exhausted, no matter how hard i try.
Jun 13, 2019
Jun 13, 2019 at 6:55 PM UTC
It's getting harder and harder to breathe,
Out of fear of spitting the blackening truths inside me.
You are rainbows; and sunflower meadows,
I am the remnants of a fire pit, burnt for over a thousand lives;
I amount to coals and hot embers havent rolled past for a while.
There is no spark.
I have six layers of skin
Scorched with darkness.
And I am guiltily okay with that.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 8:57 AM UTC
Here I am;
the asphalt covering what is left of my withered self expression.
Here I am;
with nothing but a package of what small personality I did salvage.
Here I am;
awaiting the exile to the inner circle.
Here I am;
wishfully knowing what is next to come.
Here I will be;
a foreigner to self controlled emotions.
Here I will be;
sent into the burning throat that we call trend.
Here I will be;
a roller-coaster supervisor, but never a rider.
Here I will be;
shamelessly placid.
There I was;
entrenched in my own beliefs.
There I was;
guiltily independent.
There I was;
unique to the tiniest hair on my body.
There I was;
never questioning who I was.
then came the fire
the sweet flames clawed
ripped to shreds
they traveled deep with in the vault I called my spirit
they licked at each crumbling memory of me that would set me apart
their tongues ablaze and thirsting angrily for each asset that made me different
they drooled lullabies
they sweated sanctuary
they left
as if it was nothing but a dream
the fire was gone.
Now
Here I Am.
Jul 1, 2012
Jul 1, 2012 at 5:19 PM UTC
I’d done it before—losing that feeling that came in the door
when my love walked through, that the ground I was
standing on wasn’t quite steady and the world was spinning
the other way—but he loves me back this time, so now guiltily solid,
I watch as he shakes, head over heels with that feeling
I'm losing and painfully, I remember when both our axes
tilted right instead of left, when earthquakes followed our footsteps.
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 5:05 PM UTC
Fittingly meticulous, finicky
Precisely mitigating routine
Tracing excessively
Over cornered mezzanine
Stray penciled lines
Candidly contrived
Archaic dossier
Balanced centers
Unavoidably erase
Guiltily lost the way
Confused compass oscillates
Irregularly unanticipated
Perpetually transitory
Tender heart insecurity
Ego sensitivities in vain glory
Sacrificed arrogance dignity
On the day of defeat
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 4:29 AM UTC
It’s a chill and rainy Saturday night in New Haven - it’s Superbowl eve! My roommates Leong, Anna and Lisa and I were playing a game of Upwards - it’s a scrabble-like word game and we’re all strangely super competitive.
My phone went “dunk!” A happy ‘Water jug’ sound messages make when they're from one of my favorites. The message was from Charles. He was at the front gate with a package that came to the house where Charles and Mrs. Charles live (about 600 yards from the dorm). He passed me the package through the bars at the main gate, “Thanks,” I said, “ga-night,” and he was gone.
Back in my room, I ripped the box open like Christmas morning. The word game could wait - this package was from Paris. The light beige, Jacquemus, ‘Les Ballerines mary-jane pumps’ I’d ordered (forever ago) had arrived and they fit like soft leather gloves.
“Ooo! Glampse!” Lisa pronounced.
“Aren’t they?” I agreed, swiveling my hooves to show them off in the full length mirror.
When I rejoined the Upwards game, talk had shifted to tomorrow's Superbowl.
“I read yesterday that Taylor’s on her way (to the Superbowl)!” Leong declared.
“I like that she likes the NFL now,” I said.
“A lot of people hate her for it,” Anna countered.
“She was on camera twice, for 11 seconds total, in a 3-1/2 hour long game. If that upsets you, you’re bringing a lot of your own baggage to the plot.” I updogged.
Leong wants to order vegan “wings” for the SuperBowl.
“What, exactly, are those?” I asked, apprehensively.
“You’re the girl who talked me into trying buffalo-frog-legs in Paris - ney?” Leong enquired, sarcastically.
“Yeah,” I admitted, guiltily, “but they were delicious,” I said in self defense.
I’m picking the Chiefs 30-20 over the niners.
Feb 10, 2024
Feb 10, 2024 at 11:48 PM UTC
You standing there looking so innocent
and **** bitting your lip
Smiling so guiltily and your hair
Cascading down around your face
Over your shoulders and styled by JBF
You standing a bit awkwardly your legs
falling from my flannel and smooth as hell
Your feet up on the ***** as if in high heels
flexing in anticipation and a devilish grin
With a "What me?" delectation
It's not a skirt, it's my flannel shirt
And with your post coitol giggle
A splash of ***** and a hint of naughty
and you looking muy caliente
As I take you in you take my breath away
Jun 8, 2019
Jun 8, 2019 at 3:59 PM UTC