"wicking" poems
It was 29° (f) degrees this morning with a waning gibbous (¾) moon. Still, as we started our run, it was dark enough that the world was rendered in black and white. Lisa was a sepia print of herself while Charles was a large, quiet shadow, a dark visual noise pattern.
We usually jog from our dorm, down to and along New Haven Harbor and back. Lisa and I love the ocean. The wind was in our faces this morning and there were no sparkling moon refractions in our direction, which made the water musou and colorless.
I’ve gotten my outfit down to a science, leggings under shorts, four long sleeve, dry-wicking spandex tops (layering is important), a power-wool-earflap-beanie, thermal neck gaiter and quantum, icebreaker gloves (with touch-screen compatibility) - you gotta dress warmly but be able to shed layers as needed.
I listen to audiobooks while we run. Right now I’m on book 5 of the ‘The Expanse’ series. I don’t have time to read anything fun these days, so I listen to science-fiction/fantasy while I workout. I love the new AirPod Pro feature that automatically turns the sound down if anyone talks.
I wear a fitbit charge around my right ankle and my Apple watch as well - they both track my run - the fitbit is more accurate but my watch sends my workout stats to my siblings - we’re uhh, sort of competitive.
At first, as we came up on the harbor, it was impossible to see the intersection of the two dark oceans - the great terrestrial and the greater galactic - but as we turned for home, there was an atmospheric scatter of blue at the edge of the horizon, heralding the sunrise on our retreating backs.
musou = one of the darkest shades of black
Nov 2, 2023
Nov 2, 2023 at 7:41 PM UTC
Dreams of working with little objects,
but my fingers are grotesquely fat,
bloated with self worth.
Such frustration,
as the small metal ambiguity falls,
again
between my clutches to clang helplessly on the whitewash table below.
A growing discomfort that is oddly angled and
it’s hard to look away lest someone end up mangled.
Filled with the certainty of a dying man,
I race against the biological clock.
These clichés are sticking to me and
your black thoughts are wicking,
can't you see?
This task is meaningless,
teeming in seemingly endless trysts of error and visitation.
Your mask is bleeding from this,
streaming and adorned in nameless anger,
your own manifested creation.
So I stare with unyielding disquiet at your unhindered disdain,
and make elastic confessions of comparable pain.
May 13, 2010
May 13, 2010 at 12:03 AM UTC
doopth..doopth..doopth..
the intonation of a gavel
upon a felted block
order, orrrder,
i now call to order this
washday gathering
of the
metaphysical
analytical
socks
drawer # 1793
all rise and come to toetip
for the grand entry of
the great thrice darned heel
kazoos squeak the intro
to the ode to joy
an old grey golf sock is
ushered in to sit slouched
on the top of the washer/dryer.
he observes the following proceedings.
now to business
the agenda for the day
1. groove and the toe socks
table their report on the
systematic eradication of toejam.
2.the tradditionalists continue
the open discussion on,
wool versus synthetic,
for winterwear.
3.we have a vote scheduled
on the referedum matter:
do we allow sandals and thongs
guest status in this drawer.
4.the metaphysicists update
us on the age old conundrum;
"where do the odd socks go?"
at present they are devling
into the posibilities of
superposition of states,
as presented by
the schrodinger's cat theory.
5. the analytical group are meanwhile, surveying the remaining
evenless socks;
to obtain data on the pairless state of being
6. and finally, we welcome a deposition from the natralists;
with regard to use of bamboo
and hemp to allow for the wicking
of footwater, for a longer lasting
freshness of the base arch construction.
please feel free to attend one or
more of these discussions, contributions and /or questions
will be taken after the presentations.
i am also asked to inform you, that
the metatarsals group has a table of goods for sale, at the leftside of the wash basket.
items include:
new elastics and darning equipment.
books on special this meet are;
the ever popular
"how not to become a sock puppet"
and the tragic
"my life as a duster"
then there is the new offering of
"sox and jox:
the art of underwear
diplomacy."
and one last item of note:
a reminder that membership fees,
(of one clean toe clipping) are due
before next months gathering
go now,
enjoy the gathering.
and may the foot be with you
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 3:39 AM UTC
ashtrays, mugs and
moments: rattle within, outside their place.
our brittle, needy bones
support head,
appetite-shorn body: Bouldering.
Walking. |Wicking. Mushing bridges
churning-over water, tide.
High-regard neighbor’s children re-
move plastic decorations while that grandpa
hangs-- alive,
stayed-- in unused gutters, -o! Wind and
snow-flaked, grassy yardstomps lead us
with body-shag coats to-
doors, somedays-ies and happenstance
below mortuaries, toe-
tags, dangling shoe-string,
draping clothes'-
line our spindly, warrowed hallways
between blankets, sweaty
feelers lie, their
harrowed, heaving trunks hold night-trees/
palms aloft and hopeful.
a glint, a chance, a something.
wicker furniture, lace.
a bed, a "yes." Please,
a you.
Jan 2, 2012
Jan 2, 2012 at 1:20 AM UTC
there are soft little pieces of forever shoved into the corners of your teeth
on the granite slabs of mountainous look-outs,
you sharpen
long walking sticks from boughs of fragrant juniper.
and forget to pass the small berries to the birds that like them
its been a long time
wicking out the passion from moments that will out live us.
and trying to understand the fine pulverized sand in the fissures:
spreading out like veins across boulders that support
the weight.
our bodies-
carefully outlining the places where silent embryos come apart,
dragging the backs of our fingernails across the green-grey stone with open palms
to catch the stardust we
think
tumbles out of the ether-
casting off all of my anger. as i watch the tiny
flecks of destiny caught in the tips of your eyelashes as they close-
and the greatest tragedy of all,
as the blue becomes blue.
this (and only this)-
no one to share the view
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 12:47 PM UTC
The little shnurple speads its wings
and sings of heaven's hellish kings
Adrift on memories future flung
Swinging, belting all eight lungs.
Awash, it never comes nor goes
It just is, what no one knows.
Flicking from the back of minds
Dismisplacing the meanest kinds.
Tick-Wicking prickles
Fig-Wiggling giggles
*** for tat
It neither qualms nor quibbles
Just lifts is hairy airs and sniffles.
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 8:16 AM UTC
i.
i jar spare change for my trip home.
it’s moved away from me recently,
it sleeps across concrete rivers now.
i jar my change for the ferryman,
he will recognize me soon.
i will make this migration often,
and soon he will wink at me when i come to sit in his boat-
he knows what’s pulling me down the river.
and when i come collapse
into your arms,
my weariness will melt away,
wicking away in the warmth of you.
and i’ll be home,
for a while.
ii.
ice clenched between my teeth
i pull away from you
ferryman doesn’t wink this time.
he knows how bitter it is.
iii.
my spare change tink-tinks into the bottom of my jar.
the cold on my skin
is worth it.
summer wouldn’t be as sweet without the snow.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 1:42 AM UTC
You smirk as I tell you (I hold up my thumb and index fingers micrometers from one another to provide a visual reference ) that you make me feel "this" big.
I shrink further.
I. Being such a
small.
weak.
petty.
insignificant.
pathetic excuse for a man
struggle beneath the weight of your constant requests... -no-
demands:
"I'm hungry."
"I need a cigarette."
"Get your hands off me."
"I'm bored... let's do something."
I ******* adore you. I worship you. You are an ocean and I am merely a single grain of sand. I pray to God that he make me the ME that would YOU would appreciate most. I say
"Anything for you baby."
This one-sided tail-chasing brain **** of a relationship is so twisted that even when I satisfy your demands, I keep shrinking... evident I prove weakness- not worth.
"Can I have another cigarette?"
This is the last thing you say to me before i drive away.
"I love you", I silently narrate as I hand you a smoke.
No.
You know what?
**** you.
I hope this is the cigarette that causes cancer.
I hope you drop this cigarette while you're driving and swerve into the oncoming lane; searching for it as it burns your ******* gorgeous, flawless legs.
I hope you fall asleep with it lit and I hope it burns you up; leaving your chair and clothes intact (a curious occurrence called the "wicking" effect). I will spread whispered rumors that it was spontaneous combustion... so that others too might see you as this rare and unique and sorrowfully amazing phenomena that I know you to be.
As I drive off, I continue shrinking until
I.
This:
Small.
Petty.
Weak.
Insignificant.
Pathetic excuse for a man is just a single grain of sand on some shore of a beautiful ocean who could give a **** less.
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 10:31 PM UTC
What's the probability of probably?
Is the square root of attraction,
You and is the variable me?
You're wicking me out,
All my facts start to feel like fiction,
And 2+2 is starting to look more like you.
Jan 20, 2025
Jan 20, 2025 at 6:12 PM UTC
a silent cry
followed by violent shouts
sullen coves
darkened funeral spouts
the undertaker dressed in black
eyes of coal
he never looks back
widow (maker)
spun around
her dresses long
her feelings down
empty shoals
crowned in blue
legs of scars
moon, new
hear her cry
head thrown back
sobbing swallowed
coughing hack
skin transluscent
soft yet untouched
nocturnal creature
fallow of *****
withdraw the bow
pull the sword
unappreciated spied my lord
empty cages open and shut
downward spiral
a violent cuck
harrowed adventure
blighted by (sh)fame
ignorant ties
hollow frame
guilty no more
follow on back
open your mouth
scream from of the lack
trust embellished
overly surmised
internal wicking
her sad lonesome eyes
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 4:30 PM UTC
Another Sunday morning
Crouched in the beam of headlights
Steam coming off coffee and breath
Fumbling to pin race bib to pants
A romance
Of sorts; this dance I’m addicted to
Those magic numbers: 5k, 13.1, and
The boss lady: 26.2 (I’m coming after you)
But why? Friends ask
You’re crazy they say on posts
Of me on each early Sunday
I say nothing back, but heart the comment
I can’t explain what the rhythmic pound; the sound
of New Balanced footstrike does
For the broken part of me
How the week’s aggression
That needs suppressing is sweated out
And gathered up in Nike’s moisture-wicking fabric
How weaving through the crowd of neophytes
Wearing today’s race shirt, alternately
Sprinting then walking
And the kids, eager, then over it
The moms reclaiming a body that sheltered
The now-strollered baby
The geriatrics, shoes well-used
Nimble limbs, not brittle but abused
From pounding pavement years before this
This environment, atmosphere
Big race crowds or small informal
Stopwatch race; doesn’t matter
Just involved; a part of this kinship
Unspoken club affiliation; in passing
Not a wave, but nod
A head bob of appreciation
For another’s association;
Obsession with times, miles,
Post-race selfie smiles
Because I know there will come a day
That my body will betray
My runner’s soul.
But for now I stand at the start
Ready for race gun and one more mile
Feb 15, 2019
Feb 15, 2019 at 10:24 AM UTC
the wind shakes the windows in their dressings like a child trying to wake its dead mother . you touch my face with the back of your hand, soft as the things that will be tanned in the slurry of our boiled- brains . there is a clank from the cast radiator that musters courage up from floorboards below . the mice run
scared.
your brow is deerskin that is pulled formfitting across my dry,
cupped fingers
it wants small holes put in it as it wears
suppler
into
a look
just
like kissing wool
the
heather inside the layers
that get put on-
wicking off like collagen
as the wintry madness finds us
Dec 31, 2016
Dec 31, 2016 at 1:36 AM UTC
Burning night wicking skywards,
Sometimes lost in wisps,
Smoke swirls, whispers, worlds.
A flickering dance,
So much up to the chance breath
Of air through the gathering
Close, ghosts of what is
Left behind or gone before.
Past loves and lies flaming,
Lost to blaming, regret or time.
I forget which.
Transient, tragic, senseless,
Nonsense bickering.
Bundles of chores and joy,
Puffs of years blown by like seeds.
For birth and death, my love,
Of breath and living you
Precious sprite-bright flame.
Fight hard, shine sharp against
The darkness cut.
I treasure your pieces.
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 3:18 PM UTC
Nothing can move me to poetry today,
the pieces kept coming and the juggler
had a terrible time choosing and it was
not poetic,
nor ballet,
the wrong shoes were on the wrong feet,
the keyboard bruises these tired fingers,
that were grabbing and clutching and
holding onto nothing,
that was mine,
feeling hips and muscles that have,
bent and pulled like pork without
that satisfaction,
cause I try,
and I try,
and I try,
but the day is over and we were left,
or we left,
all behind, unable to do more,
as the clock kept ticking,
and our coats and skin kept wicking
rain from the sky,
we left them in chaos,
we left them in a hurry,
this was no theory,
necks and backs and vertebrae,
could all swear that we had carried
the weight of their world,
my two sons and I, in April
which is good for many things...
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC
Sunset
Viking pyres sinking
by degrees from North Manitou
annealing the portside window
on an overnight flight to Dublin
spilling dye downtown high
above the left field bleachers
finger painting suburban skies
of my childhood racing
to beat the streetlights
floating fire on Lake Superior
too many times to count
Malibu two nights one July
sashaying drunk on magenta
going off to pout in the dark
when I called you a show off
you’ve seen me at my worst
I know all your florid secrets
little wonder we’ve grown
to resemble one another
incandescent palettes leached
wicking gunmetal horizons.
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 5:00 PM UTC
Sunset
Remember North Manitou
years ago? pressed up against
the portside window
on an overnight flight to Dublin,
spilling dye downtown
above the left field bleachers,
finger painting the suburban skies
of my childhood racing
to beat the streetlights,
floating fire on Lake Superior
too many times to count, Malibu
two nights one July,
sashaying drunk on magenta,
going off to pout in the dark
when I called you a show off.
You’ve seen me at my worst,
I know your all your florid secrets,
little wonder we’ve grown
to resemble one another,
incandescent palettes leached
wicking gunmetal horizons.
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 10:56 AM UTC