Tag: anxiety

maid yourself

A poem.

my problem has always been

in the
execution.

the execution.
touching it up again and
can’t leave it alone,
critical of the tone
again,
it’s that execution.

keeping it up with poor health
poor people
poor job,
poor me –
one thing slips and
that cascading effect is a
direct result
of
poor execution.

poor contributions.

no waving.
not that guy in shades staking claim at the
smokers’ pit again,
or the shady area in front of the recycling.
i’ve had forty years to perfect the act
of blowing it totally
in the execution.

the execution.
and i like to sin.

it makes me feel good

feel something when i know i’m not winning,
easier than pulling myself back up
to simply submit,
walk away with the neighbours coming

than to execute.

//wd 7.2.2026

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born from the bits on the factory floor

A poem.

raising a kid these days is tough, making
sure they grow up and learn to pack
their own lunch, not to
mention read
the hours for Father’s Day brunch,
or their brother’s twelfth birthday dinner

before getting their Focus stuck in a trough.
“i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m right around the block”
as their parents & them leave the restaurant –
now they don’t read
or eat,
but they are half-a-foot taller than
he’s sitting in the bathroom at work

and if he takes too long then the stall starts
to feel like an isolation pod, and he
starts to expatiate on all the
ways he thinks his life
went wrong.

this dwelling
is interrupted by a
sudden svelting, spitting
up still gunk from the
surface of his

gut, and

it sits
in
his
mouth like
poppycock
as he opens
his legs to
the void
for
a
soft
place
to spit
it
out –

he dribbles on his own thigh as the
auto-flush engages.
“down the line it’s in their genes.”

//wd 6.20.2026

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no one grieves the creepy guy

(except by those he is survived)

A poem.

super sexy walking by
in black leggings and knee-highs:
a fantasy you can’t replicate with AI
on a busy esplanade at lunchtime –
creepy guy
creepy guy
here comes the creepy guy

working beside him
big brown eyes,
an HR complaint he can’t remise –
who needs a degree to flip french fries?
creepy guy
creepy guy
look out for the creepy guy

he’s coming for you
and all the nice cutes
and he doesn’t care for society’s rules,
and he isn’t rude
and could be a friend
but his dick is the voice on his shoulder
and says,
dashing guy!
stalwart guy!
play with me now, you virile guy!
touch me and make wings with
my loose sack skin, my guy! and
don’t think about anything else
ever or
die, because
everything else pales in comparison to
the needs and the wants of the
creepy guy
creepy guy

now he’s a senior guy
looking down on a wrinkly, folded-up,
catheterized guy
in the low-income wing of the old folks’ home
standing over his floor’s coed throne pondering
days bygone,
still touching his wiener
and still all alone

“because the sacrifice for believing every woman was his
is that now he can’t take a straightforward piss.”

//wd 6.12.2026

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blind corners

or, you definitely do not need to vomit in the punch bowl like that Kirsten Dunst movie thanks

A poem.

when he thinks of the top
ten-percent of his thoughts,
beyond getting high,

beyond getting off,

beyond suppressing the weirdo’s muck,
he probably considers what he’s given away
over and above a fuck.


and no, he’s not talking about his virginity 
but stuff.


just,
things.
the kind he can never get back sort of stuff.

even though he still buys it three times over sort of
stuff.
marvel at the kind-of-a-one collection nobody
wanted, cared for, or asked about stuff.
it’s embarrassing to even bring up.
the things and the stuff.


the same for acquaintances he’s accidentally
blown pot smoke in the
faces of

with their coming around blind corners.
if it really meant something then it wouldn’t have sundered.

//wd 5.14.2026

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a flotilla of teenaged seagulls

chasing a bald eagle away from a fry

A poem.

when life’s going a little too Disney,

there’s always something there to
fuck it up completely.
navigating that storm makes
me take stock
of what i could possibly be paying penance for


or karmic retribution

or shitty luck

but mostly i blame divine justice –
you know the kind: the overfed,
bearded White guy in a smock staring back in the mornings
through the dinge of acne glazing

and not some omniscient force.
nurture can be nature at its worst.

//wd 4.30.2026

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