i don’t want to get out of bed
and face the cold, foreboding wild
of this sunny spring day.
a walk to a pleasant lake
is just two blocks away
but i need to be sure i look ok.
to be down is to be alone
with nowhere to go but home.
so i waste away behind barred blinds,
my head buried in sand.
i check my email frequently
to see if i still exist,
if only in a broadband.
//wd 2.16.2026
Original photo by Tima Miroshnichenko on Pexels.com.
her back is to the separating wall,
left thigh over right
under the table at the unhappily married
middle-aged debutante ball,
long faces and all,
and instead of a trombone in her lap it’s her phone
and i’m not leering from around a beam.
this time.
what’s the use of this personification
except to hold on to it for later?
drooling through my pillow case at the open mystery
under those Lululemon Kirkland Signature duperies,
clasping fruitlessly to post-workout legs
like plastic cheese bricks to hot broccoli reeds
that, again, no one’s forcing me to eat
and being fun & flirty and platonic won’t do us good either
because you’re another non-native English speaker,
and i’ve changed little carnally in twenty-five years.
i’d much rather just non-verbally roll around on the floor
but it isn’t my middle-school Québec exchange anymore.
it’s life.
it’s life.
but apparently nostalgia’s all in at the mome.
//wd 1.5.2026
Featured image “Impression of ‘Lonely woman embracing body in morning’ by Alena Shekhovtcova” illustrated by the author.
the Universe
on occasion
needs to realize the limits
of humankind’s existence.
the drunk who calls his girlfriend
a cunt
is still getting the same horoscope
as you or i:
“today you may die,
but if you don’t,
the cosmos is on your side.”
what is that turning point?
giving her one about
moving on.
//wd 12.11.2025
Original photo by brenoanp on Pexels.com.
where did she goooo?
…
mah luuuv-ly?
ah wanna nooooo…
wh-r do u whar do u goooo?
“what?”
i’m talkin’ ‘boute that one renter,
you know,
with the smokin’ hot bod
and the mini pincher dog,
who we only ever saw
when they’d test the fire alarm?
the babe, not the dog.
h-h-h-ho-ho-way
h-h-h-ho-ho-way
“who’re you
yammering about now,
hm?
i told you the girl at Jasper’s funeral was
probably twelve.
it’s the GMOs in the food:
that’s why rule of sevens, dude.”
theory of a daskeman 