Tag: myopia

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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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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tomatoes, potatoes

A poem.

television permits us its
unassailable truths
as escapism:

generic hygienic,
purposeless youth
earn first-meets and whole Fridays with
ten-star heartbreaks in waiting –
despite the real world red flags that
demoing all your breakfast doth bring –


and they look into their eyes as the whales coo

and a fight ensues,
because each assumes what side of the tracks
the other derives,
as often occurs at the end of act two


and he’s home
middle-aging
with the before-bed Pringles in his hand ruminating,
“when was the last time that ever happened to me?”

the good parts, he means,
forgetting or not acknowledging what’s already been.

//wd 4.2.2026

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broadband

A poem.

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

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nostalgia’s in atm

ou, une merde chaude par une journée froide

A poem.

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.

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