Tag: nostalgia

chase me, chase me

A poem.

the thing he misses, is
less the flirting.
passed that.

and before the sentiment.
it’s not a question of love.

it’s the physicality.

but not the closeness,

the rushing


that is
not like a wind, but a wave,
nestling the lucky few by its bank.

if the opposite of vague is a matter of
distance, then his first
was rockiest –
the furthest from the shore.


and if repetition breeds empathy, then his
view of the water now is far from
where it roars,
the only rain from a distant storm.
standing at the threshold of his patio door watching those
dark clouds linger,
he’s thinking of taking a shower.

walking.

washing.
a stroll at the beachhead right now would be
something.

//wd 9.2.2026

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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&B Sound, Boxing Day ’96

A poem.

a bald spot,
some weight –
still the same.


same-ish.
enough to have a moment in line.

enough to actually watch the clip show
they usually skip from season twenty-one
as their memory rewinds.
they’re dodging peripherals from behind:
a behind they once knew better blind

but they don’t really want to catch up
if it is,

nor they them
they’re assuming,
after the decision both were ruminating:
that neither wanted to wipe the other
in either’s autumn monogamy.

oh hey, what’s changed?
a bald spot,
some weight,

overall still the same.

//wd 4.27.2026

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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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