Tag: quick read

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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every body cut foot juice

or, I fucking hate those shoes.

A poem.

it doesn’t matter who you are

and it doesn’t matter what you do,
because if you wear those ugly shoes
in front of me
i swear to God i’ll fucking puke
without prejudice.

you all say they’re comfortable but
like a TikTok flat-Earther
i know the truth:
they’re really for labeling hipster goofs.
you know the ones i’m saying to you.
i’ve managed to dodge a pair
ruining our shoe rack like onion
to any other food,

but you were all wearing them as early as ’92:
you could be Meg Tilly or Sara Flynn;
you could be Little Orphan Shelley
(or Shell-Dogg, as she’s known on the Strip) –
this isn’t news.
so from one man to you,

please stop wearing those goddamned shoes.
or boots, whatever.
i hate them

and i want to stop avoiding
Granville Island.

//wd 8.9.2026

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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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