Category Archives: Poems

I Met A Girl

by

 

It’s too rare

that someone walks into your life

and immediately takes hold.

So, I’ll pursue

In the hope that maybe

Just maybe

She can make the sadness go away.

 

I know better, though.

The sadness never leaves for good.

He just goes away for awhile,

granting me a small reprieve

to see her face

and be happy.

 

He knows

that down the road

she can be used against me,

like the first.

He knows

that the deeper I allow her roots to stretch,

the more of my soul she’ll tear out when she goes.

 

Then the sadness will return,

with the girl on his arm

and a shit grin on his face,

eager to make up for lost time,

like an old friend that likes to watch me suffer.

 

On that day,

I won’t resist,

or hold a grudge.

I won’t curse my god or myself.

I’ll just break out the bottle,

grab two glasses and smile

 

because fuck him.

Ocular Affection

by

God knows what that girl was saying.

I only saw a pretty face spewing conceit.

 

I do remember the dress though,

covering just enough skin to incite my imagination.

A deep scarlet that could’ve only been sexier

had it been lying at her feet.

 

I remember the thin strap, hanging reluctant on her shoulder

edging its way down her arm, like it felt my presence,

and understood,

begging to be discarded as intensely as I wanted to abide.

 

I felt pity, even contempt for my competition.

The poor bastards,

listening to her stories,

looking in her eyes.

The dress had more to say,

if you knew how to listen.

Like the hem: the front line, overwhelmed by enemy fire,

starting just above the knee

and retreating further and further,

responding to her every shift in weight,

revealing two tan, toned legs a fraction of an inch at a time.

 

Not wanting to stare, I started north,

rolling over her hips,

dipping down and peaking back at her breast.

My fingers latched tight to my beer,

aching in envy of my eyes.

Desire spread to my lips

as I roved over cream smooth skin,

brushing her cheek, tracing the curve of her mouth

and the dimples formed by a shy smile.

 

When I arrived at her eyes,

I froze

surprised

realizing that smile was for me.

Andy’s Long Night

by

As some of you may know, and others are about to find out, I fell off a cliff when I was 17, shattering my left thigh, and had to get life-flighted to Cleveland Metro Hospital. However, that incident merely set the stage for easily one of the worst night’s of my entire life: 

Twas Andy’s last night in the hospital, after a week of sensational things. From the pain of a fresh mended leg, to the mindless joy  only morphine can bring.

Andy was sure he was ready to leave, but his doctors just weren’t. His ills were easily exploited. His parents had lots of insurance.

Andy’s friend Dan, who was present for the leg breaking debacle, came to see him and kindly smuggled him a delicious burrito. But this was no ordinary burrito. This was a four-pound-ring-of-fire-blood-in-your-stool-Chipotle burrito:  a prospect for which Andy, after six days of hospital food, was as excited as he was scared. 

Andy appreciated his friend’s gesture and did not want to be rude. So as Dan looked on with expectant eyes, Andy ate the whole thing, despite his stomach’s dwindling size.

Twas not til much later, as Andy awoke to feel his thigh greatly swollen, that the grumblings of his insides began, arising mainly from his colon.

“Oh dear,” Andy thought as he pulled it together. “This may be a storm that I’m unable to weather.”

“I may pass out in my struggle to stand, but if my body stays idle, I’ll surely crap my pants.”  So with haste Andy stood, bearing his pain with a frown, and paint that porcelain bowl he did, a reddish greenish, golden brown.

With his troubles at bay, Andy trudged back to bed like a slug, where he collapsed and pressed the call button, for he wanted more drugs. The morphine drip came and he slept, if only for a short spell. This time his nausea applied a pressure the drugs could not quell.

Again he fought the urge, hoping sleep could persevere; but his flatulence betrayed him, his cornhole would not adhere. Andy rushed to the bed’s edge, dragging his useless leg o’er the side. But with each sudden move came a shift: these squirts would not be denied.

He was tired and he was hurting, his roommates presence ceased to matter. Andy could not walk AND clench his cheeks, so with each labored step came a splatter. Though the splatters were small, he wore naught but a gown. With no undies to stay them, the splatters shot outward, and down.

He battled the second wave, and the third, and the fourth, bemused how no one could notice such a shit covered floor. Then finally he slept, and awoke in such a great mood. For his stomach had settled, and the floor looked brand new.

Then, Andy’s mother walked in as the morphine drip hit his blood. “How are you feeling?” she asked, like a concerned mother should. “I heard about your accident. Are you alright? The doctors are concerned. I told them you’d stay one more night.”

Andy wanted to protest, to present an argument, to cry. But he gave only a smile. He didn’t care. He was high.