Tuesday, September 15, 2009

We all have them...

let's let it out

Write a poem about your most secret guilty pleasure. We won't judge. It will be therapy! :)


  1. commute

    i steal into a window seat each evening
    on the wmata red line train to glenmont,
    someone’s greasy face print on the glass
    blurring my view of the outside world.

    the metro slowly wobbles into motion
    lulling me into a b-movie dream sequence,
    where your smile widens back to the molars,
    making a chiaroscuro of my ill-lit mind.


    Is writing poems in the
    middle of the night a

    "guilty pleasure" after all
    when the fly that wants to

    get out the screen door and
    circles round and round and

    crashes sometimes into the lamp and
    the sound of crickets out there in the

    night calling for mates or whatever
    they may play those rhythmic

    castanets for may ultimately be

    the only audience however inter-species
    after all to all my

    pen scritch-scratches in the night and then
    me reading back to myself in the

    morning what drowsily or deep-consciously
    I might have writ?

    Is my own "guilty
    pleasure" the only reason for it?

  3. fuzzy wuzzy, amber and inchworm
    naming a few
    nostalgic scents
    shivers a slight smile
    waxy, stale, bitter
    tobacco tin hides pipe
    soap, hot magenta and dirt
    a gulity pleasure, indeed
    an anamnesis
    that's mine to keep

  4. aw stink, on a reread... it should be guilty not gulity, argh!

  5. Flashing lights in geometric patterns
    Puffs of man-made fog cloud the dark room
    Obscure European melodies pound through cheap kickers
    Blurred bodies and misguided movements
    I take my place among them
    Moving lesser goers to the side
    Cheap beer wetting my feet
    Sweat oozing from every pore
    I dance, until I cannot dance anymore.

  6. children's books
    are for children.

  7. arriving home to the end of day
    mail still clinging to the slot too fat to fit through
    catalogs - the grease of my secret longing
    to covet colors and fit
    which shoes to get, how much
    the angst of credit
    and terminal want