Just a Little While More

Damn it. I don’t want to rely on these pills.

I shouldn’t be online either; in this condition.

Nor should I let you pick me up in your work van.

But I do.

You give me that toothy grin and my nerves begin to dance.

I start to think about missing teens on “America’s Most Wanted”.

As if you know, you reach over and rub your hand over my crotch.

Your freshly showered soap scent mixes with your cologne and filters into my brain.

I can’t resist the smell of your body; I’m hooked.

It doesn’t really matter that your 5, 10, 15 years my senior.

I know what I want and you know how to give it.

Fucking in your car, my bed, your brother’s bed;

We’re so brazen.

I want you to grab me, yeah, just like that.

But not too hard, or I’ll remember why

I shouldn’t be here.

Manhandle me, but don’t call me a Whore.

Don’t connect me with your past,

I have my own.

Don’t talk about your job, your car, your ex-girlfriend.

I just want to feel needed, if only for this one moment.

Don’t you get it? Make me whole:

Just use me while I’m here.

Tell me how you like what I’m doing;

Make me feel like I belong somewhere

For just a little while more.

Vincent’s First Interaction with Pond Scum

Belly face down, Vincent peeked over the edge of the embankment. The water was covered with a thin layer of yellowish-green frog slime, yet he could still see several tiny fish darting just below the surface. Grabbing a stick, from underneath the willow that wept around him, Vincent poked the slime hoping to tear it away from the fish. Instead the fish darted and the slime gathered up on the stick, clinging to anything that bothered to touch it. Standing up, Vincent brought the dripping gob of slime just underneath his nose and took a whiff. His face twisted inward from the pungent stench that crept upward from the slime. Throwing the stick forward, he watched it land on top of the gooey muck with a “plop” and slowly become slurped up by the scum.

Death Count

In a foreign country,

One monkey with a lacerated limb sits on the ground beneath the rainforest canopy.

He is no longer excited by bananas or other monkeys that poke and prod and tease him.

Two scarlet orbs glaze over as he begins to ooze mucus and congeal blood from his other orifices.

Three very curious monkeys climb down the tree to investigate, but after seeing their dead friend, run back up to tell four more monkeys.

Five weeks later,

A team of six men in orange biohazard suits arrive,

to investigate seven groups of dead monkeys.

After eight hours on a plane and nine hours of sleep,

Ten monkeys are brought back in quarantined cargo containers.

Eleven scientists and military personnel spend twelve frantic hours in the operating room.

As lucky as the number thirteen, the virus turns out to be hot.

Fourteen calls are made to the White House, the CDC, Fort Detrick, etcetera.

Fifteen news stations find out; sixteen counties in the Virginia/Maryland/DC area are immediately alarmed.

Seventeen safety procedures are drafted; but

in a foreign country,

the death toll rises,

wipes out the total population of one species of monkey,

and goes into hiding

for eighteen years.

Internet Stalker

I’ve hacked computers for as long as I know,

And this time it was a Windows 95 that took the blow.

It belonged to a girl I had met three weeks back,

We had met in Photoshop class; I had showed her my Mac.

I only chatted with her briefly, one day at school,

But that was enough to make me drool.

Unfortunately, she moved away during the semester,

Because her Dad was switching jobs as a corporate investor.

Despite her move, I knew I’d be able to find her on the net,

Hardly anyone else had the name Yvette.

Plus, it is so easy to trace,

Such a bombshell on My Space.

Currently In Control

Damn this Slam,

I’m in a jam.

I have developed writers block;

the words I need are out of stock.

I need to find the trick,

to write something down quick,

so I can make some poetry

that will define my artistry.

To cite; to write: I’m in a plight.

To teach; to preach: I need to reach,

and find a place to concentrate;

so I can begin to articulate.

These ideas trapped in my brain,

are driving me completely insane.

This inability to verbalize,

is the creative writer’s demise.

Luckily all I need is a little rhythm and a pinch of soul;

To get my creative juices back in control.

Backseat Admirer

I’m not going to lie.

I’m bad with directions, and I’ll tell you why.

When I ride in cars, I always look out the side window.

I’ve done it ever since I was too small to ride in the front seat.

It’s just a habit now.

I like to watch the trees rush by,

and see flocks of birds weighing down power lines,

or rest on shivering ponds.

While it is not a happy sight,

I enjoy watching the gradual devolution of pasture

to gravel road to asphalt and then to cement;

mainly because it’s like watching the evolution of a town

to a city, in stop-and-go snapshot form.

In other words, it’s like fast forwarding time or rewinding it;

depending on which direction you are traveling.

On country roads, drivers and walkers wave hello,

and porch sitters share short stories through a simple glance.

If I focus really hard, at stoplights, sometimes I can see ants crawling around

or bees pollinating flowers and trees.

On long road trips, I can watch as gentle slopes ascend into mountains

Or watch piedmont turn to marsh and then to beach fronts.

Now that I can drive, I often go the wrong direction accidentally and get lost;

but the truth is, I don’t care.

I’d rather be watching life continue

then remembering where humans built roads.

The Graduate

Four years at college;

I have earned my diploma,

But lost eighty grand.