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seven inches
me got last night
seven inches and a slight chip more
old man winter speaks
me tells ‘im to shut it
me clutches his neck and throws him all asea

seven inches last night
me thinks I shall have seven more tonight


*Tel wrote a brilliant poem posted in the comments section of my poem, “Goodbye, Lincoln Nebraska” that I thought was too cool not to share. Thanks to Tel for being a good sport and an even better writer.*

Goodbye, Paducah Kentucky
with your run down buildings
lining a boring riverside.
When the floodwaters come,
even the dead try to hitch a ride
out of town.

Please visit Tel’s site for more fun and hijinks…or for just plain good writing.

I’m not sure anyone will necessarily think this is funny but it amused me. If you want a good time, go back to your old emails and read them. Share them.

To: MedicatedLady

From: Poeticgrin

Date: 2/21/05

MEMO: It has come to my attention that some members of this staff feel that it is professional to wear denim garments below their waists.  This behavior must come to an abrupt stop.  It is counterproductive and sends the wrong message to the childrens.  If I catch any of you wearing these denim garments, I shall strip you then and there and let you feel my power. 

To: MedicatedLady

From: Poeticgrin

Date: 8/18/04 

On Tragedy (a Haiku)

Weed in a taco

Broken swings, asses, and dreams

Satan’s spawn inside


To: MedicatedLady

From: Poeticgrin

Date: 12/2/08

(Bryan’s poem to my/our then-boyfriend (who was in the Air Force but is not Air Force John, this guy was just a “Luke”), who later left the country without telling me/us)

Dearest Airman,
How I want to fly with you,
to say your name with a heavy “K” sound

resonating in my throat long after
I’m silent.
I am air sick
love sick
love struck
from this quick
in altitude. 


*An email exchange between Bryan and me concerning the matter of a straight man.* Please note, we are usually completely off the mark about straight men but we have conversations like this all the time.

From MedicatedLady to Bryan: What a crybaby Air Force John is. Seriously. If he’s blowing me off, he is doing it in the strangest of ways. I am honestly perplexed. It’s probably just coming down to I’m not giving him the nookie. He’s friendly enough and kept the conversation going for hours (texting of course). He invited me to cuddle. I considered it. I said, really? He said yes. He says, I’m going to bed (he said this before as a way to get me to hurry up and come over). So I say, So are you saying I’ve missed you or to get trucking? And then he says, no, you can come cuddle w/ me. And I paused for a moment and said okay. Then I brushed my hair for him. And then I text, will see you in a few minutes. And then he says, can we reschedule? And I say, ouch, but okay. He says he’s been up since 5 and is tipsy. I say, okay. 10 minutes later. He says, I don’t want to offend you. I say, it’s all good. 20 minutes later. He says, I’m afraid I will make a move. I say, moves aren’t necessarily bad things but it just depends if you can be swatted away when it’s time to cool it. So he says, Nope (smiley face) and I say, well then there you go. 10 minutes later. He says, I’m in my underwear. I say, Um…good? He says, yeah. I say, well, underneath my pjs I’m wearing underwear too. End conversation.

Bryan’s response/translation: I think he was horny, and then he wanted sex, and he invited you over, and then he felt guilty, and then he was horny again, and then he just masturbated.

The first draft is the only one that matters

Raw is reality

Refined is bullshit

Or so I say

At times when I am being difficult.


At times when I am being difficult

I say

Refined is bullshit

Raw is reality

The first draft is the only one that matters.

This is what I forgot

I make things intimate

Putting my hand on a man’s face

A man’s neck

I like the feeling of feeling him

Without fail he closes his eyes

I imagine the only thing on his mind is the touch of my skin on his

The weight and tremor of my hand

I think he is content

I’m fulfilling some need he has

Some need I have

When he reciprocates I gasp and sigh simultaneously

I hope it’s not noticeable

I haven’t forgotten

I never knew he might like the feeling of feeling me

this is not a poem


just thoughts broken by lines

and no punctuation

for good measure


this is not a coherent whole

poem and prose

welded and molded

fused together

in harmony




Let me tell you. Thursday marks our one-year anniversary. We met at Julie’s, after my class (it was Theories of Technical Communication). I was so nervous, literally shaking in my brown boots, and when I saw him, I thought he was gorgeous. I thought he would surely not be interested in me.


We were together 5.5 months. We’ve been apart now for longer. 6.5 months. And Thursday marks our one-year anniversary.


Consequently, it is also trash day.

If I wished at all

I’d be content from here on

From now until then


It was cold out, and he came to cook for me. The warmth of the oven did not compare to the warmth in my feet and gut. We pretended to work together as an excuse to get closer, him letting me help, me wanting to impress him. He told me cooking wasn’t hard, that all one had to do was follow the directions. I told him I was book smart but not cookbook smart. He laughed. We watched a show with sexual innuendos and commercials for natural male enhancement and laughed. In the meantime, we sat closer together until my right shoulder, arm, and leg was definitively against his left shoulder, arm, and leg. And at the end, a touch. Warmth from his fingertips to my leg and then tingles all over when his hand shifted. Awkward pauses at the door, what to do. Finally, a hug and a light brushing of the lips. A simple goodbye, though hopefully not for long.

the leaves are red

turning brown

dying down

the wind

blows a little less fresh

my cheeks are paler now

instead of thickening

my skin is becoming thin

my dreams and disappointments

more transparent

with each intake of breath

there’s a shudder of fear that nothing will come out

where youth ends


life is on her throne




Mired in mucus

Weighed down by infection and affliction

Is there anything to be done?


Put your gun and your love down

Oh, ye of lyrical greatness

Evident are your witticisms in the threadbare bear,

The great Whimsical Experience that was your postsecondary education


Come to you

Graceless, without cause, without merit, to

Revisit the past and the present

In filtered lines and words


SOB with me

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