A partially seen sign, broken in half.
I think it said Prance.
Dance.
France.
Mance.
I roll my eyes at their guesses.
They are such children.
It probably said entrance, I say.
They are eight, nine and six.
Entrance does not rhyme with prance, one of them says.
He is the six year old.
He knows more than all the rest of us put together.
I am probably wrong, I tell them.
I learned a long time ago
The only one who wins in an argument with a child
is the child.
It is easier to just give in.
Because they will not back down,
and do not have nearly as much to lose as you do.
I can no longer pretend
the lies you tell me are true.
And if they don't quickly end
our relationship is through.
Expecting kisses and beers
you can't make sense of it all.
For you are greeted with tears,
and an emotional wall.
You claim you never cheated,
acting like someone deranged.
And I wasn't mistreated,
citing the vows we exchanged.
Tears choreograph the dance
as forgiveness is pursued.
And you beg another chance
hoping to soften my mood.
But the truth levies a toll
in the form of pain and shame.
And a small part of my soul
feels I'm partially to blame.
10/30/2015
erotic red!
colored
partially unclad
barely a reveal
a pole dancer
standing provocatively
exposes the mold
dances the wall
on the lap of the paint
peeled raw to the grain
she tugs at your groin
rattles your pallet
revs the engine of your pristine thoughts
shoves your brain into the ground
erotic read!
Oh Winnie the Pooh
Why don’t you wear shoes?
Don’t your soft yellow paws hurt?
Do they get covered in dirt?
I myself wear clogs
As they help me to jog.
While wearing my boots and red britches
And I can jump all around and over ditches
Whereas I know you will slowly pad along
Before you stumble over a log
My dear, dear Pooh
Why don’t you wear shoes?
24 January 2013 – Zach Chan