Lovelorn Poet in Portland, OR: Suits (Floating On The Surface)

101 ways to humiliate a man by  Saul Gray-Hildenbrand

101 Ways to Humiliate a Man by Saul Gray-Hildenbrand

i’m conforming to escapism and sticking to the gray flannel suit
my dreams are many and my reality is few
and the heat of 200 degrees radiates my pulse
as sweat falls upon the desert floor
and forms puddles of diligence
that kidnap malpractice toads and amputated flamingoes
and i’m left reminding myself that Jiffy Pop ain’t for everybody
then i look down at my palms and see that those kernels have melted
and now i’m stuck with a mountain of sodium in hand and a hill to climb
up with vibrations in arm
but i’ll invent my recovery
in time might repent my discovery
and in foresight my hindsight will smother me
and i’ll be left carrying my future on broken backs
attached to firmly fastened sacks of custom fitted rope
that although comfortable, can not sail or saturate the sea
but never mind that cause i’m stuck on the land dying intravenously
my heart beats to convulsions induced by overdoses of rosebuds
with nothing but a touch of evil to keep me hanging on
so now i grasp whispers close fisted, open minded, far fetched but too
close for comfort
and my screams beckon echoes to break imitation
reminding them that an empty park bench is the highest form of flattery
now i flatline and wonder where have i left my stretch marks
and the sheep are counting backwards, oh how sad when winter runs out
of wool
will they realize i’m gone? i never realized i was there
but now i’m here, wishing to know the way her bosom bellowed out my
and broke the chaos with a simple “hello”
never living to hear a last goodbye
never built the bones to fall in domino theory
but the fate fits just the same, slowly crumbling
decomposing ashes to smolder residual checks written out for soap
a lonely, dirty man means nothing to the world
and so he looks for escape and soon the world means nothing
and he’s left detached, lifeless, full of despair, mute
body lowered to the coffin, sticking to that gray flannel suit

Her Two Cents

Lovelorn Poets Her Two Cents Icon“The heart dies a slow death, shedding each hope like leaves until one day there are none. No hopes. Nothing remains.” ― Arthur Golden, Memoirs of a Geisha

Lovelorn Poet in Portland, OR: One Last Riddle…

to flickr riddlers by Jef Safi

to flickr riddlers by Jef Safi

Six names were hidden
At the start of this quest

One has been found
But what of the rest?

First names and last names
Were tumbled like laundry

Connections were hidden
In the original quandary.

Many a lady is named as was guessed
But only one angel with that name was blessed

A secret of love may never be known
The depth of devotion may never be shown

But in a poem silly, sent out in the night
A secret lover revealed the name of his delight

Her Two Cents

Lovelorn Poets Her Two Cents IconSo, what’s the name of our poet from Portland’s delight? In trying to solve “One Last Riddle” I started the search for an angel’s name. Interestingly, I discovered that Barachiel  is the angel of blessings; the go-to intermediary for pursuits pertaining to relationships, family, friends or work. While this may not be the solution, it never hurts to ask for a little help, right? 

Lovelorn Poet in Portland, OR: Again Haiku



We don’t talk any
more. I wish we would. There’s a
lot more to say. But
not here and not now.
I’m not going to write a
haiku for the world
to see.


Missed Connections are filled with good, bad, and inadvertently-constructed haiku. Did you write one? Did you find one? Did you respond to one? Sieze the here and now and email the link to Lovelorn Poets. We’ll preserve those wishes and words  for all eternity.

Lovelorn Poet in Portland, OR: You Are My Missed Connection

Untitled by katiecooperx

Untitled by katiecooperx


Missed Connections in Portland

You Are My Missed Connection

Steel cables stretch across the desert floor….relief dips in the eighties. There are visions of Carrot Top dancing in my head…dancing and dancing…
I think I can hear it now, the distant buzz of those neon signs you talked so much about.

I think I’m losing my mind.
Put on a brave face kid. Sleep is for the weak he said,
those sad beautiful eyes fixed on mine.
God, those eyes…
Who’s weak now? I never thought I’d live to see the day.
You were supposed to be invincible. You promised you would be okay.

What the fuck do I do now?
I miss that smoke filled car. I remember the way your delicate tracks felt beneath my fingertips, the way my chest would ache as I’d choke back the tears… the way my touch could diminish that ego you held so dear.
I miss the wandering fingertips, I miss your sweet and gentle kiss.
I miss feeling so small and fragile in your arms, the arms that I always thought would be waiting there to keep me safe. I miss being vulnerable.

I miss you being the smoke, no…
I miss you being MY smoke.
I remember watching as you rose to the ceiling, I remember the fleeting but inevitable feeling in my heart right before you slipped through the cracks…the emptiness I feel now, just an awful reminder that I could have pulled you back.

I can’t stop wondering what would have happened,
what could have happened…
I can’t accept that it doesn’t even matter anymore.

I would give anything.
Anything. I don’t know why I didn’t stay the whole night through, I don’t think I’ll ever know. I don’t think I’ll ever stop asking myself. I should have held you closer, kissed you more… I should have let you in. I know that now…

I would have hopped on that train, you know it’s true.
No destination, no plans …It would have been me and you.
But you said you would be okay.

You said you would be okay….

What I wouldn’t give to hear you whisper in my ear one last time,
“I love the person I become when I’m with you”
All I wanted was for it to be real.
And now it’s too late, it’s too late to tell you that I know it was, to tell you that I’m here.
I’m lost without you. Please know…
I love you, I do

Lovelorn Poets Her Two Cents IconHer Two Cents

In a sea of messages selling sex, NSA hook-ups, locker-room fantasies, rants against humanity, and inebriated ramblings crafted hastily in the early hours of the day, it’s all too easy to pass-over a real message, written by a real person, about something terribly tragic and terribly real. We often hear and say the words, “I’ll be ok.” and we hold them to be true until the day comes when they no longer are.

Lovelorn Poet in Portland, OR: First Date

Lovelorn Poets Her Two Cents IconHer Two Cents

The weekend is here and that means it’s time for the mating and dating rituals of the single (and single-minded) to begin! Hopefully your endeavors in bringing sexy back work out better than this sad story from Portlandia. Remember, just because plentyofish/okcupid/zoosk/eHarmony says you’re “a perfect match” doesn’t mean it’s true! Consolation prize? You might just get some good material for a story that you can post to missed connections. Cheers! :-)

Missed Connections in Portland

First Date


First Date

“We live in a world fueled by illusions.” I said. “People just believe whatever is necessary to continue living as selfishly as they can. They don’t want truth, they want what feels good. They want the fog, not the light”

“I like ice cream and sand castles and my best friend is a balloon.” she said.

“Yup.” I said. Seriously hoping, but very much unsure, that she was being sarcastic.

“I know what you mean, but can you blame people for that?” She said.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out.” I said.

“I don’t know, what do you think?” She said.

“I guess you can’t blame people for coping with what can be a very brutal world…I think that people are a mix. Some beautiful and shining most of the time and some ugly and manipulative most of the time, most are somewhere in the middle….I’ve experienced too much of the harsh side.” I said. “But I can’t live my life that way. I have to believe that people are mostly good. If I didn’t, I might as well curl up and die.”

Her eyes kind of glazed over.

“I thought we were gonna talk about favorite drinks and tell stupid jokes.” She said.

“Whiskey and coke, and how many Paul Walker look-alikes does it take to drive…..”

“Ahhh…..toooo soooon.” She said, with genuine concern.

“Really? Do you know how many other people died on that day?” I said.

“No, but I bet you’re gonna tell me.” She said.

“155,000” I said. “Why does this guy matter?”

“Well, he’s famous, he’s rich, and he’s hot.” She said. “What’s the matter, you jealous?”

“No, I’m none of those things but I don’t want to be any of those things either. He captures their attention because they are told to pay attention to him.” I said. “People don’t think for themselves, they are told what to feel, how to feel, and what to pay attention too. This is what matters. I overheard a couple in line at the store talking about him like they knew him. Its wild…why are they mourning a stranger and not the 155,000 others? Do we worship media so much that we have actually tricked ourselves into believing that these people are intimate parts of our lives? Something is terribly wrong with all of this….people are actually living these illusions, everyday.”

“You think too much.” She said, her posture becoming defensive. “And you’re obviously not rich.”

Uh-Oh, I thought, maybe she knows Paul Walker.

“Maybe you don’t think enough.” I said. “And how do you know I am not rich?”
“Because you’re not, look at you.” She said, her face now resembling an exasperated cartoon.



I wanted to like her.

I was very quickly not liking her.

When I met her at the grocery store, she seemed so good hearted and smart. But here and now, she just seemed shallow and uninteresting. I realized that I had done it again, I had taken what she said when we met and made it into what I wanted it to be, instead of the nonsense that it actually was. I’ve done this before. Not often, but its happened.


I don’t know. The deepest attraction for me is in the mind and personality. I have to be at least somewhat physically attracted to a woman, but to really be invested there has to be a light on somewhere. A real connection. Its so hard to find, so rare, and I crave it so badly, that I create it for myself just to fill the void. I was living my own illusion!!!!

“Where are you from?” I said.

“Lake Oswego.” She said.

I started laughing. And I couldn’t stop. I had beer dripping out of my nose by the end of it. I felt like a total and complete asshole, but I couldn’t for the life of me stop. Her face became confused and then curious and then angry, but that just made me laugh harder.

She pulled her cell phone out of her purse. Then she said, pretending to have just received a text, “I have to go, thanks for the drink, dick.” I didn’t say anything because I couldn’t stop laughing. I managed to sqeak out “I’m Sorry!!!! I have a condition!!!” as she marched away almost tripping over her high heels, to be driven home fast and furiously by the ghost of Paul Walker.

Dating is hard :)