http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/eug/1357650137.html
QuoteDear Eugene,
It took only a few months before I decided to fly to you. It was a chilly, rainy afternoon in October. The cab driver told me all about the Ducks. I made up a story about a long lost love I was reuniting with. A boy flew down the stairs and kissed me all over my face until I blushed. I whispered my lie into his ear and he spun around to confirm it and added his own twist. He paid the driver $12 with a glowing smile.
Over the next year you watched us trade poor jokes at Flying Dog, read to each other on the bus, make out in the leaves, throw coins into violin cases. You laughed when the pizza boy interrupted us the first time we had sex. You fogged up the streets the night we dropped acid and walked three miles to eat pancakes. We left the windows open to hear your trains sing us to sleep. You snowed once, for me. And poured a hundred times for no one.
I can still smell nag champa on my sleeves, taste your clean air, feel the Willamette rushing under me. Eugene, you had the most ravishing sunrise, the freest citizens and, might I add, the best transit on the west coast. You're the most handsome city I've ever had. And I swear I'll never love another one better.
I miss you, Eugene. I miss him, too.
Truly,
The Saddest Girl on the Atlantic
Got one to share?
http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/tus/1351001550.html
(http://www.thingofthings.net/drawings/craigslist1.jpg)
(http://www.thingofthings.net/drawings/craigslist3.jpg)
Anothern.
Aaaaannnnnd the trifecta: Sorry to triple post but this one was a must.
QuoteThe time was fall of 2007. I am walking with someone who is very dear to me. Someone I adore deeply. She is a woman my age. Where we are walking is a heavily forested area that is all her land. It is remote and far away from everythingin north central Minnesota. . There is only one road through here. The forest on her land is broken by two hay fields, two horse pastures, half a dozen natural clearings, and a house and barn. There are 15 horses here, a couple tractors, assorted haying machinery, horse trailers, and the like. She looks after it all.
This is hardly a good day for a walk however. In the early morning the sky did not become light until well after it should have due to a very solid, dark and heavy overcast. It�s not raining, but there�s a heavy mist coming down. We are walking on a tractor trail that connects the house and barn with the fields and some of the clearings. Often there is evidence of the activities of bears and wolves in the open areas. The horses are kept close to the house, and that is where the main pastures are as well. The wild animals stay away from that area other than an occasional sighting when they approach for a look out of curiosity. When ever she comes back this far on her land though, she carries a rifle. But today I am carrying it, slung over my shoulder.
This walk in less than ideal conditions is a necessary one. She talks about what this land means to her. She loves it. She knows every tree here. The fences that frame this huge tract of land, she put up by herself. She does the haying, training and feeding the horses, and works on the machinery or anything that needs fixing. There is always a lot to do here. Yet this woman next to me is just five feet tall, and has never weighed more than 120 pounds in her life. But she is a tough little stick of dynamite. She knows what work is, and often starts her day at 5:00 a.m. no matter what the weather brings.
She has auburn colored hair - fairly long. I often thought that a woman so outdoor active would prefer shorter hair. But she keeps it long and I�m glad, because it�s very pretty. I adore her smile. When she smiles, her eyes smile. Her feminine figure is evident in her blue jeans, tapered shirt, and a waist length denim jacket to help ward off the mist. She is beautiful. I have studied her figure every chance I get for two years now. I find her intriguing. And still, after two years when we create our private and intimate time to come together and she stands before me, I still tremble.
She wears leather work gloves now, since she had been feeding the horses earlier. Her jeans are worn and faded from long hours of mending fences, and cleaning stalls. Her denim jacket is worn as well, and the cuffs are becoming frayed. Our boots are soaked from walking in the wet tall grass.
After she has talked and made clear her need for this place and what she does here, I take control of the conversation. I too love the place where I live, my town near the Metro. And my work is my life. I could never do anything else. I am a locomotive Engineer. I feel good while I am at work doing what I do. And when I get home, I feel good about what I have done. The problem that faces us is that our lives are 230 miles apart. I have been seeing her for two years. When ever any time at all permits, I drive up to northern Minnesota to be with her. Sometimes I can stay two or three days. Sometimes it�s only for 12 hours. But I am neglecting my own home, and the obligations that come with it.
I have had experience with horses and I appreciate anything mechanical. I help her with all the tasks around this place. But most of all, I cherish the time I have in her presence. But it is apparent that the physical gap, in miles, that separates us can never be closed. She has to stay where she is, and I have to stay where I am. The impracticality of our deep affection for each other is surfacing with time, after having been ignored for so long. This conclusion wasn�t arrived at today. It is something we have been discussing for a couple months. The fixes for the problem simply won�t work. And this reality is boldly before us.
After we each take our turns speaking, there is silence as we walk. I take her gloved hand in my hand to silently confirm with her she is still in my heart. We pass patches of wild strawberries and blueberries. I know she is thinking she must get back out here and pick them for canning before the bears take them all. It�s part of her ritual. I understand it�s part of the fulfillment she cherishes by living here.
We are getting closer to the barn now, and beyond that is where my truck is parked. The best route from the barn to my truck is to follow a fence line through the trees. We walk into the barn and I dry off the rifle with a dirty towel on a work bench. I put the rifle where it belongs - concealed behind a wooden plank. Just above us in the rafters, is an owl. He has long since become accustomed to the daytime activities in the barn, and is fast asleep. The dreary day has made the light in the barn very dim. Usually, on a sunny day, the barn is a very bright and welcoming. But not today. The mist has given way to a steady rain now. The shoulders and sleeves of her jacket are already quite wet from the long walk in the mist. And my clothes are wet too. We talk some more in the barn. We are old enough and smart enough to realize that if either one of us sacrificed a part of his or her world to be with the other all the time, it wouldn�t work out. Sacrifice would turn into regret, and regret is an anchor on a vessel that must keep moving forward. So it is now that we fully understand we must let go.
We leave the barn through the opposite door we came in, towards my truck. We walk along the fence line to the opposite side of the trees. We stop here. My truck is just one hundred yards away. We turn towards each other and I place my hands on her waist. She takes off her leather gloves and lets them drop to the ground as she puts her hands on my waist as well. We confirm that we will miss each other very much. I am looking intently at her pretty face.
We only talk a little bit out here because we are getting rain soaked. �I could never leave here.� She tells me. �I could never live near the Metro area and all the congestion. And I know you could never give up being an Engineer and leave the rails."
�You are really good with the horses�.�she continues, �and good with the machines too. You know what needs to be done, and when to do it. Both with this land�.� Then with a smile and a quiet voice says, �and with me too.� She is looking up at me. As the rain falls on her face, her eyes don�t even flinch. This woman has stood outside in much worse weather than this. I leaned down and kissed her mouth. I knew that would be our last kiss, and I expected her to let go of me at that moment, but she didn�t. Instead she shook me slightly, as if she didn�t already have my complete attention. �You know what I wish? What I really, really wish? I wish you and I had connected 20 years ago, instead of just two. 20 years ago we didn�t have such deep set roots in our lives, we were more flexible, and together we could have grown in to who we are now��.. because you and I make one hell of a good team.� She pressed her lips together to help hold back the tears.
With that, she let go of me, and I her. She picked up her gloves off the ground and began walking the fence line back through the trees. I watched her as she walked away. I lost focus for a moment as I realized that I had a lot of thoughts and painful emotions to analyze over the coming days. When I looked for her again, she was gone. Instinctively, I took a couple steps toward the fence line. But caught myself and stopped. Out of necessity, we had given up something very precious. We made a painful decision based on reality and practicality. And now I am a man who had lost true love. Just standing in the rain.
As I type this, my boyfriend is on the couch, napping blissfully, his Iphone nestled to his chest. I remember the distant days when I was the one who nestled there, my head resting lovingly against his shoulder, but apparently because I don�t vibrate like a buzz saw every ten minutes to let him know that he�s gotten an email from Sears.com with great deals for Fall savings, he�s traded up.
I remember when it was my shrill, piercing voice that delighted him, but no more. I�ve lost my favored status, displaced by a small, rectangular device that beeps incessantly at the most inopportune times�most of which are apparently no longer inopportune! God help me if I should turn to him while he�s engrossed in an episode of Two and a Half Men and say, �I forgot to tell you about this lady I saw in the Food Lion today who was wearing hilarious pants��I would be judiciously shushed! But Iphone gets to say whatever it�s thinking any time it wants! Iphone can do no wrong! No matter what he�s in the middle of, no moment is too important to be interrupted by a text message from his Iphone letting him know that 90% of American currency has tested positive for trace amounts of cocaine, according to CNN.com.
Should I be providing better content? Were I to turn to him while he�s watching TV and say, �MEEEP Thursday�s forecast calls for morning clouds with a chance of afternoon thundershowers,� would he smile receptively, or nod with interest? I doubt it. I also don�t see what�s so useful about the real-time updates his Iphone provides on sports games and breaking news, when the information I provide is also in real-time�and personalized! Does his precious Iphone nag him when he forgets to give the dog his heartworm medicine? Does it remind him that it�s unattractive to drink soda straight from the bottle and then just put it back in the fridge? Does his Iphones angry rattle encourage him to start dinner right away because I�m going to be hungry when I get home?
All right, I know when I�m beat. It�s time for me to take this to the next level, before he realizes that when his Iphone never has morning breath, steals the covers, or mocks his love of Entourage. So what do I have to do to win him back? Offer my services for a better monthly rate? Remind him of the convenience of his no-initial-fee, no-obligation contract with me? Ok, maybe there was an initial fee to join me, but I�m sure he�d say it was worth it. Or would he? After all, I can�t think of any new features I�ve added in the last few years, aside from a new haircut, or any upgrades to speak of�unless you count going up a pants size. Which I do. Possibly it�s time to fight fire with fire�or water. My boyfriend�s Iphone does seem to be getting a little smudged, due to his constant, loving caresses and attention. Perhaps it needs a bath. :]
Bucket, Thanks for posting these. There are some powerful writers out there that we would never have read otherwise. Didn't even know there were writers on Craigslist.
Sometimes I'll read "The best of Craigslist" when i'm bored.
Caution: You will be exposed to explicit material if you go there. If it's on "the best of" it will likely be quite funny, or even endearing.
Nothing wrong with explicit. We humans are funny monkeys most of the time anyway, but especially when we get involved with "explicit" activities.
Thanks, now I'm addicted to that section on craigslist. Another excuse to spend ungodly amount of hours in front of the screen...
Did you pass up this one as I did?
Sing to me, O Muse, seductively sibilant strains, inspiring my spirit
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Date: 2009-10-08, 2:23PM CDT
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I was going to sing you an epic poem rife with soft, alluring words, but Calliope withheld her inspiration. It would have been a masterpiece; it would be funny, engaging, charming, and sure to show my awesome intelligence. It would have clearly and convincingly demonstrated that I am interested in all the things that you are interested in, and that we disagree on little more than favorite gelato flavors (and even then, only in unimportant ways).
You�d have laughed at my witticisms about zombies and physics, been impressed with my deep and noteworthy thoughts on Tom Stoppard, Cormac McCarthy and my preference for Newton over Leibniz. My taste in video games would have nicely complemented [notice the correct usage, please] yours. You�d appreciate my allusions to internet dating articles about word choice and usage that craigslist won�t let me link. You�d be struck instantly with the realization that I was the Mario to your Luigi, the Hall to your Oates, the Kevin Bacon to your Lori Singer.
I�d have included a picture. You�d have been smitten with me: my delicate crow�s feet, angular but welcoming features, big brown eyes with just a tint of green, non-ironic pearl-snaps and well-heeled boots, mussed but close-cropped brown hair with natural highlights, the slightly off-center blemish on my rather large nose�compounding two minor imperfections, making me just imperfect enough to be approachable�distracting you from realizing that my five o�clock shadow and seemingly uncultivated eyebrows are, upon closer inspection, carefully manicured. You�d have realized that the attention I�d obviously paid to my looks arose not from solipsism or vanity, but from just a hint of insecurity from my slender yet well-defined frame.
You�d have reposted my ad on your facebook, linked it around on gchat. Your friends would be smitten, too. We�d trade a few emails to make sure the other was real. Eventually, one of us would work up the nerve to strike up a casual conversation over gchat (using our integrated AIM clients, a throwback to a more innocent day before Google had integrated everything, back when using the internet was a challenge, reserved for those select nerds with the wherewithal to master it). Or, it would appear to be casual; we�d be trying so very hard to make it casual�itself a form of poetry. We�d do that delicate dancing that two people do as they feel each other out, trying to discern if the other was interested without being too direct or tipping our own hand.
We�d trade ironic interests, trying to one up another�s humor: you�d claim you were on a campaign to satisfy your irrational hatred of Stevia-based sweeteners, I�d claim to love cutting out other people's faces on family photos and putting my own in their places. We�d share a few humor links, but we�d both pretend that we were far funnier than those humor artists�that only we could properly appreciate the failings of those articles while simultaneously appreciating them for what they were.
Eventually we�d agree to get coffee at some place with a fair trade option for you and something just above Folger�s for me. You�d walk in, and I�d be left breathless by how beautiful you were, even prettier than your pictures suggested. We�d greet in delicate, slightly lisping tones, and a spark would pass between us (and not just because I had been furiously rubbing the carpet in an attempt to generate static electricity just for that moment). We�d have a great time, hit it off, and do it again. We�d wait for just the right time to hook up�not because we were drunk, not because we were lonely, but because we couldn�t wait any longer. The sex would likely be mediocre at best, but neither of us would even realize that. We�d be stunned at how right and comfortable everything felt, even those few days immediately after the first hook up where neither one of us is sure what the hell the other one thinks. It would have been so wonderful, ripped straight from a storybook (the very ones we had made so much fun of, just to show that we were the proper level of jaded. �It only happens that way in Disney movies,� we�d have said). It�d be our little joke, amusing because it worked out so well.
But unfortunately Calliope withheld her inspiration.
Is this poetry? I say it is.
QuoteTo the beautiful woman, from the lecherous middle-aged cat caller
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Date: 2009-08-02, 10:48PM PDT
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You were the attractive woman in her teens. I was the unattractive older man who you walked by on the sidewalk. I was the one who shouted, "Wanna know what it feels like to be a woman? I've got what you need girl!" Or something to that effect. Then I think I hip thrusted a few times, laughed, and high-fived the guys with me.
I would like to apologize for my rude and unacceptable behavior. I've never been very good with women. The guys with me were good people, but most of us have been hurt terribly in the past by our girlfriends and wives, so we've rationalized our failures and bad upbringing by embracing a chauvinistic, male dominant ideal. As for myself, I'm afraid I have come to embody my father, who's love I always sought even though he consistently beat and humiliated my mother. For perpetuating a terrible male stereotype and allowing this crime to continue into my generation, I am absolutely and eternally sorry. I just want you to know, that while I find you very attractive and acted crudely and violently to indicate my favor, it was not a personal attack. In the only way I had been taught, I was trying to tell you that I thought you were beautiful. I'm sorry that I took away your smile. I'm sorry that I objectified you. This life I've built for myself will leave me unhappy and alone. In my later years, I will atone for my sins in solitude. But for now, without the will to change and without the courage to challenge my nature, all I have to offer you is this anonymous apology. It is sincere, and while I do not expect you to forgive me, I ask only that you try to understand. Though my nature is wretched, and my actions are cruel, underneath I am just a frightened boy. Just a boy who was taught to be the wrong kind of man. I wish you happiness and prosperity young lady.
I must be bored again... Can M4W personal ads be considered poetry?
QuoteHi! I am almost 100% positive you remember me. I was standing in the cab line for about 15 minutes in 1 degree weather, and then you and your girlfriend ran in front of me in the cab line right as my cab, that I had been waiting so long for out in the ball shivering cold, arrived. Now I admit, I am a nice guy, and women get to take advantage of me quite often, but that said I haven't been laid in months, and when that happens, I somehow feel that the goddess of feminine nurture and chivalry can... how do I put this? Suck my six inch piano player. This is the point where I told the cabby what you girls did, and informed him that he was throwing away the very long cab ride to Erie as well as his moral saint 1-month chip. At this point he had the very bad... very bad idea to give me (a drunken narcissist, in the right) a ride with the girls who shunted me most literally to the curb. This is where the sh*t show began. Your friend and you are both very attractive, but nevertheless I have become accustomed to, when necessary, seeing only the ugly souls of the monsters who arrogantly think they can get whatever they want. The cussing, the womanizing, the abuse, the screaming, and everything that ensued for the next 15 minutes, is unlike me. However I was not alone in this endevor, in fact I would go as far as to say that it was YOU two who did most of the screaming, and abusing. Nevertheless I stood up to the both of you. I let you know exactly how sh*tty it was to leave a stranger to freeze for the sake of your own toes. And although I am a tired soul, tired of fighting petty battles with girls, there are times when the wild thing from my youth finds the perfect combination of irritation and gravel to carve a path to the surface and cuss you the f*ck out. So I did. Somewhere along the way you hit me, good and hard across the face for addressing you by your lady parts. I probably deserved it. But even so, when your friend got out of the car, the attitude from the back seat was cut in half. This reduction in calamity is what made me flip around, to see you face to face for the next 10 minute drive to your home, perched on my knees, and just listen. I watched as you blasted me with insults and be-ration, never admitting nor denying that you intended to leave me on the cold cabby curb.Your visage melted from rage into a pool of confusion as I just sat there and listened. By the end, you were reduced to a puddle of tears, and as gratifying as it was, it is these empty moments that remind me why I hush my inner child to sleep, and open the door for you, and hold your purse, and buy you presents, and walk your dog, and keep you warm, and give you kind smiles. When you exited the cab, my body took me over, I hopped out and gave a "Hey!". You turned around, and I threw my arms out. "I'm Sorry!". You sheepishly just looked to me, and through the tears came a genuine moment. A deep smile. Full of the confusion and joy that comes with being twenty-something. I just wanted to say I appreciated that smile. In it, you told me that you were okay, that we are only human, that you value people over right and wrong. Expect to have a beer on me if I ever see you again.....
Just when you though it was safe to come back into the Art section:
QuoteThis was months ago. April, maybe May. We only rode the bus together three times, only two times sitting together. The second I saw you, I smiled brightly, because you looked so nice. You were getting on the number 11 at the Lake Washington bus stop, at 9:35 on a Wednesday, heading downtown. You were one of the few people getting on the bus who had not immediately put out a cigarette or a crack pipe. You looked like the average super-casual tech worker or student. You saw me smiling at you, and your face sort of lit up.
You had a soul-patch-triangle-hairy-thing under your bottom lip, which I will normally not tolerate on white men, but you made it work. You wore drab grayish-blue clothes that were slightly baggy. I had chin-length brown hair and cute sunglasses. I was holding a cup of coffee that, true to Starbucks tradition, kept spouting forth like a caffeinated geyser from the tiny sippy hole in the top, scalding my hands as I attempted in vain to dry off with a flimsy recycled paper napkin.
You sat next to me. There was genuine sexual tension, which is rare in Seattle, and even rarer on the bus. You smelled REALLY, REALLY good. I didn't make eye contact, although I took off my sunglasses so that you wouldn't think I looked like a spy. I might have turned down my Shuffle so you wouldn't know that I was listening to Mr. Mister. I didn't make conversation. I just smelled you the whole way downtown.
What was that glorious smell? It wasn't colonge. I have bought colonge for men before, and they don't make men's cologne that smells like this. Was it soap? Laundry detergent? A particularly wonderful brand of fabric softener and/or dryer sheet? I have searched in vain for the scent since meeting you. I want to douse the rest of the bus riders with it. Hell, I'd spray it all over my Shih Tzu if I could distill it. It was sweet, soft, but not girly. It was clean but not chlorine-y.
The next Wednesday, you got on the bus, and you sat next to me. Deliberately. There were dozens of empty seats on the bus, but you chose to sit down next to me. I blushed. You blushed. You smelled even better. You took out a book and pretended to read it. That book everyone is reading, The Kite Flyer or the Flying Kite or something by someone with an Iranian/Afghani/Middle Eastern name. Khaled. Ahmed. Whatever. I nervously asked you about the book. I think I made a really stupid comment about how I can't read on the bus because I get car sick. This must have turned you on. You tried to explain the plot of the book, and you spoke very slowly and not particularly lucidly, in direct contrast to my high-pitched but enunciated prattling.
It was clear, probably to both of us, but certainly to me, that we were not romantically suited for each other. Nor was there any intellectual chemistry. It was clear as crystal. I had at the time, and still have to this day, a boyfriend that I really love. Chances are, you have a girlfriend who rocks your world. I didn't want to do anything to mess that up.
I actually went home and told my boyfriend about you. I called you my Bus Boyfriend. I normally don't tell my boyfriend about random men who want to hit on me but who, true to the Seattle way of life, don't bother. But I told him about you because I wanted him to be aware that other, completely random men occasionally want to be physically close to me, because this is something that even jealous boyfriends are often prone to forgetting. You probably know, Bus Boyfriend, what it's like when you're with a girl for a couple years. If you know she's faithful, you start thinking, "Hey, I'm the only one who has access to this poon..." Then you start thinking, "Hey, no one else really thinks about this woman but me."
My boyfriend took notice when I told him about you; he felt the slight threat that was implicit in our public transportation liaisons, as incredibly platonic as they may have been. He fucked me really hard for a couple of weeks, realizing that he was damn fortunate to have access to this poon.
The last Wednesday I saw you, I noticed you too late. It was a bad morning for me, Bus Boyfriend. I arrived at the bus stop before having that necessary first cup of coffee. The weather was foggy. So was my brain. You got on the bus, and chances are you looked to see if our eyes would meet, because I felt a pair of eyes burning a whole in the side of my face. By the time I was jolted out of my reverie by your smell wafting by, you had passed by and had seated yourself farther back.
For one entire stop I contemplated getting up and sitting next to you. Then a gigantic man with an apparent allergy to soap wedged me in against the window, and it was all I could do to keep from straining my neck while looking back at you and hoping that you would at least get up and stand behind me, so I could smell something besides the 300-pound armpit pushing up against my cheek.
Then, after that, nothing. I never saw you on the bus again. I never got to inhale your pleasant scent again (Tide? Cheer? Bounce? Something from Trader Joe's?). I smelled a variety of other, less desirable scents that other passengers had coated themselves in - urine, B.O., cigar smoke, booze-breath, copious amounts of Chanel 5 - sometimes individuallly, occasionally all at once. Do you KNOW how many people are drunk when they get on the bus, Bus Boyfriend? On the number 11 through downtown Seattle, 10% of the passengers are intoxicated, and they smell like it. And they sit next to me, Bus Boyfriend. Like you used to sit, only significanly closer and with more chutzpah and less shame.
Besides drunks, I have had the honor of sitting next to bitchy little teenage gay guys who lisp loudly into their cell phones. Old ladies with whooping cough. Girls who can be no older than 12, dressed like complete mini-whores, who put their Vans-clad feet up on the back of the seat in front of them. Children whose faces are completely obscured by snot. Young white men who think they are big black men, and attempt to speak "jive" ("Yo, yo, yo, man - that mah SHIT!"). iPod-wearing business men with long, long legs and a clear disgust for the fact that I have the nerve to take up exactly 50% of the bench seating.
Bus Boyfriend, where have you gone? Please return to remove me from this misery! I don't want you sexually. Hell, I don't even want to talk to you - you can't even discuss the main storyline of a popular novel and you probably don't want to know any more detail about my inner ear and motion sickness. I just want to feel that odd tension again. And I want to smell you. You were my bus sachet, my ego-boosting little bowl of potpourri. Please come back. When you were around, no crackhead could touch me. Due to the ever-so-slight threat that your presence created, my boyfriend nailed me more often and more sincerely than any other time. You made transportation tolerable, you improved my love life.
If you got a job on the East Side, I forgive you. If you graduated from the UW, I congratulate you. But if you bought a car and now drive yourself downtown, shame on you! Shame! Kyrie Eleison down the road that I must travel. Especially on the bus. Without my Bus Boyfriend.
http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/sea/1985552272.html
Some home town talent:
QuoteGirlfriend said she is tired of my mustang parts and I need to make a craigslist ad...so here is it
for sale
1 nagging dream smashing man hater
make an offer or look in the free section if she keeps it up and gets kicked to the curb
http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/jax/1164383626.html