I'm resurrecting my 'Really Dirty Poetry' series from twenty years ago. Inspired by my archaeological work in the field, I would write poetry out on various job sites— either while monitoring large machinery, doing data recovery, or during down-time moments of surveying and mapping. So, yes, it was a dirty, dirty job, and I documented it the best I could.
Fast-forward 20 years, I'm revisiting these older works and updating the series to include for my dirty, dirty time cycling and running here in the mid-Atlas Mountains.
ReallyDirtyPoetrySeries:17.July.2026
She ran and ran and ran until she broke.
The semester clung like dust to
salt-slick skin,
driven out by her Hoka One Ones that bite the mud.
A heavy heave, a spiritual vomit from within,
painting trail grime against her rushing blood.
Dry mid-Atlas sun baked the barren waste,
Dust coated her swallowing throat,
coughing up deadlines, meetings, lesson plans…gasping for the heat.
Shedding every lecture, every grade until there is no more—
just the filthy, beautiful rhythm of the trail.
Left stripped naked before her own wild heart,
Nothing left to carry, nowhere left to fail.
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