So, what do YOU see when facing the dark corner?
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GOODREADS
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FACING THE DARK CORNER – New collection of dark poetry
REALITY CHECK – New Collection of Dark Poetry
How can you tell what's real in reality?
I don't know. But I can struggle to find out.
Poetry seems like a good place to start.
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AMAZON
GOODREADS
the body and mind will find other ways
fourteen years ago
at the birth of his
daughter
the wife made him swear before
the holy cross
that he’ll never touch
drink again
in his life
He kept the promise
Also
fourteen years ago
the wife made him swear
before the holy cross
that he’ll never
touch a slot machine or
a poker table in his life
He kept that
promise also
six years ago
the wife also made him
swear before the holy
cross
that he’ll never touch himself
again in his life
this had nothing to do
with keeping the family unit
together in a healthy way
it was only his wife’s
whim
she would not have
her daughter
provided for and educated
by a sinful man
He kept that
promise too
even though the wife
was as ungenerous as one
could be when it came
to taking care of his needs
copulating without the
aim of creating life
was a sin, of course. So it had
to be avoided
“Goddamit, Jesus! How d’ you keep
yourself sane livin’
like that?”
some of his coworkers had asked
They called him Jesus,
not because
he partook in his wife’s zealotry
but because he had
a hole in his left hand
right between the
bones of the middle and
ring finger
“They’re called metacarpal bones,” the
wife had said
She knew about the injury
and knew how he’d
made it
Dozens of times
she’d watched him insert
a thin, long knitting needle through that hand
and then pulling it backward
and pushing it forward
while moaning in pain
She respected and loved
him for the ritual
“Subjecting yourself to a fraction of
what He had gone through,” she’d said
in admiration. “Darling,
this is worthy of praise. Finally you’re
the man I wanted
you to be. A true man of
Christ!”
Indeed
she had that opinion
of him and his madness
and with her own madness
they formed the happiest Christian
family
She didn’t need to know
that the ritual
caused him to ejaculate, for the
body and mind will find
other ways to
get rid of excess seed
when the normal means are
blocked
and God didn’t need to
punish him
for he wasn’t
exactly touching himself
What doesn’t a man
do for his family?
Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "the body and mind will find other ways"!
Check it out HERE!
Thank you!
birch trees
His was the only house
painted pink
in the whole neighborhood
It looked silly in the
warm season
and creepy in the cold
small trees dotted the front
and back yard
and further
beyond a forest began to
gain contours
It was a forest of
birch trees
and he visited it every time
the pink house
felt like it no longer wanted
him inside
and unfortunately that
was almost
every night
“I feel it in the vibration
inside the walls,” he said. “It’s
akin to a baby’s cries. She
doesn’t want me
here.
Never did want me here.”
He was talking about a daughter
who departed
some eight years ago
along with his wife
They wanted the house to
be painted pink
and he did it for them
It was one of the requests
they made while he
was sober
everything they asked while he
was sober was granted
problem was
they rarely caught him
sober
Soberness meant it was
time to talk about
all the
shit he’d done while drunk
so he’d drink some more
to forget
and then do
other stuff worth talking
about
One of the most
vicious circles in
reality
and the hardest to
break
“A circle only breaks when
there’s nothing
sustaining it,” he said to
the birch trees behind
the pink house. “And now
I am nothing.”
He walked up to one of the trees
and circled it with
his arms
and bit with his lips at
the few pieces of peeled bark
and closed his eyes
it was close enough to
hugging his
wife, for she was pale
and thin and bony
as the birch tree, and biting
the peeled bark
was close enough to
biting her hair and…
Well, better not to think
about it
Better to just ask
how in the hell did he hug
the tree in
daytime
and closed his eyes
and when he opened them
again
it was nighttime
What the hell was
this birch tree magic?
He went back to
the pink house
and sobered up
Swore to himself that
he’ll never get
drunk again
and opened
another bottle of vodka
to celebrate that
Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "birch trees"!
Check it out HERE!
Thank you!
getting metaphysical
there’s gotta be
some kind of metaphysical
lesson here, he
thought as
he turned away from her
in bed
and got slapped on the face
and had to turn
right back
and hold her in his arms
no exchange of
words between them
It’s been only a few months, perhaps
three or four, since
he broke into her
car
and stole her backpack with
money and her ID
and books and other stuff,
and returned it to her door
the next day
Pretending he was
this hero
who brings back the stolen goods
“A guy tried to sell me
these books to
get money for meth,” he said
when he gave it back
and from one word to another
the hero
eventually invited the
damsel in distress to dinner
and from then on
they became
a couple
“Know what you want in life
and go after it,” his
father would’ve said
It made sense, but…
attaining the object of one’s
desire
certainly isn’t always
a good thing
If we’re to get really
metaphysical here, people
are nothing more
than children in the grand scheme of
things
and children sometimes
desire to touch the hot stove
or to lick at the
blue flames thinking they’re cold
We think that the
fulfillment of one’s wish
translates into happiness
we’re so
damn wrong, aren’t we?
“Did you remember to set the
alarm for 6:30 AM?” she asked
in the darkness
“Sure,” he said.
“Good. Now squeeze me tighter. And don’t
let go even as you fall asleep or
I’ll slap you again.
Gods, love, sometimes I think you’ve
the mind of a child.
Why else won’t you understand that
the right dreams
come only as I’m being held tight,
squeezed in a man’s arms.
This night
the spirit guardian is going to
reveal to us
what grave to dig on the morrow. So
squeeze me right
while I tune in to hear, okay?”
“Uh… Right. Good night, love.”
“Good night.”
Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "getting metaphysical"!
Check it out HERE!
Thank you!
swineherd
after 22 years
he returned to
his old town
I was just a kid
when he left
so
I didn’t recognize him
but some of the older guys
were quick to
offer him a
drink
“Who’s he?” I asked
and the only answer I got
was
“Swineherd.”
They called him
the swineherd
He was an okay
fellow
knew a few bar tricks
and showed us all his
glass eye
and the hole it covered
shit looked like
a butthole when
he removed that thing
He spoke about how good it
was to be back
and the guys asked him
if he’s gonna
swineherd again
and they all laughed together
like it was the
craziest
inside joke ever
I went home drunk
that night
and it was the kind of
drunk that doesn’t provide
inspiration
So with nothing
to write about
I checked out some random
news on my feed
One title caught
my eye
FARMER ARRESTED AFTER
BEING CAUGHT
TRANSPORTING COCAINE LODGED
INSIDE PIGS’ ANUSES
Hmm…
Well, I’ll be damned
Suddenly
I knew what to write about
and got to it
Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "swineherd"!
Check it out HERE!
Thank you!
nothing’s weird at this point
“They call it demon possession,” she
said, her hands
busy struggling to open a
beer bottle
that was already opened.
“Maybe you should
stop drinking,” I said. “It really
looks like you’ve had enough.”
but of course
she doesn’t hear that. She only
hears what she wants to
People talk to her
but their words have
to pass through
the thinnest filter I’ve ever seen
her mind
So because she didn’t hear me, or
rather her mind did not
register my words and
their meaning, she went on with
her story and
with trying to open an
already opened beer bottle.
“I think I was only… um, sixteen. On that
night I shot my older brother in his
sleep. Killed him dead.
Stole his keys and took his
car and went for…
what d’ you call that?”
“A joy ride?” I said
“Hahahah! Yeah. A joy ride.”
Now she did hear me. Cuz I
behaved according to
her script
“I did not crash the
car. Didn’t even scratch it! I never
went through driver’s ed
but still I drove
better than my bro. I was made
for driving. But then, you know, I just
returned home
and I told my mother everything
that happened. With a smile on my pretty
face. I mean, it was super pretty
back then. You should’ve seen me.
I have pics, but they’re still nothing
like the real thing.
You would’ve soooo wanted to
fuck me back then, I guarantee.”
“I would’ve been fourteen
back then,” I said. “Would you have
left a boy two years your
junior hit?”
But it was another thing
her mind didn’t
register
“It’s all I could think about. I don’t know,
is it weird to say that… That
a car ride, that joy ride had
caused my sexual awakening?
Perhaps the surge
of adrenaline caused me to
become immeasurably… um, horny.
D’ you think it’s weird?”
“Nothing’s weird
at this point,” I said, actually
taking the beer bottle away
from her hand
Immediately
her hands went to her
hair
and grabbed at random
and pulled
playfully
while she bit her lips.
“Ah, a long story follows.
Mother called the authorities
and I was taken
into this… uh, this place for
troubled teens. Was too young to
go to prison, haha.
And the biggest issue here was…
I mean, I was really disappointed. Not
one, not a single one of
the staff members
wanted to… you know, to do
it with me. Not the men, not the
women. Not even the other
teenagers.
Can you believe this shit?
All those stereotypes of
mental asylum workers abusing
their patients… Fake! All of them.
Couldn’t even get
a smile from them, let alone
a fuck.
And eventually they quenched
this desire of mine. With
meds.
I don’t even know what they
gave me, but
in time, they numbed me for good.
And now… I don’t even make
the difference
between penetration
and wiping with toilet paper.
Feels the same to me.
What good is a body if it can’t
make love?”
“It can tell stories,” I said
At this
she smiled
and leaned over
and took the
beer bottle from me
and drank
I’m still not sure
if my words
were registered into
her mind
or not
but maybe not knowing
makes it even
better
Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "nothing's weird at this point"!
Check it out HERE!
Thank you!
one more coffee
A customer spat into
her face
today
said the coffee she prepared
was too hot
and she refused to
get the authorities
involved
told the manager
she forgave the guy
She was like that
Every time someone wronged
her with something
she’d be as quick to forgive as a
child
It was nice working
with her
Though she was also
one of those people who were
a bit too good for
their own good
Hence she never got a raise
in over five years
they just knew she wouldn’t
mind. She’d just
forgive and move on
It was exactly
so
At the end of the shift
she went back to her
one room apartment
and stared
at the
blank wall
and smiled
Life was still so much
better now
than back then
when
the CPS found her
locked in the dog cage
and took her
away from a mother and
father that didn’t even care
that much
“Forgiveness,” she says, “is what
turns the human into
a god. If you can
do that
then you can do anything.”
I think she’s right
that’s why I always
leave a big tip
at the coffee shop
One day I’ll muster up
the courage
to ask her
to be my muse
I just know she’ll answer
with, “Darling, I already am.”
But until then
I’ll just have
one more coffee
Thank you
Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "one more coffee"!
Check it out HERE!
Thank you!
pleonasm
he wouldn’t let go
of that book
nobody knew what it
was
because nobody could
pry it off his hands to
have a look
Eh, whatever
it was just a book
Other crazed men
held on to
dangerous objects like
knives and screwdrivers
and shards of glass wrapped
in a cloth and a padlock
in a sock ever ready to become
a flail when swung right
But he just
held on to that book with gray
hard covers
and like some evangelist
went through the apartment
buildings from
door to door
knocking
and asking the residents if
they’ve seen her
‘Who the hell was he talking
about?’ they’d
ask
and this question made him
leave
and go to the next door
One time
some kid opened up
and probably thought he
was talking about his mother, for
he answered, “She’s at work.”
And without another word
the crazy fool
just barged in, passing by
the kid
and went straight into
the living room where
he seated himself on the
sofa and opened the
book
ready to talk to the
kid about her
Only,
the kid ran out and
asked for help
Cops were called and they took
him to the station
someone there
figured that
the guy simply couldn’t
tell reality apart from
fiction
“He’s talking about
a character in that
book he’s holding,” they said. “Thinks
she’s a real person.”
“Yet another nut case. And what the
hell’s the
story about? What’s it titled? Who
wrote it?”
Not without great effort
and a sound beating, they
managed
to take the book away
and have a look at it
It wasn’t even a book. Only the
cover was. He ripped it
and glued it to
a thick notebook that
was fully written by hand
“What the hell you call
this?” said one
of the cops.
“A manuscript,” said another.
“A what?”
“Our felon’s a writer. I’m sure you
know what a writer is.
Now, d’ you know what
a pleonasm is?”
“Not the time for playin’ smartass,
smartass. Just say what
you mean already.”
“A prime example of pleonasm
is labeling a writer
as crazy.”
“Huh?”
“C’mon, just get on with the
procedures. We gotta get
this guy into a mental
institution.
He’s a writer, in case you still
don’t get it.”
“Oh…”
They were 50% right
Should’ve added
the word ‘unpublished’ before
the word ‘writer’ and
then the statement would’ve been
complete and
100% true
Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "pleonasm"!
Check it out HERE!
Thank you!
it is time to give up
Yeah,
it’s one of those
evenings
when reality
just doesn’t want to
cooperate
When you’ve given it
your all
and feel like there’s
nothing left but
to mourn
the pages lay
scattered about
like autumn leaves, only
with less value
At least the leaves
serve a purpose, don’t they?
while the pages you’ve
written…
The beer also tastes
like vomited sulfur
You even forgot to
drag from the cigarette
you’ve just lit
and the ashes fall on your chest
and gift you with a small
burn mark
You curse a
little
Not knowing whom you’re
cursing
But then it hits you
You suddenly remember
that reality
is nothing more than
your own reflection on the
surface of life’s water
You give a little
laugh
followed by a sigh
Yeah,
there’s nothing left do
be done
It is time to
give up
Only,
not in a defeatist manner
Give up
the struggle to control
take a break
and let life
straighten itself out
You don’t have to
actually believe
Just to it
and be amazed at the
results
You’ll see
Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "it is time to give up"!
Check it out HERE!
Thank you!
“The Lives and Dreams of Some of Us” – featured in SPILLWORDS
New poem featured in the illustrious SPILLWORDS PRESS!
TITLE: The Lives and Dreams of Some of Us
( ⊃｡•́‿•̀｡)⊃ Give it a read HERE
Thanks!
he is… you know
just a thin, colorless
light
filtered through
the clouds
the sun
just didn’t bother
anymore
late autumn
It seemed
nobody bothered
too much
there were almost
fifty people there
all gathered for the
funeral
He lit a cigarette, not giving
a damn what others
might say or think, and
dragged a long, lazy puff
and said, “Still better than a
wedding,” to no one
in particular
A few did hear him
but most didn’t
Weird thing to say
at the funeral of one’s own
child, but coming from
him, it wasn’t
that unheard of
“Just let him
be,” said a few voices. “After all,
he is… you know.”
“Yeah,” he said. “You’re
goddamn right.
I’m a writer.”
Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "he is… you know"!
Check it out HERE!
Thank you!
Daydreaming as a profession 