Crazy enough to see heaven in you making it with your writings, dear

and all they had under the overcast sky
was a small boat they
shared

The old man would drink from
afternoon till morning
and sleep all day
He wasn’t good for much. Had cancer
of the liver and enough
kidney stones to add about
a newborn’s weight in his core

“So I’m drinking,” he said. “Cuz I wanna
bring it earlier. My end.”

“Well,” said the girl. “You’re drinking
my money. I work hard
for that shit, you know?”

“Shut up,” said the old man. “You’ll have
all the money in the world
after I’m gone. You can sell
the boat and
maybe borrow some money and get yourself
a small, cozy apartment
somewhere.”

“You’re delusional,” said the girl. “With
the money this boat’s worth
I’ll be lucky to get me a
doormat. Used.”

“Don’t be disrespectful now,” said the old
man. “I love this here boat
like my wife.”

“You never had a wife.”

“Well shit! I love her as if she
were my wife, okay? And she’s
worth something. She’s worth
a lot, I tell you. If you think she won’t
be enough to get you
started nicely in life, well, you should’ve
gotten yourself a husband.”

“I don’t need a fucking husband. I’ll
get one after I get
out of poverty, not before.”

The old man watched the gray
clouds above. It might
as well have been
grass to his eyes. “Oh, I sure hope to
see that day
from the other world. You think I’ll
have to look up to see it?
Or down?”

The girl didn’t
answer

“Anyway,” said the old man. “I’m sure it’ll
happen one day, my dear. Until
then... Keep writing, okay? You’ll come
out with the hit eventually. I know I
haven’t been of much use
to you in this life. But hey, maybe in the next.
Maybe, as God reaches with his
hand to take me above, I’ll bite off his
little finger and spit it
on the boat to you. Use it as a pen. See if
you’ll write with it
a story no eye could ever ignore. I want
this for you, my dear.
Even if I’ll trade my heaven for it.”

“Oh, you crazy
old man.”

“I’m a serious crazy old man. Crazy
enough to see heaven
in you making it with your writings, dear.
Thus, no matter how bad or evil I’ve
been I know I’ll be going
to heaven. I believe
in you.”

She said nothing. Handed him a can
of beer and
went back to her writing

Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "Crazy enough to see heaven in you making it with your writings, dear"!

Check it out HERE!

https://www.amazon.com/stores/author/B09C46RMPS/allbooks?ingress=0&visitId=96628550-28a0-4f19-9a78-7717f0614bbd&ref_=ap_rdr

Thank you!

28 August 2025 0

Nill

and that was the
last of them

the son

she got him in the
left temple
with the steel skewer

She could tell the kid
was expecting it
and just gave up the fight,
the struggle

it all ended in
that night

for all of them

except for her

Her life just then
began

and four and a half years
later
we from the facility
call her
Nill
and attend her daily
sermons in the art room

She tells us about the
futility of life
for the human being. How it’s nothing
but a cancer in the fabric
of reality, an anomaly
that grows and grows and corrupts
healthy tissue

but
don’t let the theme fool you

this is not about
human beings polluting the
planet and hurting it

No. It’s far more spiritual
than that. It’s metaphysical

The cancer is the human being’s
ego. The part that desires
to create things in
its own image, to serve it,
to admire it

Wasn’t everything so perfect
before?
Plants and animals and fungi
were just here. Going on about
their flat existence. It was
perfect.
But then the anomaly, the cancer
suddenly came into being.
The human

capable of thought. Therefore
of creation. The only
living being capable of
creation, capable of being more
than its natural instincts

We should have gone
extinct a long, long time ago

had it happened
everything would’ve been
pure to this day

The only salvation is
then
for all of us to accept the
truth
and be set free
in death

No matter
how
you look
at it
you can’t disagree

These days
not even the doctors disagree

She has elevated all of
us to her level

Now we know what to do
with life
as soon as we get out
of here

Soon

Many thanks to Gobblers by Masticadores for featuring my poem, "Nill"!

Check it out HERE!

Thank you!

26 August 2025 9

Schopenhauer’s car

he was working on it for the
past nine years

and the car still
wouldn’t
start

It was still sitting, rotting, in
front of the apartment
complex he was
kicked out from
after that messy divorce
from nine years ago

He wasn’t much different
before though. Every time he’d have
a fight with his wife
he’d get out
and find something to do
with the car

change a tire
replace some bolts
wash it
wax it
and so on

Nine years ago he had a name
but today they
called him Schopenhauer
because he slept with a
poodle dog
in the car

It wasn’t a neighborhood of
learned people
so not many got the
joke anyway

And it didn’t matter. The one
thing they could all
believe and understand was that
Schopenhauer’s car will
surely
start again
one day

soon

Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "Schopenhauer’s car"!

Check it out HERE!

Thank you!

23 August 2025 8

had it been that way

she vomited and came
out of the
bathroom with
colorful spit on
her chin
and in her hair

lied down in bed

"Better on your side," I said,
"not your back."

And she said, "Does it ever grip you?"

"What? Hangover?"

"No. The longing to... to just
return home.
Home where you grew up. Where
the world was introduced to you."

"No."

"C'mon, really? Never?"

"I do get nostalgic at times. But
then I remind myself that
nostalgia is just another
form of depression. The most
pleasant one, but... still a form.
I have enough of
them, and an extra one is not
welcome. Not as long
as I can do something about it."

"You're cold. But I don't mean
nostalgia. Not exactly.
Look, you ever, uh, planted
flowers in the garden?"

"I don't remember. Why?"

"Well--"

"Actually, I do remember this one time
when my little cousin and
I placed an apricot seed in the
ground.
Of course we hoped for
an apricot tree to grow but...
Well, you know how it is
when you're a kid, patience is
never among your attributes. The younger
you are, the less you have.
My cousin, he was younger than me.
So he lacked patience more
than I did.
As the days passes and the apricot
tree didn't show up
from the ground... his patience
reached its end.
That was it, he wanted to dig it out
and look at the damn seed,
see if it sprouted or whatever.
And I told him, begged him
to stop
that stupidity and give it
more time.
I was very serious about it.
But the more serious I was
the less serious he grew
until eventually it was a sick game
or him versus I
with him constantly threatening to
unearth the seed, a menacing,
cartoon villain grin on his face all the
while.
I had to hold him
back
and then, still grinning, he'd swear
he won't do it if I let
go.
I let go and he immediately went
back to the spot we buried the
damn seed and
after he did it a few times
I... guess I snapped.
I punched him square in the face.
Pretty damn hard indeed. Hard for
a kid, I mean.
Immediately the blood came rushing
out and fell on the ground. Right
on the spot where we buried the
seed.
Now, I know it would've sounded so
damn poetic an' all if I said
the apricot seed took his blood in
and grew a tree, but c'mon, this is
real life we're talking
here.
He just bled from his nose and shrieked
like a fucking devil
and I wanted to just
punch him again. Harder.
Yeah... I didn't do it.
It was too late anyways. Grandma came
to the commotion and
I got my punishment. Nothing too
extreme, just... just something
to remind me
of that time when I tried to
plant something, create life, and...
failed because of
somebody else.
That's my only memory of trying
to plant something.
Not very happy as you can see."

Right
but
she fell asleep
in the middle of the story

wouldn't be
the first time

this is
real life after all

it can't go like in
fairy tales
or even ordinary tales

Had it went that way
she would've
empathized with my story, I guess,
and seek to console me
in some way

had it went that
way
there would've been some
poetic justice
somewhere, just ready to poke its
magical head out

hat it went that
way
she would've been
real

But this ain't no story

it's just
real life

Many thanks to Gobblers by Masticadores for featuring my poem, "had it been that way"!

Check it out HERE!

Thank you!

19 August 2025 6

stay in the game

he found one crumpled cigarette
in his breast pocket
straightened it gently, expertly
between his palms
put it between his lips and
lit it

He was on the
roof
watching the afternoon skies

a bit drunk

He pointed at the plume of smoke
he exhaled and
said, “The trick is to stay in
the game until
you’re the only one left. It don’t matter
how good you are or
how you evolve. Just stay
in the game until you’re the last one.”

The smoke vanished
before him, raising
to the
skies

He nodded. “That’s what I’m
talking about.”

He finished the cigarette
and went back
down to the wedding

Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "stay in the game"!

Check it out HERE!

Thank you!

14 August 2025 4

too good at picking opponents

we weren't speeding or
anything

there was four
of us in the car

rainy night

and we almost bumped into
him at the intersection

a raggedy
bloody mess
he was

"The hell happened this
time?" we asked
but we knew it had to be
another street brawl

He was known around
town for those

for always starting
shit and
then losing horribly

There's no honor in
winning
he used to say.
If you win
it just shows you picked on someone
weaker than you

Wise words
of a drunk man

"So who was it this time?"
we asked

and he said, "Some fucker from
the bar."

"No shit. And why though?"

"I heard him talking. Said that
his wife ran away
from home and
left him with the kid. Some
four year old.
So I asked, where the kid at
then, an' he looks at me with the
side eye and says
the kid's at home.
An' I asked how the hell he
leaves a four year old alone
at night like that,
and then he tells me to mind my own
business.
He probably locked the kid in
the basement so he could
come out and drink and get shitfaced.
I know motherfuckers who
do that.
I used to be one of 'em.
So... I hated myself through him
and him through me. And
there was but one quarter of
a step from there to a fight.
We held it outside
an' I got my ass kicked. Meaning I
chose my opponent wisely.
I always do."

"The guy left his kid locked
in the basement
so he could come to the bar
and drink?" we asked

He seemed to think deeply
about it.
Wiped some blood from his
face in the meanwhile
"Yeah!" he finally burst. "The asshole!
Hey, I know, let's drop
by his place and give him a
lesson. Let's make the
night better for
that poor kid."

"Right," we said. "An' where would
that be?
Where's he live?"

"Oh fuck. I should've
asked him before
swinging at him, no?"

"You should've done many
things, old man.
But for now, why don't you go
home?"

He shrugged. "Ain't got any. I mean,
not anymore I don't."

We put together some
money and
sent him to the nearest
bar. Enough to
get him through the night

The next day there
was news of a homeless man
dying in the streets

We're still trying to figure out
if it was him or not

I'm afraid he was
a bit too good
at picking opponents

Many thanks to Gobblers by Masticadores for featuring my poem, "too good at picking opponents"!

Check it out HERE!

Thank you!

12 August 2025 5

The muse possesses me like a demoness

he was one of those writers whose
bio said something like
'It is not my choice. The muse possesses me
like a demoness and I write
because not to do so would mean to have
my soul tortured by a thousand
bites and scratches
of her fiery fangs and gelid claws.
The only way to delay her devouring my soul
is to put the next word down. And I
strive to do just that. My destiny is therefore
set in stone. I am a writer.'

he was also an amateur photographer
and filmmaker
Currently exploring the niche of
torture porn

He was 34
and still lived with his parents
who apparently didn't understand
his artistic side
and were constantly trying to crush his
dreams into oblivion
with ridiculous, outworldly demands
like
'When will you get a real job and move out?'

He pitied them
Pitied the blindness of their souls
the deafness to real art
and the artistic nature that oozed from his
very being

It was like they
had Jesus Christ in the flesh in their
house but would not
understand or care to acknowledge it

Poor souls

Anyway
his latest project got him in a bit of trouble
with the law

Something to do with
a seventeen-year-old staring in one of his
experimental movies

and now he knew he had it all
figured out
Just like the Messiah,
he had to die, had to suffer to no end
so that the blind herds could
come to know his truth and understand his
art

He denied his parents
when they tried to hire him a lawyer

They did not
insist

Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "The muse possesses me like a demoness"!

Check it out HERE!

Thank you!

7 August 2025 3

to make a statement of what daddy meant to me

her father was a writer

Had been
Before he suicided
Overdosed on some pills or something
like that

He had a few novels to his name
and some short story collections

Other than that he
only left behind a daughter
who several days after his cremation
brought her boyfriend
to her house and said to him,
"Look, since you wanna be a journalist and call
yourself a big fan of my dad’s works,
I’m gonna give you something
to write about tonight. For your
magazine. An
article about the departed genius."

"Really?" He smiled,
expecting her to share some of
her father’s unpublished
manuscripts or
something like that. It would surely
aid in his journalist career. Put him
ahead of the competition

But
she grabbed the urn that contained
the great writer’s ashes and
said, "Yeah. Look, I’m gonna pour these
into the toilet and take a shit
over them.
You can write about it and
take pictures too."

"What?"

"Hey, you don’t meet up with a story like
this every day. Take
it or leave it."

Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "to make a statement of what daddy meant to me"!

Check it out HERE!

Thank you!

1 August 2025 8

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