I always listen

He was older than me
by a good eight years

he felt worthy to give me life
advice

I agreed.
It’s my personal rule. Never turn away
from a tale. Listen to anything
and everyone when they’re willing to share.
Following the advice is another
matter
but listening to it I shall.

And I did
all ears

and he told me
“Never overdose on solitude, my boy. Never
overdose on solitude.
You might think it’s cool and all
to play the lone wolf character
and all that
but a time will come when you will
regret this deeply, oh so, so deeply.
You will regret it to suicide and beyond.
And the regret will set in gradually
with old age.
It always does.
When I was like you, in my twenties, I hated
the world and loved
spending time
with myself. It’s all I did
for so many years.
And look at me now...”

“You don’t look too bad,” I told him.

His smile was sad. “My boy, I’m ‘bout to
hang myself tonight, after this beer,
in my lonely room, with a power cord I fixed
to the ceiling. My most productive deed
in the past two years.”

I raised my beer. “Cheers.”

He didn’t hang himself that night.
Just got very drunk and
passed out on his dirty bed. It wasn’t
the first time he threatened to do it.
I knew he wouldn’t do it.

As long as I listen to his stories
he won’t do it

And I always listen.

Not too many horizons

Not too many horizons
when you live in a small home
with small windows
and thick blinders
and only face the smoky ceiling
as you sit sprawled on the bed,
bottle in hand, more empty than full,
cigarette between fingers, more ashes
than light.
Work starts only the day after tomorrow
so there is nothing to do now
just like there won't be much to do then

He's not alone in this,
this young man
He thinks now of past lovers
and it's like God delivers a gift all of a sudden

There's a knock on the door
he stands
dizzy
about to vomit
and finds his way to the door
opens

Well.
Hell.
It's been... What, a year already?
The woman holds a child in her arms
and tells him it's his.
The same whore who ran away with the little
money he had about a year ago,
just after they've done it and got wasted on the
same bed he rose from.

Thank you, God
It's, you know, just what the
hell I needed.

lewd drawings

The day she realized she hated her
brother was the day she went into his
room

until then she loved him,
everyone loved him
He was the family's artist, the prodigy
and he was damn good
and had some career ahead of him

"A rare talent," the
teachers said

And sure the teachers were right
but they didn't know about the
prodigy's secret stash of
lewd drawings featuring his little
sister and even his mother

they were skillfully laid across A4
pages divided in panels and some
even had speech bubbles and
what was written in those speech bubbles
made her burst out of the cursed room
and run into hers screaming
"Sick fuck sick fuck sick fuck fuck!"

The family dinner was never the
same

nothing was the same

And why she kept the secret,
she didn't know

Out of Work Philosophers

Sadly enough there are philosophers in this world
who have no questions to answer and
nothing to theorize about
All the thought provoking practices
have apparently been consumed, have
been done into extinction, devoured and
digested and shat
It is over
Humanity has no mysteries left
for the mysteries have no humanity
and are therefore heartless and soulless
and a waste of time

There is nothing left to discover
The world is a big play but all the
characters and all the scenes and all the
settings and the interactions have been
discovered as to ultimately rob us of the
sense of journey

Now it's like we just exist here
Perhaps to worship those who existed
before us and discovered all things for us
To stand in their shadow and bask
in the knowing that we will never create a
new poem or a new novel anymore than we
will design a never before seen color

Only that which I have never seen before
might qualify as new, and only to me, for
the concept of new can never be universal

And the more new things I see, the less
new things I see
and the less value they bear
Old people will agree to this
And the rest, they will grow old one day
Tomorrow
When the senses will wear out and the
ear will know that music is made
out by the same
vibration
and the eye will know that
all the colors are the same colors
mixed differently

Ultimately the mind will understand that
all ideas are the same idea told
differently
and heard differently
and passed along differently

And the idea says that happiness
starts with being and ends
with thinking

or perhaps this is only how I think of it
or how you hear it

these walls

at times I think these walls
are laughing at me

Hey, look
here's a boy who has no problem spending
twelve hours all alone in a room
with no human interaction whatsoever
Oh, look
he even enjoys it
he wouldn't have it any other way
Goddammit, we're an office here
but if we were a jail...
I think he'll be the kind of prisoner
who throws his bucket of slops in the
guard's face when the guard comes to
free him from solitary confinement,
you know, so he can spend more time
in solitary confinement.

You're right. I wish we formed a jail here
instead of an office
and look upon this boy

Yeah, I hear you, bro
I always wanted to be a prison wall
Ever since I was built
That's an entertained wall
one who forms a prison
there's really something to see there

I wish I was a bedroom wall
D' you think the walls that form his bedroom
are entertained? Better than us from the office?

This guy? You kidding?
He probably does in bedroom the same
thing he's doing here in the office
Just sitting there,
an absolute silence about him

How can he be so content about it?

Perhaps he doesn't know any better
You know what I'd like?
To be a wall of his mind.

Hehe, that we are already, brother.

cotton swabs

Oh well, fuck you too,
I say to the box of cotton swabs
sitting by
the mirror
It's pointed at me with the side displaying
the 'Don't insert in ear!' sign
And I push the swab further
and give it a spin
and I think to myself
I should write about this
I should...

Yeah, and then the eyes that
read
would say, 'fuck you too'
and 'why do you write if you have
nothing to say, dammit?'

Perhaps I am no different
from a box
of cotton swabs
somebody swears at
and what I write is equally frowned upon
as is the warning on the side of
that box

Yet there's something else
we have in common,
the box and I,
we display our message anyways
because we can't say it aloud

I put down the swab and
pick up the box with
a lot more
compassion this time
and walk away from the mirror and into my
room where my girlfriend is
reading something

I place the box of cotton swabs by my notebook
Open the notebook and start writing.
I write 'Oh well, fuck you too,
I say to the box of cotton swabs'

“What you do?”
my girlfriend
interrupts
me

“Writing,” I say

“Pff, why do you write if you have
nothing to say?”

And I put the pen down and pick the
box of cotton swabs up and walk over to her, look
her in the eyes
and say, “why don't you go to the bathroom and clean your ears?”

Topaz

I had a friend once
and he
was a poet
Wrote over two hundred
pieces
He was a genius

Look, he said
Check out these mad rhymes
Tight as vines strangling yo' chimes

He was right
He had so many rhymes there
Tried to make any word rhyme
with the next and the next and so on

Awesome, I said
Your rhymes are mad, my lad

Two hundred and some
poems full of words that rhyme tight

So when are you going to publish any?
I asked

What you mean? he said
I been publishing since last year
With my every sweat, every tear
Damn

Oh, so where can I get them?
Magazines, books, volumes
I'd like to buy your work

Me and this friend... we never had a fight
Yet after that question we never spoke again
He would avoid me in the streets
He would cross on the other side
Well,
I'm not one to go out of my way for people either
We just never spoke again

Though I'm writing this
because yesterday in a cafe I heard
someone call him from another table
Well, I'll be damned, he was the bartender, my friend
and the guy who called him did
it with a kind
of mock
and addressed my friend with the name McGonagall

My friend's name is not McGonagall
Why would they call him that?

Well, I decided to ask him
But he talked a colleague of his into
taking my table's order

I had a pint of beer and a shot of whiskey
and no smoke
And have never spoken with my friend again

this woman’s a warrior

her back to the world
she stands outside into the
cold
and the snow
made her a white helmet
and shoulder guards
and is now knitting a cape

the deer don't dare come
near her and the
boars too
stay away
and the men agree

this woman's a warrior

better not bother her

there's a blade stuck in
her heart
and you better not reach
to pluck it out if you're
not the one who put it
there

a wise investment

the skill 
I want to develop
most of
all in this life
is imagination

So I can be with you
and hold you
and talk to you
kiss you
listen close to your
breathing
and beating heart
even when you're not
by my side.
This is what I call
a wise investment.

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