but what if it was
all a dream?
All a nightmare

What if he wasn't just a construction worker
who fell from the
scaffold and couldn't get up
and was in incredible pain from the torso up
because he had no more feeling below?

If this was all a dream
all a nightmare
and he was no construction worker barely
making ends meet
then his wife did not divorce him
a few weeks ago
and she did not take the kids
and she did not have another man in her life

If it was all a dream
a nightmare
then
he did not
just
jump to his death

If it was all a dream
a nightmare

same thing
After a painful breakup
she would
have her sister over
for some hardcore drinking
and nasty chatting

Usually
there would be a little over
ten shots of tequila
with salt and no lemon
that brought along their favorite
story

"When I told you to
lie down on the carpet," her sister
said, "and I brought the
dog over you and jerked
him off in
your hair."

"Crazy bitch."

"No, it was funny! It was funnier when
dad saw you with
that shit stuck in your hair and
your collar and he
beat up our babysitter's boyfriend who
visited that day. Hahahahaha!"

"Poor fucker..."

"Yeah. Him dying in the
hospital put daddy
behind bars, you know?"

"I know."

"And then it was all heaven for us."

"It was?"

"Duh. We were free to
go out with guys then. Mom didn't mind. She
had her own."

"Yeah, I guess
life was
pretty nice to us..." 

He kept coming back
That was his only skill

Respect is not something you can possibly
be born with. The children of
kings and lords
should know this
but most don't

Though this kid who kept coming back
he was no one's son
A vagabond
His body bony in all places
no meat
under the skin

A skin that had all the colors
from pale to yellow to blue to
crimson to pitch black
dirty
scarred
sore
and something that looked
like bone peeking out of tissue

He got beat up every time he came to the
fighting pit behind the tavern

Never won a fight against
those well-fed, bulky sons of farmers
and blacksmiths and butchers
with puffy arms and wide napes

They fought mostly for respect
and the money was a side prize
But the bony boy
came only for the money
and he never got any
But he never begged in the marketplace either

The bony boy had
a pride about him
a pride that never left until the day
he could no longer stand in the fighting pit
after that fatal blow
It wasn't even that much of a strong hit
but his neck was so weak
it snapped

And they gathered in a circle
around him
mute
and stared

stared until their backs felt brushed,
shoved to the side by a pair of
hands weaker even than the bony boy's
Softer

"That's his little sister,"
someone said as they all moved
aside and let her reach the
bony boy,
crying

"So it's her that he fought for
all this time."

"Yes."

"And he kept coming back
every time."

"Yes."

"Insane."

"Wah, respect for the little guy."

"You know what, boys,
I think we should do it.
Give the little girl the prize money."

"Yeah."

"Though this ain't no fantasy land
and no poem.
So, no poem, no poetic justice.
We'll give the girl the prize money alright,
but she'll have to earn it.
Hopefully doing a better job than
her brother."

"Yeah, girl, just like your brother,
come back every time you need money.
Unlike him
you'll get it.
You really will."

"Right, now off with those
rags and let your fight begin.
I'll go first."

he was a very old dog and
he left hairs everywhere he sat
yet despite all that
she let him sleep in the bed besides her

Only because her family
said it was wrong

By definition
everything those people called wrong
was right and vice versa

So the old dog slept with her

The old dog was all she
had left

The old dog was the only one who
stood by her side
that time she overdosed on sleeping pills

The old dog was the only one
who didn't agree with mother when
she said, "Oh joy, another suicide attempt.
I wish she'd succeed at
something for once in life but…
well, no such luck, I guess."

The old dog had died
four days ago
but she still kept him in bed
besides her

It's the little things that tell
the difference
but many times there's no observer
to notice them

Little things like
ignoring all the beer in the fridge
and going straight for the cupboard
where the tea bags
stood untouched for years

Chamomile
Caramel
Pear

A fine combination

He took out one little bag
and filled the kettle with water
and placed it on the electric stove

and looked out the window
while waiting for the steam to whistle

Rainy weather outside
Overcast weather inside, in his heart

Also he had no smokes left
and no one to smoke them with
so he took the lighter from inside his
pocket and lit it
against the glass of the window
and said to the flame, "You said
you'd leave. But you
never left. It was a lie. Else why do
I feel you closer now than when your
body stood right next to mine? Doesn't
make sense. You never left…"

The glass started to blacken around
the flame and he retreated it

"You never left," he said. "You are so close
now and had taken over so much
of my mind that I started doing
the things
you loved and I hated."

The kettle whistled
behind him

He turned around.
"You never left…"

She walked on tiptoes around the
house and
bounced a few times and
spun like a ballerina
and sang, "Today I don't wanna diiIiIIie."

It was rare for her
but he sure
was glad to see it. Glad and now
a bit anxious
not to do something that would
disrupt her
happiness. It could be anything really

She grabbed a towel and wrapped
it around his neck
to bring his body closer to hers
and said, "Let's open a wine
bottle and make love."

He smiled and nodded
and instinctively brought a hand to
his head to feel the
scab from the last opened bottle of
wine

it's a bit cold
I'm sitting by the margin of the river
Fishing
A bit upset
There were too many fish who escaped
my nets

I sigh
throw 'em again

wait

I catch one
pull it out and stomp on its golden head
rip it apart from the body
and drink its blood

...

Yeah, bullshit
I'm sitting in the office

night shift

supervising casinos through
CCTV cameras

it's 05:53
and I'm ignoring work to write poems
like this one

and something always comes up
and makes me forget my ideas
The phone rings
Some customer causes trouble in some casino
Some other customer is suspected of cheating
A bouncer falls asleep on his
chair due to lack of activity
The game attendant flirts with a customer
There's a bill fallen on the floor and I've to
determine its owner
A bunch of idiots are being too loud
Some other idiot keeps demanding alcohol
but his bets ain't worth shit
and so on
and on
and on

And the goldfish escape through my fingers
and the eyes of my nets are too wide
and that just sucks, man
It really does

But I pick myself up
and tell myself what I always tell myself

A writer writes
A writer writes
A writer writes

Just like a fisherman fishes

And you don't stop because the catch
is rickety

You continue because of it

Yep, I know I’ve the voice of a 96 year old man on his deathbed despite being in my 20s. Also my pronunciation’s all over the place due to lack of practice (English ain’t my 1st language). But behold I got drunk and silly one afternoon and told a few friends about my poetry blog. You know how these things end up. Here I am now recording my own voice — with intonation, mind you — reading my poem.

Oh, infinitely beautiful girl
you are not alone

she wrote with
scarlet lipstick on her mirror

But words alone
don't
change hearts

and she was infinitely
unhappy

cursed

doomed

All the boys and men
said yes
to her

but her brother still
said no