Daydreaming and then, maybe, writing a poem about it. And that's my life.
Many thanks to Gobblers by Masticadores for featuring my poem, "«Ain’t nobody out there goin’ through what I went,» he said"!
Also check out some of my poetry books on Amazon --> HERE!
Thank you!
Many thanks to Gobblers by Masticadores for featuring my poem, "Why do grownups go to work?"!
Also check out some of my poetry books on Amazon --> HERE!
Thank you!
Many thanks to MASTICADORES ROMANIA for publishing this one!
Check out the English version HERE!
Thank you!
Wasted years
What do they look like?
Can you show in a picture?
He nodded to himself
as he thought
about it
Of course
who other than him to know
what wasted years look like
After 45 years spent inside
a box he was qualified to
judge. And it wasn’t
even prison. It was the office.
Accounting.
45 years
And today...
Today he was the 65-year-old
photographer
who raised the camera before
the mirror and snapped
a selfie
and said
“I am wasted years.”
Also check out some of my poetry books on Amazon --> HERE!
Thank you!
Many thanks to Gobblers by Masticadores for featuring my poem, "After things fell apart"!
Also check out some of my poetry books on Amazon --> HERE!
Thank you!
quite a few times she had to ask
him why he was
so shy
He thought it was just
normal to be
shy on a first date
no matter how many other dates you've
been on with other girls
He was afraid of getting
too deep into
relationships, mainly because girls didn't
like guys who still lived
with their parents
He lived with his
father
who worked as a butcher
His clothes were always stained by blood
and smelled of salt and iron
but worst of all
was that he
was drunk more often than not
About thirty minutes into
the date his phone
rang and he excused himself to
answer. It was his father
"Listen buddy. I kinda need your
help."
"Dad, I kinda need you to understand that
I can't save your ass every time
you get in trouble thanks
to your drinking. I'm busy
right now."
"Oh? Too busy to help
your old man?"
"Bye."
"No, no, no, wait! Listen. It's just
a simple thing this time. You just have to
tell the police that your
father is a butcher and that the
eyeball they found in his rectum belongs to
a pig and not a human being, okay?"
"Dad, what the fuck?"
"Please!"
He hung up
walked back to the table
sat down
smiled
"Problems?" his date asked.
"No, no. My father asked for
a ride. I told him I can't right now. It's
okay though. Nothing urgent or
important."
"Father, huh? Must be nice having one."
"Oh, you don't…?"
She smiled. "Nevermind that. But anyway,
speaking of fathers, you think you'll
be a good one?"
"Huh?"
"Cuz I surely won't be the best
mother. See, I just found out days ago
that my ex-boyfriend got me
pregnant. You think
you'll be a good daddy?"
"Um… I think my dad's calling
again…"
Also check out some of my poetry books on Amazon --> HERE!
Thank you!
Many thanks to Gobblers by Masticadores for featuring my poem, “Does it change anything?“
Also check out some of my poetry books on Amazon --> HERE!
Thank you!
he downs the second bottle
of wine
and then curses the
beer for not
tasting as good
the rectangular desk before
him looks round
now
and his chair grows wheels
all the insects in the
apartment
crawl under the
clock on the wall
and spin the hands
backwards
lots of things are happening
but the
story before him doesn’t
write itself
The paper is still pale
the pen
still frozen
The next word will never come
out
let alone the next line
He leans back
and the demon calls from
the other side of the window
and tells him
to hurry up
“That’s not how
writing works,” he whispers back
But he doesn’t
know how
it works anymore
So he just stands
and walks to
the window
opens it
and answers
the call
Also check out some of my poetry books on Amazon --> HERE!
Thank you!
"It's not that it was the worst
but it was very bad," the old
man said.
"I wasn't hanging but the noose
was so thick around my frail neck.
I was nine. And the
forest was
dark.
Night.
And holding me, they made my
old man dig a deep hole.
He did as they said
to buy my freedom.
They untied me then and
put the rope around my old man's
arms and legs
and threw him in the hole
and covered him up with dirt.
They didn't make me watch.
But I did.
I wanted to photograph their
faces with my eyes
to burn their smirks under my eyelids.
Well, the saddest thing about it all is
that they died, all of them were
caught and condemned to death
before I was old enough or strong
enough to hunt down and
kill them myself.
The greatest regret of my life.
The world, you see, has no true justice
It never had.
You see, young man, that's why I
can never be a child of God.
He wants us all to forgive.
I can't.
Don't want.
Will not.
Ever.
So instead of going to church
I pass out in bars like this one.
It's been my favorite lately
And you're my only friend, young man.
You're the only one weird enough to
listen to this old, demented fool's stories."
"I'll always listen,"
I said.
"Here, how about another drink?"
"Another drink, sure. Thanks.
But I'm afraid you won't be
listening to these stories for long.
I'm going away, young man."
"Where?"
"Well, to court first
and then
definitely
to prison."
"To prison at your age?
What did you do?"
The old man smiled a toothless
smile. "Old as I am, I used to have
front teeth, you know? Well, the
reason I no longer have them...
I bit a child's ear off.
It was his face.
It reminded me of them. Belonged to the
same race. So I figured... you know,
maybe he was one of their descendants.
It was the least I could do. All
I could do...
I told you I'm crazy. I told
everyone."
"Yep, but I'm listening. I'm a
writer..."
"Really?"
"No, but I try to be. Want to."
"Heh, guess we're both crazy
after all. Cheers."
Also check out some of my poetry books on Amazon --> HERE!
Thank you!
he owned one pair of shoes
four pairs of socks
one pair of pants
a tank top
two t-shirts and
a sweatshirt
he’d lost the cap
in his last dice game.
“well, hell, doesn’t matter,
broke the spell,” he chanted,
“therefore
somehow, someway
luck is gonna come my way
and why not here, now, today?”
the dreams haven’t left
the dreams were still in him,
in his soul
ready to explode
47 manuscripts:
14 novels, 7 novellas,
and 26 short stories
he carried in his pack
along with his socks
his other t-shirt
a knife
six pens he stole
from the library
where he wrote
a candy bar
and an old dull razor
he wasn’t so young anymore
the beard and gray hairs
made him look much older
surely the hunger had
affected that as well
but it didn’t matter
he was going to make it
one day, some day
soon
somehow, someway
he really had no
doubt about it
Also check out some of my poetry books on Amazon --> HERE!
Thank you!
Daydreaming as a profession 