Many thanks to Gobblers by Masticadores for featuring my poem, "Dad build"!
Thank you!
Dad build
make friends with loneliness
I cannot recall the best advice
I got from my father
but the best
advice I got from
a man that’s not
my father
is to
make friends with loneliness
If you and loneliness are enemies
you’ll be lonely
but once you and loneliness are
friends you’ll be solitary
The difference between loneliness
and solitude
is the difference
between
the naive kid who thinks one’s
happiness depends upon others
and the wise sage who knows that
one’s happiness depends
only on
one’s self
and one’s self alone.
a turtle born on the wrong side of its shell
He had a big belly
but he wasn't a fat man
he wished he was a fat man
his daughter was four
and she told him that he
looked like a
turtle
born
on the wrong side of
its shell
and mother laughed.
He didn't.
Surely he would have if the
swelling wasn't a terminal
disease
a type of cancer of the
stomach and guts whose
name he struggled very
hard to
forget
but the regular visits to
the doctor kept reminding him
his wife kept laughing
she said that laughing
is the key
the best healing
Laughter and love
lots and lots of love
Love
but the other night when
he tucked the little girl
in bed and kissed her forehead and
said "I love you."
she poked her tongue at him
and said "I don't! You ugly and weird.
I love mommy and puppy Bran. Good
night." And she put her
head on the pillow and
closed her eyes.
It was I who went to the shelter
and brought puppy Bran home, he though
as he closed the door, tears
blurring his vision
He didn't go into the
bedroom where his wife
was probably asleep
he went into the bathroom
vomited
washed his face
rinsed his mouth
went into the kitchen
and grabbed the leash
went outside
and took puppy Bran
for a walk
the moon lighted their path
and the shadow of his
big, swollen belly
covered all of puppy Bran
dreams of drunk men
the dreams of drunks are the strangest
and often most beautiful
It’s what he
came to think this morning
after he woke up with
the empty glass under the blanket
Surely it was that glass
and the liquor in his guts
that made him dream of a frozen woman, clear
as glass
She smiled at him
with diamond teeth and stooped like only
a professional stripper could
next to his limp body
She rolled him onto his belly
and his limpid, numb eyes
watched her grow an icicle from between
her legs
but they closed by the time
she carved a hole into his liver and
began to fuck him until the
ice melted
That was a nice dream,
he concluded
And tonight he’d go to sleep
with two glasses
and a bottle under
the blanket
the female assassin
the ashtray was looking more
and more
like a sick hedgehog
and her yellowed fingers
added one more quill to it
she sat back in her chair
work wasn't in the best of stages lately and
her office looked like a junkie's
trailer. You could
scrape the nicotine
off the walls. In fact, she
would get nicotine under her nails if she
just scratched her skin
anywhere
But otherwise she was
a beauty
and that was a problem. Beautiful
women have the worst
luck in marriages
The husband left and the two girls went
with him
They were sick and tired of her
habit to consume more cigarette smoke than
oxygen
And drinking was also a problem
though not nearly
as big
The worst drinking has ever done to her
was to make her lose
the driving license which she never
bothered to take back
The real problem was,
as always,
a lack of money. If the damn phone didn't
ring soon
she would have to kill someone
for a pack of cigarettes
Assuming she could still
kill
someone with her body rotting from the
inside. She was fine with
breast cancer
but now lung cancer joined too
and it was by far nastier
Still
that was all right
It doesn't take a healthy body to pull
a trigger
And speaking of triggers
She opened a drawer in her desk
took out the gun
studied it
Not loaded
She browsed through the drawer
Only one bullet left. One single bullet.
These things cost money
too
Damn it
But it's like they said back in
the mercenary camp
The last bullet is always preserved to be
used on the self
She loaded the bullet into the
gun
A life lived well is one
lived without regrets and without
ever asking for mercy
or feeling sorry for yourself
At 39
she had that. There was nothing
else to be taken
away from it
She put the gun to her
temple
Smiled
"Except for a final smoke."
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He went nine years without doing it. Five of those were spent in prison so it was just normal but the other four he spent desperately trying and failing He did look fine before he got into hardcore drugs and crime Well, there was this cute drug dealer down the block from whom he kept buying only to get to see her and try to strike up a conversation He didn't care that she was pregnant He called up almost daily to meet up and buy but he wasn't too good at conversation. Had no game, as others would put it And on the other side she wasn't so good at putting the products together She constantly laced the weed with some other shit and one such shit was so bad that when he smoked it he got all horny and creative and desperate He grabbed a black permanent marker and drew a cunt across his left forearm It wasn't good enough so he cut it open with a razor and began to lick at it and finger it around the bone and eventually fuck it until he came He came about four, five times until he passed out
“jars of bugs” by Bogdan Dragos
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he rides a rusty bike
in the cold
night
sliding like a
fish
from alley to alley.
He’s going up
the hill again.
All he’s got on him
besides
his clothes
and the bike
is a thermos filled with
coffee he got from
the vending machine
at the mall,
coffee bought with
money earned
from a day’s work of
standing by the traffic lights
at the intersection,
waiting for them to turn
red
and offering to wash
someone’s windshield.
Once on top of the
hill
he leaves the bike at
the base
of the water tower
and climbs the cold
iron ladder.
There’s no one to stop him
at this time.
He sits down
cross-legged
opens the thermos and pours
the coffee into
the cup part
and sips.
Ahead of him
the city sleeps.
Only a lone light shines
here and there
in some…
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Daydreaming as a profession 