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Here we go
open the beer can
bring it to the lips
have a sip
and...
There it is
that PSA starts running on TV
about a great part of the population
caring for nothing but how to get high
The numbers are alarming
Getting high has become
as much a science as it is an art
and a banal thing
Everyone seeks to escape reality
with desperation
therefore
the strongest drug of all
is suicide
so potent it can get you high
even if you just think about it
I had my share
but managed to change my mind early
I no longer think of suicide
but make others do it
and that still counts as getting high
since they're all characters in my writings
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He started writing at the
age of thirty-eight
and most of his early poems were
about starting late,
being a late bloomer
He said he'd spent those thirty-eight
years figuring out what not to be
and in the process of figuring
that out he did a lot of
living
changed countless jobs
and locations
and lovers
enemies
customs
religions
political views
philosophies
opinions
and now it was time to
document all that
with as little fiction added
as possible
he began
and went on
fueled by the saying
"Since I started so late
I owe it to myself
to keep going."
He kept going
And the young
fresh writers
the budding talents
the prodigies
shit-talked him for being a delirious
old fool who mistook
fiction for reality
And they rated and reviewed
his works and referred to them
as being dull garbage that
belonged into the trash can
"Oh, poor fool," they said. "He's just
trying to sell the world bald cats.
That's what he's trying to do. He strips
them of fur, of the beauty that makes
cats desirable, lovable. Behold,
his works are so raw, the
writing so simple, so
lazy and devoid of any description.
He tells the reader that there are
curtains before the window but fails to
show what color, shape, smell,
effectiveness of keeping the sunlight away
from a housewife's eyes while she
examines the cucumbers brought in
with the last trip to the grocery store.
Raw and dry
that's how he is
raw and dry
and that deems his works not
worthy of our attention.
Though we are a bit sorry for the old fool.
No matter what the voices in his head
told him
there is such a thing as being too
late to begin
and this is it. See? He's like an eighty
year old playing hockey with the pros,
athletes in their prime."
What those who haven't done
enough living fail to realize is that
in this world there is a market for
literally anything and everything.
And a market you can't find
is just a market that has but to be
started
and the customers will come.
There are lots of people who love
bald cats and even prefer them
over the furry ones.
No market has ever died because
of the customer
only because of the merchant.
As long as you're that merchant who
doesn't give up you'll sell your
stuff eventually
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the absolute worst part about
being locked up
in the psych ward was having
no access to guns
No greater torture
for him
He spent his creative hours
in the workshop
drawing chicks with guns
and jerking off to them
“You're pretty good at this,”
said one of the
nurses
He snorted. “I'm hella good at
everything that involves
shooting, babe.”
“Oh sir, I didn't mean... I
meant drawing. You're pretty
good at drawing.”
“Yeah, fuck drawing. I wanna
shoot shit. Say, could I
at least get some gunpowder. I just
wanna snort it. Nothing more,
I swear.”
She gave the usual answer. “I'll
check with the doctor
and see what
can be done.”
and was gone
He wasn't mad enough to believe
her
He was just mad enough to
use the tools in the workshop to
shape a wooden gun handle from
a small log
and staple it to the
base of his penis, to make the whole
thing resemble a pistol
He held the wooden
handle and moved it
up and down while staring at
his drawings
until he shot his load at them
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high school dropout
out of a job
out of options
soon to be out of the
rented studio
apartment
he went to the local bar
and drank himself
to the point he had to vomit
to make room for more
and next thing
he knew
he was dating a woman
named Cactus
Life can get pretty
weird when
you don’t live it
consciously
I knew the guy and heard
he moved in
with his lover
and started a new life
I really, really hope the
headline
“LOCAL ALCOHOLIC DEVELOPS SCHIZOPHRENIA,
DISMEMBERS GIRLFRIEND
PLANTS HER LIMBS IN FLOWERPOTS,
STICKS NEEDLES IN THEM”
is not about him
it was a charming night
She really
liked a man who could
drive her from
the restaurant after having
quite some glasses
to drink
and he was that man
He drove her to
his house
and helped her out of the
car like a
gentleman
and even held her hand
all the way to
the door
Her heart was pounding
and her brain too. A voice
kept saying
'He's the one. He's the one!'
It was silenced
when she saw two small
animal heads on his
doorstep. A cat's and
a bunny's. The doormat
was soaked with
their blood
She froze and
the gentleman said, “Oh crap,
not this shit again.”
And he walked up to
them and kicked them
to the side like mini soccer balls
“My ex-wife,” he said with a shrug. “Just
another one of
her antics. You get used
after a while.”
He opened the door and
motioned her in
She hesitated
She followed him home from
the casino
because he
swore he was a gambling addict
A true gambler
he lived only to gamble
Never missed a chance to declare it
"I like gamblers," she
said. "Love 'em to death."
He was all
smiles
and then she continued, "Say, what
about a little gamble
of our own? You down for that?"
"Baby," he said, "long as it's a
gamble I'm down to hells
and below, haha."
Once in the room
she climbed on the bed
and removed her clothes
and shuffled through her purse
and pulled out about a dozen
hypodermic needles
"What you doin' with those?"
he asked
She grinned at him
and spread her
legs and pointed between them
"I'll stick some of 'em
here in these lips. Your part
of the gamble is to
turn off the lights and slide
your way between 'em. Let's go, gambler.
Oh, and no fingers. It's
an all-or-nothing gamble."
I liked her dad
He was an interesting guy
preached all day
long
about smartphone
addiction
while his daughter was on her
smartphone, ignoring
him
“A human life,” he was saying.
“Controlled by a piece
of plastic
with lights. A destiny
completely determined by
a machine
designed by corporations to become
god, to claim souls. How
blind, how utterly and
impossibly blind a whole generation
of human beings can be. To
willingly subject
themselves to slavery like
that. Their thumbs
and fingers always tap-tap-tapping
that screen
as if trying to break
their soul free from beyond. But
it never happens. You cannot
break a door
by merely knocking on it...”
“Whatever, dude,” said his daughter
with the phone before
her face
He shook his head and
then looked at me. This time
I too was looking
at my phone.
“I see she has corrupted you too,”
he said. “Shame. I was hoping
it could be
the other way around
just for once.”
I let the phone
down. “Me? Oh no, I was just
checking my e-mail. I've
sent some poems to
a bunch of publishers and
was hoping to
see a reply or something.”
“Hm, and is there any
reply?” he asked
“No,” I said
He nodded. “How about
a beer?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
those cold evenings
coming inside
the house and crying
"Mom, I'm hungry."
A whirl on the heels
A stare colder than
the outside weather
Hands on her hips
"Show me your tongue."
The little mouth opens
and the tongue
comes out
She stares at it
and then grabs it between
her thumb and index
and studies it, gives it
a rub and
declares: "No. You're not that
hungry. Get out of
here and leave me alone."
And her words carry the finality
of God's words from
the Bible
because she is the god of this
small world
and her word is law
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my neighbor from upstairs
claims that
God sticks
post-it notes on his
fridge overnight
I did ask him
what they said but
he only told me that I'll
have to follow
him to church if
I want to find out
I'm generally not a very
curious guy
so I declined
and, what do you know, few
days later I see
lots of other
people following my
neighbor to church
They all looked the
other way when
I passed by them and said hi
Thing is
I don't even doubt
God spoke to my neighbor
through post-it notes
and gave a lot of people hope
I just
like being the outsider
more than I like
being hopeful
He jumped off the building and
the metallic wings carried
him high
towards the clouds
where others like him swam in absolute
bliss
but then something
hit his head
and
he woke up
turned around in bed
and realized there
was blood trickling from
his eyebrow
The girl besides him was
holding a
stapler in her hands
and her eyes were watching
him with hate
"What the fuck!?" he shouted
"Keep it down," she said. "Ah, you've
got some nerve to
play victim here, boy."
"What?"
"Oh, I tell you what. I was talking to
you and for a reply
you turned your back
to me and closed your eyes and
fell asleep. Like, what the fuck? So
I figured if you
can't keep your eyelids away
from your eyes I'll give
you a hand. Ah, sometimes I think I'm just
too good for you, boy."
He put his head on
the pillow and breathed heavily
"Yeah," he said. "Me too."
Daydreaming as a profession 