jars of bugs

“jars of bugs” by Bogdan Dragos

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 window.

If a light is there
he’s watching it

smiling to himself

and thinking that
each one of
those houses
must contain its own
drama, its own
tragedy.

Each house is like
a jar of
bugs and worms
and other critters

And here he stands
alone
observing them all
as he sips his coffee.

Feeling utterly
blessed.

Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "jars of bugs"!

Check it out HERE!

https://www.amazon.com/stores/author/B09C46RMPS/allbooks?ingress=0&visitId=96628550-28a0-4f19-9a78-7717f0614bbd&ref_=ap_rdr

Thank you!

6 September 2026 1

god’s ways

god’s ways by Bogdan Dragos

mornings aren’t made for
waking up,
he used to say.
In the morning
one should just start his
second sleep

there weren’t a lot of people
who heard him say
the words, but the few who did
dismissed them as
silly ramblings of a drunk

He was in his early thirties

breaking his back in manual labor
at a construction site
during the day
and getting wasted at night

He reached the point where
six beers were no longer
enough for a suitable high, yet the
hangover seemed to
never end

This morning too
he wouldn’t have woken up

work started only
at 1 PM

but somebody knocked on
his door
and was quite insistent

As he got out of bed
he stepped on a cracked beer
can and
cut his foot

started to hop around the room
and curse and throw
random stuff at the walls

Ready to give whoever knocked at his
door a bit of venom

but then he
opened and was met with
her

“Remember me?” the girl
asked through
an inquisitive grin, her eyes
looking down at his
bleeding foot

“Who in fuck’s name
are you? What d’ you want?”

“Um… to apologize? Yeah, I
wanted to apologize.
Are you okay?”

“Apologize
for wh…?”
In that moment he remembered

Some ten, twelve years ago
he stole that bag of
weed from her
and she got so angry she
told everybody he raped her

so they nearly lynched his ass
an’ he had to
run away on the other side
of the world

and now here she
was again

Can’t run from one’s past, but
“I ain’t done nothing!” he
shouted in her face. “And you know
it! You fucking know it!
Takes a special kind of piece of
crap to call theft a rape, you know?
And you are that
piece of crap, you know?”

“I do,” she said. “That’s why… I’m here,
I guess.”
She pointed down at his foot.
“You’re bleeding. Can I come in?”

“Why? So you’ll tell everybody again
that I’ve raped your crazy ass?”

“No. So I could talk to you
about what happened, and… Help you
with that injury, I guess.”

Well

God, it turns out, doesn’t want
people to be alone for
the rest of their lives

but God’s ways of bringing them
together
sure are weird

Six months later
they were married

Not because they loved each other
so much
but because she threatened to
yell ‘rape’ again if he
refused to make her his wife

“Joke’s on you, I guess,” he said. “I was
God’s loneliest and most
desperate motherfucker anyhow.”

“I know,” she said

and in that
moment
God’s brilliant masterplan
for his subjects
shone once more

Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "god's ways"!

Check it out HERE!

Thank you!

3 September 2026 8

the body and mind will find other ways

the body and mind will find other ways by Bogdan Dragos

fourteen years ago
at the birth of his
daughter
the wife made him swear before
the holy cross
that he’ll never touch
drink again
in his life

He kept the promise

Also
fourteen years ago
the wife made him swear
before the holy cross
that he’ll never
touch a slot machine or
a poker table in his life

He kept that
promise also

six years ago
the wife also made him
swear before the holy
cross
that he’ll never touch himself
again in his life

this had nothing to do
with keeping the family unit
together in a healthy way

it was only his wife’s
whim

she would not have
her daughter
provided for and educated
by a sinful man

He kept that
promise too

even though the wife
was as ungenerous as one
could be when it came
to taking care of his needs

copulating without the
aim of creating life
was a sin, of course. So it had
to be avoided

“Goddamit, Jesus! How d’ you keep
yourself sane livin’
like that?”
some of his coworkers had asked

They called him Jesus,
not because
he partook in his wife’s zealotry
but because he had
a hole in his left hand

right between the
bones of the middle and
ring finger

“They’re called metacarpal bones,” the
wife had said

She knew about the injury
and knew how he’d
made it

Dozens of times
she’d watched him insert
a thin, long knitting needle through that hand
and then pulling it backward
and pushing it forward
while moaning in pain

She respected and loved
him for the ritual

“Subjecting yourself to a fraction of
what He had gone through,” she’d said
in admiration. “Darling,
this is worthy of praise. Finally you’re
the man I wanted
you to be. A true man of
Christ!”

Indeed
she had that opinion
of him and his madness
and with her own madness
they formed the happiest Christian
family

She didn’t need to know
that the ritual
caused him to ejaculate, for the
body and mind will find
other ways to
get rid of excess seed
when the normal means are
blocked

and God didn’t need to
punish him
for he wasn’t
exactly touching himself

What doesn’t a man
do for his family?

Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "the body and mind will find other ways"!

Check it out HERE!

Thank you!

27 August 2026 9

birch trees

birch trees by Bogdan Dragos

His was the only house
painted pink
in the whole neighborhood

It looked silly in the
warm season
and creepy in the cold

small trees dotted the front
and back yard
and further
beyond a forest began to
gain contours

It was a forest of
birch trees

and he visited it every time
the pink house
felt like it no longer wanted
him inside

and unfortunately that
was almost
every night

“I feel it in the vibration
inside the walls,” he said. “It’s
akin to a baby’s cries. She
doesn’t want me
here.
Never did want me here.”

He was talking about a daughter
who departed
some eight years ago
along with his wife

They wanted the house to
be painted pink
and he did it for them

It was one of the requests
they made while he
was sober

everything they asked while he
was sober was granted

problem was
they rarely caught him
sober

Soberness meant it was
time to talk about
all the
shit he’d done while drunk

so he’d drink some more
to forget
and then do
other stuff worth talking
about

One of the most
vicious circles in
reality

and the hardest to
break

“A circle only breaks when
there’s nothing
sustaining it,” he said to
the birch trees behind
the pink house. “And now
I am nothing.”

He walked up to one of the trees
and circled it with
his arms
and bit with his lips at
the few pieces of peeled bark
and closed his eyes

it was close enough to
hugging his
wife, for she was pale
and thin and bony
as the birch tree, and biting
the peeled bark
was close enough to
biting her hair and…

Well, better not to think
about it

Better to just ask
how in the hell did he hug
the tree in
daytime
and closed his eyes
and when he opened them
again
it was nighttime

What the hell was
this birch tree magic?

He went back to
the pink house
and sobered up

Swore to himself that
he’ll never get
drunk again

and opened
another bottle of vodka
to celebrate that

Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "birch trees"!

Check it out HERE!

Thank you!

20 August 2026 5

getting metaphysical

getting metaphysical by Bogdan Dragos

there’s gotta be
some kind of metaphysical
lesson here, he
thought as
he turned away from her
in bed
and got slapped on the face
and had to turn
right back
and hold her in his arms

no exchange of
words between them

It’s been only a few months, perhaps
three or four, since
he broke into her
car
and stole her backpack with
money and her ID
and books and other stuff,
and returned it to her door
the next day

Pretending he was
this hero
who brings back the stolen goods

“A guy tried to sell me
these books to
get money for meth,” he said
when he gave it back

and from one word to another
the hero
eventually invited the
damsel in distress to dinner
and from then on
they became
a couple

“Know what you want in life
and go after it,” his
father would’ve said

It made sense, but…

attaining the object of one’s
desire
certainly isn’t always
a good thing

If we’re to get really
metaphysical here, people
are nothing more
than children in the grand scheme of
things

and children sometimes
desire to touch the hot stove
or to lick at the
blue flames thinking they’re cold

We think that the
fulfillment of one’s wish
translates into happiness

we’re so
damn wrong, aren’t we?

“Did you remember to set the
alarm for 6:30 AM?” she asked
in the darkness

“Sure,” he said.

“Good. Now squeeze me tighter. And don’t
let go even as you fall asleep or
I’ll slap you again.
Gods, love, sometimes I think you’ve
the mind of a child.
Why else won’t you understand that
the right dreams
come only as I’m being held tight,
squeezed in a man’s arms.
This night
the spirit guardian is going to
reveal to us
what grave to dig on the morrow. So
squeeze me right
while I tune in to hear, okay?”

“Uh… Right. Good night, love.”

“Good night.”

Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "getting metaphysical"!

Check it out HERE!

Thank you!

13 August 2026 5

swineherd

swineherd by Bogdan Dragos

after 22 years
he returned to
his old town

I was just a kid
when he left
so
I didn’t recognize him

but some of the older guys
were quick to
offer him a
drink

“Who’s he?” I asked

and the only answer I got
was
“Swineherd.”

They called him
the swineherd

He was an okay
fellow

knew a few bar tricks
and showed us all his
glass eye
and the hole it covered

shit looked like
a butthole when
he removed that thing

He spoke about how good it
was to be back
and the guys asked him
if he’s gonna
swineherd again
and they all laughed together
like it was the
craziest
inside joke ever

I went home drunk
that night
and it was the kind of
drunk that doesn’t provide
inspiration

So with nothing
to write about
I checked out some random
news on my feed

One title caught
my eye

FARMER ARRESTED AFTER
BEING CAUGHT
TRANSPORTING COCAINE LODGED
INSIDE PIGS’ ANUSES

Hmm…

Well, I’ll be damned

Suddenly
I knew what to write about
and got to it

Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "swineherd"!

Check it out HERE!

Thank you!

6 August 2026 5

nothing’s weird at this point

nothing’s weird at this point By Bogdan Dragos

“They call it demon possession,” she
said, her hands
busy struggling to open a
beer bottle
that was already opened.

“Maybe you should
stop drinking,” I said. “It really
looks like you’ve had enough.”

but of course
she doesn’t hear that. She only
hears what she wants to

People talk to her
but their words have
to pass through
the thinnest filter I’ve ever seen

her mind

So because she didn’t hear me, or
rather her mind did not
register my words and
their meaning, she went on with
her story and
with trying to open an
already opened beer bottle.
“I think I was only… um, sixteen. On that
night I shot my older brother in his
sleep. Killed him dead.
Stole his keys and took his
car and went for…
what d’ you call that?”

“A joy ride?” I said

“Hahahah! Yeah. A joy ride.”

Now she did hear me. Cuz I
behaved according to
her script

“I did not crash the
car. Didn’t even scratch it! I never
went through driver’s ed
but still I drove
better than my bro. I was made
for driving. But then, you know, I just
returned home
and I told my mother everything
that happened. With a smile on my pretty
face. I mean, it was super pretty
back then. You should’ve seen me.
I have pics, but they’re still nothing
like the real thing.
You would’ve soooo wanted to
fuck me back then, I guarantee.”

“I would’ve been fourteen
back then,” I said. “Would you have
left a boy two years your
junior hit?”

But it was another thing
her mind didn’t
register

“It’s all I could think about. I don’t know,
is it weird to say that… That
a car ride, that joy ride had
caused my sexual awakening?
Perhaps the surge
of adrenaline caused me to
become immeasurably… um, horny.
D’ you think it’s weird?”

“Nothing’s weird
at this point,” I said, actually
taking the beer bottle away
from her hand

Immediately
her hands went to her
hair
and grabbed at random
and pulled
playfully
while she bit her lips.
“Ah, a long story follows.
Mother called the authorities
and I was taken
into this… uh, this place for
troubled teens. Was too young to
go to prison, haha.
And the biggest issue here was…
I mean, I was really disappointed. Not
one, not a single one of
the staff members
wanted to… you know, to do
it with me. Not the men, not the
women. Not even the other
teenagers.
Can you believe this shit?
All those stereotypes of
mental asylum workers abusing
their patients… Fake! All of them.
Couldn’t even get
a smile from them, let alone
a fuck.
And eventually they quenched
this desire of mine. With
meds.
I don’t even know what they
gave me, but
in time, they numbed me for good.
And now… I don’t even make
the difference
between penetration
and wiping with toilet paper.
Feels the same to me.
What good is a body if it can’t
make love?”

“It can tell stories,” I said

At this
she smiled
and leaned over
and took the
beer bottle from me
and drank

I’m still not sure
if my words
were registered into
her mind
or not

but maybe not knowing
makes it even
better

Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "nothing's weird at this point"!

Check it out HERE!

Thank you!

31 July 2026 1

one more coffee

one more coffee by Bogdan Dragos

A customer spat into
her face
today

said the coffee she prepared
was too hot

and she refused to
get the authorities
involved

told the manager
she forgave the guy

She was like that

Every time someone wronged
her with something
she’d be as quick to forgive as a
child

It was nice working
with her

Though she was also
one of those people who were
a bit too good for
their own good

Hence she never got a raise
in over five years

they just knew she wouldn’t
mind. She’d just
forgive and move on

It was exactly
so

At the end of the shift
she went back to her
one room apartment
and stared
at the
blank wall
and smiled

Life was still so much
better now
than back then
when
the CPS found her
locked in the dog cage
and took her
away from a mother and
father that didn’t even care
that much

“Forgiveness,” she says, “is what
turns the human into
a god. If you can
do that
then you can do anything.”

I think she’s right

that’s why I always
leave a big tip
at the coffee shop

One day I’ll muster up
the courage
to ask her
to be my muse

I just know she’ll answer
with, “Darling, I already am.”

But until then

I’ll just have
one more coffee

Thank you

Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "one more coffee"!

Check it out HERE!

Thank you!

23 July 2026 10

pleonasm

he wouldn’t let go
of that book

nobody knew what it
was
because nobody could
pry it off his hands to
have a look

Eh, whatever

it was just a book

Other crazed men
held on to
dangerous objects like
knives and screwdrivers
and shards of glass wrapped
in a cloth and a padlock
in a sock ever ready to become
a flail when swung right

But he just
held on to that book with gray
hard covers
and like some evangelist
went through the apartment
buildings from
door to door
knocking
and asking the residents if
they’ve seen her

‘Who the hell was he talking
about?’ they’d
ask

and this question made him
leave
and go to the next door

One time
some kid opened up
and probably thought he
was talking about his mother, for
he answered, “She’s at work.”

And without another word
the crazy fool
just barged in, passing by
the kid
and went straight into
the living room where
he seated himself on the
sofa and opened the
book
ready to talk to the
kid about her

Only,
the kid ran out and
asked for help

Cops were called and they took
him to the station

someone there
figured that
the guy simply couldn’t
tell reality apart from
fiction

“He’s talking about
a character in that
book he’s holding,” they said. “Thinks
she’s a real person.”

“Yet another nut case. And what the
hell’s the
story about? What’s it titled? Who
wrote it?”

Not without great effort
and a sound beating, they
managed
to take the book away
and have a look at it

It wasn’t even a book. Only the
cover was. He ripped it
and glued it to
a thick notebook that
was fully written by hand

“What the hell you call
this?” said one
of the cops.

“A manuscript,” said another.

“A what?”

“Our felon’s a writer. I’m sure you
know what a writer is.
Now, d’ you know what
a pleonasm is?”

“Not the time for playin’ smartass,
smartass. Just say what
you mean already.”

“A prime example of pleonasm
is labeling a writer
as crazy.”

“Huh?”

“C’mon, just get on with the
procedures. We gotta get
this guy into a mental
institution.
He’s a writer, in case you still
don’t get it.”

“Oh…”

They were 50% right

Should’ve added
the word ‘unpublished’ before
the word ‘writer’ and
then the statement would’ve been
complete and
100% true

Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "pleonasm"!

Check it out HERE!

Thank you!

@bogdan_1_dragos
“pleonasm” POEM by Bogdan Dragos he wouldn’t let go of that book nobody knew what it was because nobody could pry it off his hands to have a look Eh, whatever it was just a book Other crazed men held on to dangerous objects like knives and screwdrivers and shards of glass wrapped in a cloth and a padlock in a sock ever ready to become a flail when swung right But he just held on to that book with gray hard covers and like some evangelist went through the apartment buildings from door to door knocking and asking the residents if they’ve seen her ‘Who the hell was he talking about?’ they’d ask and this question made him leave and go to the next door One time some kid opened up and probably thought he was talking about his mother, for he answered, “She’s at work.” And without another word the crazy fool just barged in, passing by the kid and went straight into the living room where he seated himself on the sofa and opened the book ready to talk to the kid about her Only, the kid ran out and asked for help Cops were called and they took him to the station someone there figured that the guy simply couldn’t tell reality apart from fiction “He’s talking about a character in that book he’s holding,” they said. “Thinks she’s a real person.” “Yet another nut case. And what the hell’s the story about? What’s it titled? Who wrote it?” Not without great effort and a sound beating, they managed to take the book away and have a look at it It wasn’t even a book. Only the cover was. He ripped it and glued it to a thick notebook that was fully written by hand “What the hell you call this?” said one of the cops. “A manuscript,” said another. “A what?” “Our felon’s a writer. I’m sure you know what a writer is. Now, d’ you know what a pleonasm is?” “Not the time for playin’ smartass, smartass. Just say what you mean already.” “A prime example of pleonasm is labeling a writer as crazy.” “Huh?” “C’mon, just get on with the procedures. We gotta get this guy into a mental institution. He’s a writer, in case you still don’t get it.” “Oh…” They were 50% right Should’ve added the word ‘unpublished’ before the word ‘writer’ and then the statement would’ve been complete and 100% true
♬ original sound – Bogdan Dragos

16 July 2026 3

it is time to give up

it is time to give up by Bogdan Dragos

Yeah,
it’s one of those
evenings
when reality
just doesn’t want to
cooperate

When you’ve given it
your all
and feel like there’s
nothing left but
to mourn

the pages lay
scattered about
like autumn leaves, only
with less value

At least the leaves
serve a purpose, don’t they?

while the pages you’ve
written…

The beer also tastes
like vomited sulfur 

You even forgot to
drag from the cigarette
you’ve just lit
and the ashes fall on your chest
and gift you with a small
burn mark

You curse a
little

Not knowing whom you’re
cursing

But then it hits you

You suddenly remember
that reality
is nothing more than
your own reflection on the
surface of life’s water

You give a little
laugh
followed by a sigh

Yeah,
there’s nothing left do
be done

It is time to
give up

Only,
not in a defeatist manner

Give up
the struggle to control

take a break

and let life
straighten itself out

You don’t have to
actually believe

Just to it
and be amazed at the
results

You’ll see

Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "it is time to give up"!

Check it out HERE!

Thank you!

9 July 2026 11

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