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his eyes looked fresh out of
a hardcore crying
session
I walked up to him
and asked what
was wrong
He showed me his phone and
what I saw were pictures of some
dismembered kitten,
head and legs and tail cut off
"The fuck?" I said
He shook his head. "My girlfriend. She
thought I gave my cat
almost as much attention as I
gave her. She couldn't
have that."
"Shit, man. I'm so sorry."
"My mother gave me that kitten
before she
left for Italy…"
"Gods… you… You reported your girlfriend,
right?"
Just then his phone rang
and he was quick to pick up. It was
an alarm. He looked at
the screen and took a few big steps away
from me. "Sorry bro, you took too
much of my time. I gotta get home now."
"Wait," I said, "Aren't we going for
some drinks?"
He ran away from me
as fast as he could. "Sorry, I can't give
you that much of my time. My
girlfriend's waiting for me. Bye."
Well, I went drinking
by myself. Unfortunately it did not
get the images out
of my head
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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
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
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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
from the violet cloud above
God stretched a
hand and passed down to him
the dagger with
a blade made of frozen shit
“Take this,” said God, “and pose
yourself at the
gates of the school. Offer to
clean the
students under the fingernails
and toenails with it.
Now go.”
He woke up when
the mongrel dog whose tail he grabbed
and squeezed and pulled
started to cry and bark
and turn to bite at his hand
He screamed and backed away from
the poor thing
and watched it run away
He looked at himself
Naked and smeared with soot
and mud and whatnot
He looked around him
The landfill
just outside town
He fell to his knees
Damn, those were some good mushrooms
He stood and walked
back towards the town
Daydreaming as a profession 