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
there's been a collection of rather dark thoughts lately and he was studying it from the comfort of his bed The other day he found a good pillow in the dumpster and used it to cover the spot on the mattress where the rusty springs emerged Now the bed was fine again good enough for daydreaming After you've tried out all herbs and powders all that's left are the dreams the daydreams and the nightdreams and the nightmares and the daymares On another day spent dumpster diving he'd found a plastic bag with about six severed hands They were still cold some mafia shit was going on in the city He took them home and tried to cook them hoping to obtain at least some bits of meat He had no pan and of course no oil so he impaled them with iron rods at the writs and placed them upright in a barrel he lit up He sat back watching them smelling them Higher on hunger than on the herbs he'd smoked And then he'd realized that they were women's hands and fantasized about them springing to life and crawling over him and doing things to him It gave him a hard on or perhaps the illusion of one but regardless that was a fun night The closest he came to having females over. Some who cooked and fed him after the fun time He'll remember that night for the rest of his life
That did it He was tired of coming home from work and finding a fucking book on the table instead of food but the book was also on his pillow when he went to bed on the toilet tank in the garage in the shed behind the house and on the dashboard of his goddamn car He had enough of it And one day he told her he had enough of it and enough of her It was time to break up this wasn't going to work He was not going to quit smoking and she was not going to quit nagging him to read her book on quitting smoking "I won't marry you until you're 101 days clean," she'd said He smoked a pack and a half a day It was time to break up and, gods, she didn't take it lightly In that morning he left her alone to collect all her stuff from his house and be gone by the time he returned She was indeed gone by the time he returned and took nothing more than what belonged to her and even left something behind Her self-published book on how to quit smoking, what else? He sighed picked it up from the coffee table looked it over sat on the couch put a cigarette between his lips and when he lit it the house blew up Perhaps a big moral in the book was to always check the gas after a breakup but it was too late now
there's nothing good on TV when you're in a crap mood "Shit," he thought. "Nothing's gonna be good on TV for the next 18 years. At least." he sighed and shifted his position on the couch four days till New Year's Eve and he already got the greatest gift one could wish for. A positive pregnancy test from his girlfriend Oh, he was over the moon and everybody knew "Meh, I don't need TV. I'm the best actor I've seen..."
he deliberately chose the nastiest sound for the alarm clock Zeeeehhweeeehhchhh and there it went again Every four hours. Announcing that he had to start the engine again lest he froze to death The phone had 17% battery left. He would need to visit the library again for a recharge but it was becoming increasingly harder as the smell of homeless was growing more potent on him He checked the time again turned off the phone turned on the engine wiped the windshield with his gloved hand watched his breath leave his mouth fumbled around for a cigarette no luck He took out the lighter and struck it and all it produced were sparks It's been quite a lot of no luck lately At the library he took small chapbooks with him to a desk and pretended to be studying them while the phone charged besides him but not having anything better to do he read some of the poems in those chapbooks. He didn't understand poetry, didn't know how to read it to make sense. He was simply not a man of writing and reading, didn't understand why the lines were so choppy and didn't go all the way to the right margin of the page. Why did it have to look so intentionally wrong? Also why didn't it rhyme if it was called poetry? He resigned himself eventually. He'll never understand this part of literature but still, there was something he read in one of those deranged verses with words all over the page. One poem that ended something like this: "then something else in me said, no, save the tiniest bit. it needn’t be much, just a spark. a spark can set a whole forest on fire. just a spark. save it." His English wasn't the best but he understood the message well enough the spark was there still
You don't need the employee of the month badge to know that you're it He knew he was it The other day he asked the girl who called whether she had any family She said no "And I don't want any. I don't want to hurt them with my going away. So it's better that they don't exist." She sounded so tired, so drowsy, so helpless He started tearing up and told her. "If you do it... If you do it then I'm gonna cry. I will remember you. I will never forget you. I will be the family you're leaving behind if you go. You will leave me in great pain, I tell you that. In great pain! I will cry every day and... and please don't do it. Please let's talk about it. I'm here for you. Let's talk. Please." He was crying into the receiver And the response was a loud bang from the other side. It was over. The caller was gone He hung up wiped his tears and awaited the next caller There was no win or fail in this job but still he did a fine work He smiled to himself
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
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
four jobs in two months and it wasn't even his fault. He just left because they didn't pay him "Nobody works for free," he said as he closed the fridge, the last can of beer in his hand, not too cold "Hey, leave some for me," his girlfriend said He threw himself on the couch, careful to avoid the spot where springs poked their rusty silver heads out He opened the beer. "I keep tellin' you I should just open my own business." "Um-hm." "No really, you know what this town has in abundance?" He took a sip "Poverty?" she said, already stretching her hand for the can He handed her the can. "Yeah, poverty. And poverty means homeless men. Men nobody gives a damn about. Hell, everyone wants them to vanish. I was thinking, maybe I can cash in on that. I could hunt them down at night and use their meat in a fast-food restaurant. It can pass as pork. Everything passes in this town. What do you think?" She took another sip. Handed the can back to him. "Yeah. I know where you can begin, by the way. Tonight I'll show you the alley my dad and uncle sleep in." He raised the can. "Cheers."
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