I am a sidewalk
one upon whom your
feet dragged heavy and
wet and tired
and I wonder where you
are going
and where you're coming
from
I look up constantly and
am tired of soles and legs and
panties and dropped coins
and litter
and indifference
Too many people, too few dogs
and cats and some rats at night
But you are
different. You wear no shoes and
your little feet are cold and
so delicate
and in your wake you are painting
me with a trail of blood
you are not in the mood to
receive compliments, I know. But
I'll say it anyway. You are beautiful
I hope he never catches you
I wish there was
something I could do
about it
Bogdan Dragos supervises casinos for a gambling company, working twelve-hour shifts locked in a dark office full of TV monitors. There he mostly daydreams and writes poems and stories. He also manages a poetry blog Daydreaming as a…
it wasn’t morning yet
but he woke up
to the sounds of cheering
and applause
He looked around
and saw
shadowy figures with
elongated faces
and bright, white eyes
staring at him
“Congratulations, they said. You
have awakened.”
“What in the hell?” he
said, looking around
startled. “Who are you?”
“The messengers,” replied
the shadows. “We are very pleased
to announce that you
may collect your prize
whenever you are ready. You’ve
earned it.”
“What? What did
I do?”
“You awakened. In a world of
sleepers
you woke up
and are therefore eligible for
ascension. You might follow
us through the hole
in the ceiling whenever you
are ready. All that’s left
to do here is
to melt the shackle.”
“What?” he said
Then one of the shadows
gave him a small
bottle that smelled strongly
of gasoline
and a box of matches
The other shadows
pointed to
his desk, to all the papers
stacked on it
and under it
and all around it
“Those are my poems,” he said
“Indeed. They represent
everything that keeps you
tied to this world. Your shackle.
Burn your shackle and melt it
away so you can ascend
and take flight. The time
has come.”
“I worked all my life
to write those
poems,” he said
“Yes, you did. But now that you
are awake you see that
they’re all in vain. For
nothing is real
on this plane. It’s all
a dream, of course. You have
designed it pretty nice. A simple
dream spent entirely in
the confines of a narrow room
with low ceiling. Drinking
and smoking and
writing all day long
and late into the night. It’s
a beautiful dream. No family,
no friends, no communication with the
outside world, and no desire
for any. You’ve thus taken
a shortcut to awakening, but it’s by
no means illegal. You’re still
eligible for ascension. So,
whenever you’re ready, we are.”
He watched the shadows
The shadows watched him
He reached out for the
gasoline and matches, looked over
to the desk and the stacks
of paper
Looked for a long
time
Closed his eyes
and went back to sleep
The shadows were gone
by the morning
but they left the gasoline and
matches
behind
He got out of bed
went to the desk
by the window
opened the blinds
and started writing
another poem
"When you no longer
see the shadow of what
kept you strong
it's time to let go."
Those would be the last words
he wrote
at the back of the notebook
he filled with thoughts
and rants
and poems
‘Thoughts That Come From
The Heart’
was the title
and the work will remain
for long after he'd
pass away
At least that was the plan
But alas,
as he gave his final breath the
cigarette rolled from his fingers
to the desk and all the way
down on the shaggy carpet
It was a matter of minutes
until the
whole room became
a snapshot from the inferno
It's almost like the gods
want to send
a message. They want to
say that poets
rarely
if ever
have happy endings
I'm starting to
believe that
more and
more as
the days pass
the other night she went to
sleep
listening to
subliminal audios
and woke up in the morning
saying, “I am birds. Many, many
birds trapped together in
a bag of silk. This thing
that the world looks
at and calls my body is but
a bag of silk
that traps birds inside. I am not
the bag. A bag isn’t alive. I
am the birds inside the bag. And
I must get out!”
She ran into
the bathroom
Her father shrugged. “Fuckin’ shit,”
he said, shaking his head.
“To think that she could’ve
been a doctor, or a lawyer, or
an engineer. She could’ve
been anything. But she
chose to study
creative writing in college. Now
she’s a poetess...
and we are no more than
characters lost
in her verses.”
There was indeed silence now Oh, and it's been but days since the screams cracked the windows and the thrown bottles stripped the walls of their paint and the curses made the gods cringe and cover their ears The house of madness no longer lived up to its name For she was finally gone and he was left with the echoes "C'mon, dare me to down it!" were her words as she opened the last bottle And his were, "Bitch, you're mad!" "Dare me, motherfucker! Dare me to down this here bottle. You don't think I can, do you? Ah, you slime-gutted piece of shit." "I'm telling you to knock it the fuck out already! I'll bury yer fuckin' eyes in, see if I won't." But she was already pouring down her throat. She had this talent that allowed her to drink without swallowing. Pouring down her throat was like…
there he was
arriving on main street
carrying a backpack
and a suitcase
both stuffed with
papers
“WELCOME TO THE TOWN
OF FORGOTTEN POETS.”
said the shadows that
watched from the
windows
of nearby buildings
He didn’t like the
sound of their
voices
but he sighed
and dragged his
tired feet along
they were almost as
tired as his soul
and just as hurt
He'll have to live on the
streets,
for the town
was overpopulated
It became more and more
obvious
There was a storm inside her
growing ever stronger
and she sought
to terminate it
before it was too late
It's arguably more difficult to
terminate such storms
when you're fifteen
and still living with your parents
so she decided not to
share her struggle
with them
and reached inside her
for the eye of the storm
with a steel wire she'd kept in
a bottle of hand sanitizer for a day
and a night
Yes, the first raindrops painted the
white of the bathtub
they were crimson
and salty
like her tears
Daydreaming as a profession 