Some men
like to say
that taking a ****
is one of the best
feelings a man
can have
that it gives you
pleasure.

I don't know
about all that,
but the log
I just dropped
in the crapper
was a huge relief
both physical
and spiritual.

It's a shame
that when I
read poems
on this website
and I refresh
the page
I don't get
that same relief.

Do you think
that I don't love you
even for
a second?

Woman
when we're
on the phone
I always
tell you
when I'm
sitting
on the crapper.

If that's not love
I don't know
what is.

I'm bored.
I want to hit up
people I don't
care about
and go have a beer
and loads of cigarettes
hold each other's shoulders
in a group in some bar
and laugh like
we are real friends
even though
I've quit
that life.

I'm just bored
and that's
what bored man do.
They go out
and pretend that life
is better than it actually is
and we intoxicate
our selves with drink
and smoke
and plenty of other things.

But instead
I lay in bed
reading a book
I'm half way through
it's good
but it's not enough.
My feet stink
I refuse to get up
and shower
I'll just change socks,
my teeth feel off
from the coke I drank
and I haven't brushed them
since yesterday,
and my poems
hit like heavy hitters
would back in the day
where boxing wasn't
rigged
or ran by punks
with YouTube channels.

*******.
What boredom
makes a man do
in times of need.
Maybe
I should take
a walk
but I'll sit here
marinate on my own
fight against addiction
lack of connection
and poor hygiene.

I'll invite my dog up to bed
and let him lay on me
while he stares at the wall
and I'll stay bored
and write a poem
that won't hit like the rest
but as least
will serve
a purpose
as my girl
waxes her legs
and waits for me
to say something.

The youngest crawled into bed
with mom while we were watching videos
he said there were
two types of veins
inside of us.

Blue and green.

And that he wanted his brother
to get out of the pool
because he had blue veins.

he was concerned
that his older brother
would get too cold,
his hands would get shriveled,
and would get slippery.

He said he also had—
blue veins

and that's why he yelled
at his brother to get out of the pool.

But that now—
he has green veins

as he touched his belly
he  explained,
why he wanted
his brother to get out of the pool.

His mother told him
that he can just explain next time
that he doesn't want his brother
to get blue veins.

Well, I usually
have green veins
but we watched:
'The last of us'
and Joel just died.
I cried a little along with Ellie
even though he was not a good man
I think he had green veins.
Even if —
they were blue.

You probably think
that I go around
thinking about how
Bukowski would approach
what I'm trying to say
well, I don't.
Yes, he's my favorite poet
and I respect his work
and the amount of honesty
he puts in his words
but if you think
that I don't know
that he *******
sprinkled on his work
and that he exaggerated
his life style, stories,
poems, novels.
then you haven't
read enough
of his work
(or mine) to know
that me and Charles
are nothing alike
and that makes you
irrelevant.

A sack of flaming dog ****
on someone's
welcome mat
ready to be put out
by the home owner
who will stomp you out
look at their shoes
and look at you
rinse you off
with the backyard hose
and forget that you
ever bothered him in the first place

within a couple of weeks.

And that's what makes you
my eternal enemy
because no one cares
about your opinion
of my work
and how different
and unique it is
from Bukowski's.
And if that's true
then the chances are
no one else will either.
God has doomed me
to be a hell of a writer
who can see right through
your lavender
infused poetry—
Leave it for the tea bags.
That's the prospect
I'll have to live with
as I am right now
at 4 am
while I stare at the walls
my dog twitches
while he sleeps on the floor
and while he dreams
insomnia
keeps me company
while it rains.

Oh, and *******.

I told someone:
I believe people
should write
from their gut—
and maybe their
gut was an atom.

Then I laughed,
while my dog
was laying on my chest,
and went on
with more comments.

An hour or so later,
while watching a show
with my girl,
sharing my screen,
I decided to check on AP.

"That guy who was
a **** to you
on your awesome poem
gave you a 1-star
on your comment."

I read my comment again,
looked at the 1-star review,
and we laughed
even harder
than I did by myself
an hour before.

My dog spun around—
his *** turned to me
as he decided
enough was enough
and the world
had done him
no good deeds today,
and that warranted
sleep by my socks
much like guts
that are the size of atoms.

After that,
we continued to watch:
Six Feet Under.

I want to write
a poem
so here I am
doing it
even though
I have nothing
to write about
My head's
a bit fuzzy
I woke up
around 4 pm.

My girl wants to
read me a poem
she thinks I'll
like it.
"Not now, I'm writing."
"Ok."
and as the world
burns to ashes
outside
losing weight
becomes
just as realistic
as going outside
and running
without someone
chasing me with a knife.

I tap my belly
twice.
I've decided—
I'll keep Steven.
He's a good boy
who has tantrums
but a couple
farts here and there
usually settle him.

My joints and my ***
hurt when I get up
I'm getting too heavy
for my knees
and the chairs
aren't comfortable
enough.

This poem has
an thing to it
I don't know what
it feels good
and right
it feels like Steven.

I can hear
my father arguing
with my little sister
over homework
and that doesn't.

There is
a pressure plate
pressing on my head
and I can hear
my skull crack
the more they argue
but it never
pops it
it just presses
and presses
never landing
the killing blow.

the homework
questions begin
"Is freedom
good or bad?"
"Good."
"is censorship's
something
present in
dictatorship
or democracy?"
"I don't know
what censorship is."
I get up
from my bed
my joints
don't hurt
I grab the door ****
and shut my
bedroom door.

There's your answer.

You are the butterfly
that softly whooshes
between my ribcage
and that flutters
around my heart
aiding in its job
of moving the carcass
that is my body.

Even if you oddly
revert your
metamorphosis
and stay still
next to me
and rest in a cocoon
allowing silence
to rule for a day or two
perhaps
I've hurt you
and that's your way
to regenerate
from my unintentional
hurt.

As I lay in bed
I do the same
I go back
to my own cocoon
I shelter myself
out of site
but I'm no
butterfly.

I walk the dog
after he's done
with his dog affairs
I walk back home
go to the kitchen
and give him water and dry food
he starts eating.

Then I head to the balcony
and do the same
to my bunny
as he hops back and forth
until I feed him.

Then I feed the hedgehog
(wherever that antisocial
ball of ***** spikes is hiding)
I never see him.
I only see trails of ****
and empty bowls.
then I feed the hamsters
and circle back to the kitchen
and it commences:

      oin oin oin oin oin oin oin
                          oin oin oin oin oin oin
     oin oin oin oin                                
                             ­       oin oin oin oin oin
                  oin oin oin oin oin oin

"So you ignore me all day
and then cry
when you crave
veggies, huh?"

oin oin oin oin oin oin o—
"alright, alright!"

I grab his bowl
clean it as best as I can
as he continues to cry
in the back ground.
I sprinkle some salad
and wild arugula in his bowl,
grab a knife
curve my fingers,
slice some cucumber,
and dice some
green pimento
and shove it all in.

oin oin oin oin oin oin —
" I heard you the first time, *******!"

I go up to his cage
and there he is.
holding the bars
still crying for veggies
I place the bowl
inside the cage and he bolts
towards the veggies,
and finally shuts the **** up.

If I knew a Guinea pig
would be this demanding
I would've taken my driver's license,
quit my job, find another one,
got to a bar, have a pint,
smoke a cigarette, join a band,
write a novel, ****** someone
and burry the dead body
somewhere those **** cries
would never reach me
even if their cute.

I died yesterday.
I will die today.
I've been dying
since I was born.

Every memory I have
lies six feet under me
a dead man lived them
not me.

Everything I've ever experienced
all the tooth ache,
heart ache,
even the smell of my arm pit
when I didn't shower
for a week.

Everyone I've interacted with
everyone I will interact with
has and will be talking
to a dead man
although I look forward
for tomorrow's black tea.

The person who just wrote this
is about to die
but don't you tear up now
because that person has changed
even if only
a little.

I saw road **** tonight.

I was walking
on the side walk
towards home
with a buddy of mine
and he pointed it out
"Look at that
poor thing,
what is it?"

I walked
into the middle of the road
just to inspect it further.
a coat of brown spikes,
white fur, and —
bright red guts.
Fresh.

It was a hedgehog
on the spotlight
given by street lamps.
Judging by the size of the coat
it was big and fat
it reminded me
of the one I have at home.

It also made me think
of Jeffery Dahmer
what he did with road ****
and where that lead.
I'm not saying that I feel that way
but the guts were shiny
under the Moonlight
I thought that they
had this certain kind of beauty.
A dead rat
and life goes on
like nothing ever mattered.

My friend was upset
about it.
"The **** who did this
probably did it on porpuse!"

I wasn't. I was raised in a farm
I've seen worse.
"Dude,
he probably
didn't even see it
coming."

Neither of them did.

If you don't get my point,
Picture this:
One day you're walking home
with groceries
you're not paying atention
you cross the road
and there it comes
lights flashing
coming your way
no time to react —
THUMP.

You're on the floor
bleeding out.

Jesus hugged you
with that license plate
and you didn't realize it.

Anyways,
The car backs up,
turns right,
it rushes out of there.
Hit and run.
Behind the wheel?
A ******* hedgehog.

That's the beauty of it.

Life just happens
it owes you nothing
yet you think that
it owes you—
your life.

I scroll down
on poetry websites
such as All/Hello poetry
and I read the poems
on both of them
and they're all the same
either with too much
imagery and metaphor
they remind me of that saying
less is more.
Then there's the ones
who rhyme and they sound
like children's books
they don't understand
how writing
a good rhyming poem
is harder than
committing ******
and getting away with it.
That's why I avoid them at all costs.
And finally,
there's the fictional poems
often tied to contests
and they're often either
nursery rhyme poems
or drift store Picasso imitations.
I don't get it.
Why don't people just talk
about their day and how
folding the laundry
or scrubbing the toilet
somehow gave them an epiphany
that made them write a poem
about their most recent ****** encounter
with their wife that was way better
than their previous one?
If they would apply this philosophy
into their poems
then I wouldn't be stuck
reading about
the sick, the dying, and the dead.

I've got an acting gig
coming up
in a couple of weeks.
I'll either play
Joe Goldberg
or some other serial killer.
I recorded myself
to practice
for when I get
the real deal.

My woman said
the first take was better
I also thought
It wasn't bad.

After that I went to the kitchen
I picked up an orange.
I have a strange way
of eating oranges
I slice it up like a plus sign
into four pieces
then I peel the bottom,
and then I put it in my mouth,
and do the rest with my teeth.
But sometimes I just
go in straight with my teeth
and I don't peel it at all
the juice from the orange
drips down my chin
makes its way through
my beard, it softly scans
the back of my hands
until it finally hits the counter.

I eat oranges
like I should eat
at any restaurant—
with no table manners.

I eat oranges the way I write
the way I make love to you
how I know you can be delicate
but I still take you
with my teeth in bed.

Even in the way I act.

I dedicate passion
in all that I do.
I give you all—
the ugly, the good,
God forbid
you admit
that the way I live
is *******
beautiful.

I just got up
from sitting
on my ***
for too long,
my right foot
and whole leg
are numb,
and I'm limping
towards the bathroom
like I'm wearing
clown shoes.

Oh, so you're laughing
at my numbness,
and pain.

You can be cruel?
No, you're not cruel.
You're just like
a dog from hell(!)

You eat what I write.
There's a piece
of my poems
with tomato
sauce on your
shirt.

Then you
burp
with satisfaction.
after, you
wipe your face
on a paper napkin,
and talk about it
with your friends
over the
dinner table.

Then you stir your
wine and make
small talk
about my
personal life
as if you were
a close friend of mine,
and I hate you
for it.

I don't write about you
as often
as you'd like me to
there's a good reason
for that.

Most of the times
when I write
I'm *******
at something
so I just
let it out.

Poems
drip
out of my chin
when I'm
too drunk
on my emotions
or have
my head
too far
up my own
***.

You, love
most of the times
bring me peace
and quiet
even if at times
I have to
punch myself
on the chin
over an argument
I'll never win.

You,
are the reason
I don't take
any pictures
at all.

I'd rather—
You live
in my heart
and memory
for as long
as God
allows me
to have them.

I spent the weekend
away
when I returned
there was—
a new fridge,
microwave,
shelves,
and a bench.

it seems like
everything moves forward
when I'm not around

even the roaches—
****** off.

I got a knock
at the door
at 3 am.
I open it
there he is.

"let me in
there's pigs
outside"

I let him in
and take a good look.
He usually
isn't like this:
like he owes
a debt to the world
and the earth
came to collect
her cash with Interest.

"What did you do?"
"I was smoking ***
and the cops ran after me."
"Do you think I'm stupid?"
"what do you mean?"
"Dude, you smell
like gun powder."

He knew I knew
We waited 2 hours.
The cops were gone.
"Here have this ski-mask."
"Thanks."

He has a kid
and wife now
not everyone's
that lucky
to live that long.
good for you
old sport.

My father has a temper
one day he gave me—
a old school beating.

He stripped me down
to my boxers
hit me with a belt
until it broke.

then he switched
to a wooden spoon
he said —
"take your hands out of the way
or I'll break your fingers".
So, I did.

Then, he hit me with his hands
until he couldn't no more,
he stopped.

afterwards he went
towards the kitchen
I heard him pant
tired from beating a 15 year old
tirelessly.

He filled up a glass of water
drank it. And came back.
he finished what he started
and punched me twice in the face
like a man holding a grudge.

All of this because
I was skipping school.

But, I can't say he is a bad man.
He is the same man who taught me
everything I know
who cared for me and raised me
the same man —
who for years I barely saw
because he worked abroad in Spain
or he had two jobs
and worked 16 hours or more.

I was bruised red
all over that day
I hid under the covers
of my bed.

My mother got home
asked what happened
and only then I cried
I had so much pain
I couldn't move.

the blue bedroom walls
now, turned white
from shock.

only the straw chandelier
made sense
the light coming out of it
made a pattern
tiny shadow squares
a cell.

The next day I wore
a sleeveless shirt to school
it was dark blue
to show off the dark purple bruises
dark wide circle and rectangles
from the belt and the spoon
I matched the outfit.

and to show
how I was strong
how I was still standing.

What do they call those shirts
wife beaters?
Ironic.

Anyway,
My father later
when I was older
said he cried more than me
that day in his car

Somehow—
I doubt it.

"you know
with a smile like yours
you could knock
ANYONE
off their feet..."

"oh really?
remind me of that
the next time
I'm in a bar fight."

Alone in a dark room at 2 am
I think about how I fake
or force most of my emotions.
That might explain
why I'm so socially awkward
and why I tell girls
and my coworkers
and my dead friends
to *******.
all of them are fools
myself included.

Alone in a dark room at 2 am
I think about how I try to fit in
how I want to belong
how I want to be one of the boys
how I want to be loved
how I want to love
how I want to be human
and feel human
(in all ways except physical)
and how much easier life would be
if I had just been born
away from my own thoughts.

Alone in a dark room at 2 am
I think how I forgot
most of this poem
that I wrote down in my head
while I was working
because I can multi-task
but it doesn't matter now
I've got most of it down
I think.

Alone in a dark room at 2 am
I think about all the diagnosis
that have been thrown at my face
Bipolar
Schyzofrenic
Schizoid
and depressed.
At this point I just consider it
name calling
but I have much a better diagnosis
that requires no anti depressants
or anti psychotics
I've self diagnose
as an *******.

Alone in a dark room at 2 a.m
I think about how
the men in white cloaks
tell me how I shouldn't abuse
Alchool
Cigarrettes
Drugs
and that I should take my medicine.
Little do they know
that all of the above
I consider medicine
and that I do abuse all of them
except my pills.

Alone in a dark room at 2 a.m
I think about how I fantasize
about death and suicide.
That lady death is my mistress
one shy kiss away
from setting me free
from all this boring routine
that we call life
work, relationships, eating
*******, sleeping, talking
and living
all of which
I do very little of.

Alone in a dark room at 2 a.m
I wonder how much better
life would be
for those around me
if I had just been locked up
in some loony bin
and stayed there
for the rest of my days.
In a way
I'm locked up in this madhouse
that some call
my mind.

Alone in a dark room at 2 a.m
I just
write
and
breath
and
think
and
finish
this
poem.

My friend Lontra
was about to jaywalk
but he chickened out
once he saw the incoming bus.
I didn't. I knew I had time
so I ran. I was almost
on the other side
when I tripped
on a bump in the concrete road
I fell. Lontra said
that I fell in slow motion
as he held his head in shock.
He said I ran like a fatman
I fell like a fatman
and I rolled around as one as well.
Everyone in the bus looked at me
he said as soon as
the fatman hit the ground
they all looked to the right.
I got up from my ***
and limped towards some steps
sat down holding my elbow
that I used to break my fall
while he laughed uncontrollably
he said there was a lady
walking next to him
and she just stared at me
on the floor
and then she saw him laughing
so she laughed as well
like she was waiting for
permission.
I'm not a bad sport.
I was laughing since
the moment I realized
that the bus didn't hit me.
We went to McDonald's after
I ate my meal
without washing
my hands.

I often get in between
of men fighting
in bars or cafés
I try to settle down
the fire in their bellies
I step in
Hold them
by the shoulder
and say something
of the sorts:

"Common guys,
you just had a little
much to drink.
we're all friends,
right?"

I've caught
some stray jabs
in the past
so now,
I'm quick on my feet
to step back
and raise my hands
showing I'm not
down for a brawl
not with drunks
at least.

"Get your hands
off my ******* neck!"

Said the last one
I tried to calm down.
He was drunk
and wanted to play
the drums by force.
There was
a karaoke band playing
and the drummer
was a woman
She called
men to the stage
I didn't hear her call
all I saw a
drunk Nordic tall and fatman
about to ruin
everyone's evening.

All of this
was none of my business
My woman scolds me
for getting
in the middle of things
that I might get hurt
and she might get hurt
and she has kids to take care of
and that she brought me
to that bar
and if we got hurt
it would make it her responsibility
all of which I completely dismissed
I didn't think that
it was that serious.

There was this other time
I was walking my dog
a black medium
schnauzer who
enjoyed resting
on the top of my
living room table.
I would walk him
everyday but this day
it was a different day
I walked by this white car
those white fancy cars
that you know are expensive
even if you are like me
and don't understand much
about cars.

"Help me!"
a man's voice yelled
from inside the tainted windows.
He sounded desperate
almost as if he had
a knife up to his throat.
"What's your problem
don't be stupid."
another deep voice said
a baritone's voice
he sounded stern and calm
it felt like controlled violence
like he had been holding
the knife for a while.

I didn't really care
if there was a knife involved
but it sounded serious
life or death
and I chose life
not of the man
who needed help
not of the one
who held the knife
but my own.
A classic case
of none of my business.
So, I just walked past the car
with my dog
didn't even look at the windows
and the dog finished
I went back home.
I backtracked
the car no longer there
I got to the building
climbed the stairs
and with each step
the idea of not caring
settled in my belly
and it didn't make me sick
and that bothers me
because it should've.
I got home
looked outside
my balcony
no trace of the white car.
I told my father about it
he told me it was probably
a gay couple
being a little too rough.

The government
fell again
it's the second time
this year.

It was corruption
same as last time.
I don't vote
there's no point.

The same 2 parties
have been elected for 50 years
here in Portugal.

It's raining outside
there have been storms
floods on and about
and while I was walking the dog
I noticed a tree fell over.

I wondered
how long it had been there.

I convinced someone
to quit smoking yesterday
I said:
"replace the need
with hard candy
non sugar
so you don't **** up
your teeth."

and then I tossed everyone
one of my hard candies.

"To break the rituals
instead of smoking after a meal
drink a tea instead
a black tea or green
stop drinking coffee as well
while you're at it."

Then I brew everyone
a hot cup of black tea.

Then I grabbed my pack
ripped in half but I took one cig out first
and I said:
"this is the most important step
to give it up. Will power."
then I grabbed
the last untouched cigarette
and broke it in half.
and said:
"this one doesn't matter as well."

I was so convincing
that this friend of mine
gave my other friend
their ounce of tobbacco.

Today I met up with the same friend
that decided to keep on smoking
the one who was safe keeping
that ounce of tobbaco
and I rolled a cigarette
out of that ounce
he told me
it was the most awful thing
he has ever seen.

the cigarrette wasn't that good
and it was not
the most awful thing I've ever done.

I just  laughed,
shrugged and said:
" I paid for his Uber
consider us even."

I never liked Brenda.
She's manipulative,
likes to ******-analyze people,
and she gaslights Nate.
Oh, and she's a *** addict as well
she has cheated on Nate
more times than I can remember.

I never told Nate about her
he found out on his own.

Nate isn't much better though
he got another chick pregnant
so he cheated on her as well
but as a person overall
he is likeable— unlike Brenda.

Nate has a condition
it's called AVM
it's a malformation
in his brain arteries.

He is currently under the knife
he has a bleed in his brain
they are trying to fix it.

Before the surgery
I saw Nate crying
in his mother's embrace
he kept saying he didn't want to go
and his mother said
he was going to be ok.

I cried a little.
I hope Nate has a chance
of being a dad
I think he would be good at it
and I don't think
I'll ever see Brenda again
but I hope she finds someone
and she recovers from her addiction.

I don't know what's going to happen
I hope that in season 3
of six feet under
Nate doesn't board the bus
that took his father
into the after life...

You know, I hesitate
going in season 3
no, not because I'm afraid
that Nate is going to die
but because I know
that would never care as much
for an actual friend
the same way I care for fictional characters
and that says a lot about me
I only allow myself
to empathize —
when it's fake.