poetry/prose by Calvero.
taylorswift:

I was proud of the simple fact that I somehow avoided a major embarrassment in this moment.

taylorswift:

I was proud of the simple fact that I somehow avoided a major embarrassment in this moment.

spoiler alert: this is not a love poem


    When I used to look
    at her,
I felt like my dick,
    and my dick alone,
was running and jumping
through a sprinkler
on a front lawn somewhere
like a little kid
on a hot, summer day

and that my heart
was watching my dick
run and jump through the sprinkler
through the front window of the house
that the lawn belonged to,
    smiling to itself, my heart,
like a mother who was happy
to see her son
enjoying himself
so much.

Aw…

    Adorable.

But cut to now…

Me sitting underneath
this wooden ribcage
and filled with emotions
that are only capable
of being properly expressed
by crumpled up cheeseburger wrappers
and empty fry cartons
and empty soda cups.

I am a fat piece
of shit.

I am eating
all of the time
because I am hungry
for her insides
and I am trying to fill
my insides
the way her insides
used to fill
my insides
but McDonald’s
and Burger King
and Taco Bell
and Chipotle
just don’t fill my insides
the way her insides
used to fill
my insides.

(sighs
    like a mother fucker…)

    Despite
    my best efforts,
I never got
all of her facts
down,
    but even though
    I never got
    all of her facts
    down,
she still revealed
parts of herself
to me
that she had never shown
anyone else
ever before.

But like some pervy guy
who throws open his trench coat,
    revealing his cock
    and hairy balls
    to some unsuspecting lady,
there was just
a flash of it
and it was gone.

But in that flashing moment
of intimacy,
    one so much more beautiful
    than a cock and a hairy pair
    of balls,
I still, somehow,
got to know her
more intimately
than I ever knew
anyone

and that says everything
about her.

She and I
were two, lost souls,
    hungry, hungry, hungry
    for each other’s insides,
constantly rolling over one another
on a bearskin rug
laid out
on the edge of a cliff.

We were careful
and reckless
in our hunger
and we always aware
the edge of the cliff
was there
as we rolled over
one another,
    trying to feast
    on each others insides,
but, at the same time,
we didn’t care about
the edge
either
because if we rolled
off of it
we woulda rolled
off of it
together
and there’s nothing
more fuckin’ wonderful/romantic
than plummeting
to your death
with the person
you love.

And it was like that
all the time
too
because everything
she and I did together
felt like it was being done
on the edge of a cliff.

One time
I was just lying next to her
in bed
and she was asleep
and I wasn’t asleep
and it was dark in her room
and nothing remarkable was happening
at all
and so I looked over the edge
of the cliff we were on
while lying in her bed
and it was sooooooo
far down
that I got vertigo
and I got so scared
I almost shat my boxers
and so then I rolled onto my side
away from the edge
of the cliff
and I threw my arms over her
and she made a weird sound
that no one had ever made
before
and, suddenly, it all
became pretty fuckin’
remarkable.
    Like something as simple
as just lying next to her
while she slept
and listening to her invent sounds
felt remarkable
because,
    and trust me,
        trust this bitch
        right here,
you’ll never feel
more alive
than when you’re looking over/
after you’ve looked over
the edge of a cliff,

than when you’re looking
Death
in the eye.

Death
has a lazy eye.

Did you know
that?

Well I sure as shit
do
because I stared him
in his good eye
while his lazy eye
was looking over my shoulder,
    making me feel nervous
and wonder if someone
was sneaking up behind me
or something.

But there wasn’t anyone
sneaking up behind
me.

It was just
Death’s lazy eye
being all lazy.

That’s all…


Moonwalking
into oncoming traffic.

Facing the firing squad
with a rock hard
boner.

That’s what life
was
with her
and no matter how hard
I try
I don’t know how to live
after that/
without that.

I am Wile E. Coyote
opening an umbrella
over his head
as an anvil hurtles downwards
from the sky,
    ready to flatten him.

I am standing on
a hover board
and the hover board
is hovering over water
and,
    because the hover board
    is over water,
the hover board
just remains totally stagnant
and I can’t move anywhere
on it
because I’m a bozo
and I had no idea “those boards don’t work
on water.
    Not unless
you’ve got POWerrrrrr…

I feel helpless.

I feel stuck
here
and I don’t wanna
be here
and I can’t be
far away enough
from the world
tonight.

My cats,
my books,
my family,
my friends,
strangers,
acquaintances…

I could be all set up
in a space teepee
on the moon
and I still wouldn’t be
far away enough
from all these things
that disgust me.

I miss the way
she removed me
from my world
and the way
I removed her
from hers.

I miss the world
we lived in,
    our own world,
where noses were punched
and nipples were licked
and privates were shaved
and where flesh was consumed
like a basket of Olive Garden’s
never ending breadsticks.

I miss the way
she would take me
away from here,

the way
she removed me
from all of these unnecessary
people,

the way
she removed me
from all of these unnecessary
things,

the way
she removed me
from a world
that didn’t make sense
and never will,

to that place
she and I created
together
where neither life
nor death
could penetrate us

because
we were above
them
somehow,

so extremely aware
of both life
    and death
yet not phased
by either,
    therefore elevating us
above them,

she and I
looking down
on them,

laughing
at them,

spitting loogies
onto their heads
from above,

pulling down our pants
and taking out our privates
and peeing on them
from above,

kissing one another
as our golden showers
rained down
on top them,

just
laughing
at them,

just
laughing
at them,
    laughing
    at them,
        laughing
        at them…

the two stupid
twats
that they were

and always
would be,

she and I
living in this place
where
“we”
was all
there ever
was
and where
“we”
was all
there would ever need
to be.

“Home”
is what I think
you humanoids
calls it.

She and I
found/created
“Home”
together…  

So why
do I feel like
if she were here
right now
that I’d have to refrain
from bashing her face
in
with a fuckin’ rock?


© Calvero 2014

Hi. I’m Calvero. My mortal enemies consist of people with no manners and anyone who describes anything as “whimsical.”

I just laid in her bed
and listened to her tinkling
through the wall
and thought about running away
with her
to another planet.
A planet
that would let me kiss
the sound
of innate sadness
right outta her light, naked
footsteps.
A planet
that would let me
love her
in all the unnatural
and inhuman ways
she deserved
to be loved in.

Then I heard
the toilet flush.

She came back to bed,
laid down beside me
and we both fell asleep
on the same stupid planet
we had both been struggling
to learn how to love on
since the day
we were born.

I hate me
for accepting
the physical boundaries
of this world
and for trying to fit
our unusual love
inside of it.

Thank you, Isabel.

Thank you, Isabel.

No. Seriously. My favorite band sounds better live than your favorite band.

My poem …the clouds looked like they were bought at Target or Walmart and then someone hung them up in the sky was published over at Empty Mirror. Check it out HERE, my lovely sluts.

My poem …the clouds looked like they were bought at Target or Walmart and then someone hung them up in the sky was published over at Empty Mirror. Check it out HERE, my lovely sluts.

Available at Amazon, Barnes and Noble and Powell’s Books.

Point me to the sky above
I can’t get there on my own
Walk me to the graveyard
Dig up her bones

Cool Bear says… (5)


Cool Bear says
I look like a wreck.

I tell him
I know.

Cool Bear says
I look like a car
made outta Charlie Sheens
that got rear ended
by a car
made outta Just Biebers
that was going over
100 MPH.

I tell him
I know…

Cool Bear says
I’m not taking care
of myself.

That I’m exerting energy
in all the wrong ways
and places.
    That I’m making
a lot of easy
and convenient choices
and that’s why I look like
such a wreck.

I tell Cool Bear
I agree with him.

That I know
I’m just creating
even more suffering
for myself.

That I’m digging myself
a huge hole
and that I wanna change
but I can’t
because I’m so exhausted
from of all the energy
I’ve already spent
digging myself
this huge hole.

I tell Cool Bear
digging yourself
a huge hole
is exhausting.

Cool Bear says
he understands that
but maybe I wouldn’t still
be so exhausted
if I just eased up
on certain aspects
of my life.

I ask him
which ones.

Cool Bear says
to worry about writing
less.

He says
to strop drinking
all the time.

He says
exercise more.

Eat better.

He says
do volunteer work.

Cool Bear says
that pretty much everything
I do
is selfish
and the fact that I don’t do
anything
for anyone but me
is, essentially,
why I’m so unhappy.

I tell him
I get what he’s saying.

That I agree with him
for the most part
but that I can’t stop
writing
because being a writer
is who I am.

Cool Bear says
that’s another huge problem
I have.

That everyone has.

Cool Bear says
I am not a writer.

Cool Bear says
my doctor
is not a doctor.

Cool Bear says
the lawyer
I’ll have after I inevitably snap
one day
and begin rabbit punching
all of the slow walking tourists
in New York City
is not a lawyer.

Cool Bear says,
“You,
    Calvero,
are a human being
who writes

and your doctor
is a human being
who is a doctor

and your eventual lawyer
is a human being
who is a lawyer.

Your occupation
is not
your identity.

    In the grand scheme
    of things,
it’s only a small part
of who you are.

Your first job
is to always be
human.

    Deep inside you,
you have the strength
and capacity to be selfless
and to love others
unconditionally
and expect nothing
in return
and,
    first and foremost,
that’s always what
you should be
doing.

That
is the most important thing
you could ever accomplish
with your life.

More important
than any job
ever.

You have it
all wrong,
    Calvero…

But don’t feel
bad.

The entire world
has it all
wrong.

Do you understand
what I’m saying?”

I sit there
and think.

I think
he may be right.

I pick Cool Bear up
and I kiss him
right in-between his beady,
black eyes
and then I put him
back down.

    After I kiss him,
I don’t totally feel like
a car
made outta Charlie Sheens
that got rear ended
by a car
made outta Just Biebers…

How did that feel?
    Cool Bear asks me
in regards to me
having kissed him.

Better than any poem
I’ve ever written
I tell him.

Cool Bear says
good.

That’s the way
it should feel.


© Calvero 2014

Ran outside because I thought I saw a stray cat napping in the sun. Turned out to just be a stray piece of firewood we use for our bonfire. I felt insanely sad and disappointed. And scared at how quickly you can lose something even before you had it to begin with. Kinda don’t know where to go from here, this area of never ending loss and disappointment. But guessing the optometrist would possibly be a good destination to start.

calveropoetry:


Cool Bear says
I need to take
my medicine.

Cool Bear says
taking my medicine
is the only way I’ll ever
feel better.

I tell Cool Bear
it’s hard.

I tell Cool Bear
it’s hard
taking medicine
because taking medicine
is like admitting
you’re a broken tricycle
that no one wants
to ride on
anymore,

taking medicine

universityofhellpress:

At Powell’s Hawthorne NOW. Come get yours!

universityofhellpress:

At Powell’s Hawthorne NOW. Come get yours!