Seriously. From now on, anytime someone pisses me off, I’m just gonna scream, “Marie! The baguettes! Hurry up!” in their faces and then just walk away basking in the sweet victory that I just confused the fuck outta them and their stupid asses.

My first interview! - “When you masturbate you don’t break anyone’s heart. Except maybe your own.” 

Kick-ass poet, Johnny No Bueno, recently popped my interview cherry. He was not kind or soft of gentlemanly about it in any way and so, of course, I absolutely loved it.

Check it out my lovely sluts. Thanks to Johnny and University of Hell Press!

http://universityofhellpress.com/2013/06/15/interview-with-calvero/

Much love,
Calvero

My book’s currently on sale for $6.75 over at Powell’s. Not sure for how long though or how long they’re last.

Much love,
Calvero

There’s an empty
kiddie pool
in my chest
where my heart
should be.

I know it’s there
too
because I can hear it
in there.

I sit here in McDonald’s
by myself
and I can hear the silence
in me
that sounds like the absence
of little kids
splashing around
in the kiddie pool
where my heart
should be
because it’s empty.

It’s the shittiest
kinda silence
to hear
too - the absence
of little kids
splashing around
in the kiddie pool
where your heart is
because it’s empty.

    Well,
it’s not totally
empty.

There’s some piss
in there.

I can feel some piss
in there
for sure.

A small puddle of piss
trying so hard
to fill the kiddie pool
but not even coming close
and hating itself
soooo bad
and feeling like
a failure.

A small puddle of piss
from one kid
who showed up
to the empty kiddie pool
where my heart
should be
and saw there was no water
and got upset
so he just peed inside it
instead
because he had to pee
anyway.

    And fuck,
that’s just so much
worse
than having it be
totally empty,
    having piss
in it that is.

That just guarantees
that no one is gonna
fill it up with water
because that would have to mean
cleaning the pee
outta the pool first
and no one’s gonna wanna
do that.

I guess
I can’t blame them
though

and so I just sit here
in McDonald’s
and I listen to the silence
that sounds like the absence
of little kids
splashing around
in the empty kiddie pool
where my heart
should be
and look at everyone else
in the restaurant.

The old, fat guy
with a septum piercing
who looks like Santa’s brother
and has a heavy sprinkling
of dandruff
on his shoulders
as he sips on a $1 cup
of coffee,

the overweight, middle-aged
cashier
on her lunch break
who looks at least
15 years older
than she probably is,

the guy in a t-shirt
and jeans
and construction boots
who’s all covered
in dried paint
and burnt by the sun,

the high schooler
with his book bag
on the table
who looks like the universe
specifically designed him
to fit/be stuffed inside of
school lockers.

I look at these people
and I finally realize
why
I always feel so comfortable
in a McDonald’s,

why I always run away
and retreat
and hide from life
here.

I come here to sit
with these people,

these beautiful,
ugly people.

Exhausted people,
frustrated people,
beaten and broken
people.

People with little
to no money,
with little
to no hope
of ever having just enough
money.

People who struggle
to feed themselves
and their families.

People
just trying to inter splice
brief moments of peace
and relief
into their weary, run down
lives.

People
who have to fight
for every single minute
of happiness
they can steal back
from the world.

Lonely people,
scared people - all of these
human tragedies
sitting around me,
sharing the same room
with me.

People like me
who burn
under the nightlight
as well the daylight.
    A lot of them
regular customers
just like me
who come here
to escape from everything
because we have nowhere else
to escape to
because our hemorrhaging
bank accounts
aren’t strong enough
to take us as far away
as we wanna go
so we come
here
because it’s the only refuge
we can afford - dollar menu escapes
from the skull fucking
reality
waiting for us
when we eventually
returned to our houses,
our apartments,
our unrewarding,
meaningless jobs.

Just as I wrote that
some old-ass dude
who looks like he’s
    at least
pushing 90 
says to his other old-ass dude friend,
    “This is nice…
        Thank you.
Thank you for getting me outta
solitary confinement.”

I wanna stand up
and walk over to him
and be like,
    “Sup my brotha?!
        Welcome!!!”
and then show him
our secret handshake
but then I remember
we don’t have one.

We should
though,
    I tell myself.

We totally should
have a secret handshake.

These people…

These beautiful,
ugly people
are my people.

These beautiful,
ugly people
who are somehow
still here
despite constantly
being robbed
and cheated
and cut down.

I listen to whole room
carefully
and I can hear the silences
inside these beautiful,
ugly people
that that sound like the absence
of little kids
splashing around
in the empty kiddie pools
where their hearts
should be

    and suddenly

it sounds beautiful.

Listening to you own
empty kiddie pool heart
sounds sad
and depressing
and shit
    but listening to everyone’s
    collective emptiness
    sounds beautiful.
Even more beautiful
than hearing a woman scream,
    “Oh my God, oh my God, don’t stop!
        I’m cumming!
        I’m cumming!”
as you drive yourself
into her.

We all came here
to feel silently
understood
even though we may
or may not have
realized it
and through our communal
silence
we sit here
and we understand
one another
and we heal
one another
and we keep each other
company
and we become human
band-aids.

    Holy shit,
I feel human…

I look at my
opposable thumbs
on my hands
and I finally say to myself,
    Ya know what?
These fuckers DO
belong on me!

These people…

These beautiful,
ugly people
who gave me
my opposable thumbs
back
    (I can hitchhike
    again!).

If I ever saw
some rich guy
come in here
for some reason,
    the same kind you see
    sitting inside those luxurious-looking bars
    during lunchtime
    as you walk down the streets
    of Manhattan,
I swear
I’d totally fuckin’
dome him over the head
with the pillowcase
full of doorknobs
that I always keep
on me,
that I always
roll with.

    …Okay.

I don’t actually
roll with a pillowcase
full of doorknobs

but I should,

but I’m totally
gonna start.

Their kind
may have taken away
the water
from the kiddie pool
in my chest
where my heart should be
but I’ll be fuckin’ damned
if they think
they can come in here
and shatter our communal silence
for even one, hot
minute.

    BAM!!!!!

Pillowcase full
of doorknobs
upside the head!

Sorry,

    but didn’t you see
the sign, bitch?

“No beautiful people
allowed

unless you’re
the ugly kind.”


© Calvero 2013

barrens:

# (by elena vaninetti)

nakedadultsleepover:

Miss Banana, having a sleepover.

I normally don’t like bananas, but this one’s okay.

I mean, I guess if you like the whole “pretty, naked woman” thing.

If you wanna have a pretty girl look at you like you’re pathetic, here’s what you do… Get in line behind her at Target with a 40 lb. box of kitty litter and a 32 pack of canned wet food. And oh, make sure your clothes are covered in cat hair too. I think that helped…

Also, to anyone I promised poems to - I mailed out the last batch today. To make up for the delay, your poems will be arriving via carrier pigeon.

…not really. But hopefully the mental image of you receiving a poem from me via carrier pigeon is enough to make up for the delay.

And if you sent me a message and I didn’t respond, I’m getting to it. I’ve been balls busy lately. Balls busy is just the worst, is it not?!

And thank you to anyone who has ever supported me and continues to support me. I love you sick motherfuckers.

Much love, bitches,
Calvero

I sat in my car
in the Barnes and Noble
parking lot
during my lunch break
from work
and as I sat there
I saw this girl
who was walking back
to her car.

She was really pretty
and all

    but her legs…

oh, her fuckin’ legs…

She wore a really short,
white and navy blue-striped
summer dress
that accentuated her legs
perfectly
and that made them look like
fleshy, meaty ladders
in high highs
that went on forever
and ever,

that went up so high
that they diddled the sky’s
asshole
with their fleshy, meaty
awesomeness
and perfection.

I looked at
her fleshy, meaty
ladder legs
and just wanted to climb
them
up and down,
up and down,
up and down.

I just wanted
to touch them.

I just wanted
to know them.

I just wanted
    them.

Her legs
were all I wanted
from her,

    those legs…

Those legs,
those legs,
those legs…

I wanted them
so badly
that I contemplated
running over to her
and ripping them off her body
and then taking them home
with me
and excitedly introducing her legs
to my parents
the same way you’d introduce
your parents
to a new girl you’ve begun
dating.

    “Mom, Dad…
I’d like you to meet
a really beautiful pair
of legs
I brutally tore off
some poor girl.
    We’re gonna skip dinner
with you guys
and go be alone
for a few hours
now…
    Okay…
        Bye… ”

And then I’d take those legs
of hers
into my room
and lay them on my bed
and run my hands
up and down them,
up and down them
and then rub lotion
all over them
and then just squeeze
their sacred thighs,

    there was something
    sacred
    about those legs
    and their thighs,

and as I squeezed her thighs
with one hand
I’d masturbate
with the other
eventually jerking off
all over the legs
    and the good thing
about those legs
too
is they’d actually know
    how
to take a facial
for once
too.

Then once I had cleaned
all of my semen
off the legs
I’d hang the legs in
the front window of my house
the same way
racks of meat are hung
in a butcher’s shop’s window
    and then I’d grab a megaphone
and walk outside
and scream,
    “HEY!
        HEY everyone!
Look!
    Look at these legs
in my house’s window!”
    Uh-huh…
        Yep…
You’re welcome,”
because they were so
beautiful
I’d feel like the whole,
entire world
just had to see them.

The meaty, fleshy beauty
beautiful legs of hers
would probably catch
the attention of a bunch
male drivers
and divert their attention
from the road
and cause a buttload
of accidents

    but hey

that’s what beauty
does - beauty hangs
in your house’s front window
like racks of meat
and causes
car accidents.

I think
I wanted to rip the girl’s legs
off her body
because I thought
    that way
        for some reason
they’d stay beautiful
and fleshy
and meaty
and glorious
forever.

But then
    just like any other
    cut of meat
I realized they’d eventually
rot
and get gross
    and who wants to rub
and squeeze
and then jerk off onto
a pair of gross-ass
rotten legs?

Not me.

Not this guy,
    no thanks.

I’m sure a pair
of gross-ass rotten legs
would still take
a pretty good facial

    but still…

        Ugh…

Who would wanna jerk off
onto a pair of rotten
legs?

So as I watched her
get into her car
I thought to myself,
    Hey, idiot…
If you don’t want
her legs to rot and decay
then just keep ‘em
on her body.

    Just keep ‘em
on the girl.

That seemed like
a pretty solid idea
so I did that.

I mentally
reattached her legs
to her torso
and thought about
going on a few dates
with the girl
whose legs I had just
reattached to her torso
    and then
        at the end
        of our first date
            making out with her
and then
        later on
            having sex with her
and then eventually
courting her
and getting to know
    her
and then falling in love
with her
and then it all going
to hell
like it always does
and then losing her
because people will never learn
how to make
love
stay

and so then our love
would disappear
and then
    once our love
    had disappeared
her beautiful, beautiful legs
would disappear
along with the rest
of her beautiful self
and then she
and her beautiful legs
wouldn’t belong to me
anymore
and

    therefore

they would eventually
not be beautiful
to me
anymore
either.

And then
just thinking all that
made me sad.

It made me sad
because I wanted her legs
to beautiful
to me
for forever.

So instead
of just ripping them
off of her
and instead of
even just trying to date
her
I just admired her legs
from afar
and let her get into her car
and drive away outta my life
because the only way
for something
to stay beautiful
forever
was to not know it
for too long.

The only way
to make beauty last
was to make beautiful
acquaintances

and realizing that
made me feel sad
in the exact same way
I felt sad
when I saw the ending
to that movie
    “The Family Stone”
where the mother
is dead
but the whole family
still meets up
and gets together for Christmas
and they’re all happy
to be with one another
but
    at the same time
they also all still feel
their mother’s absence
and miss her
and it’s both sad
and beautiful
all at the same time.

    Yeah…

The sadness
I felt
was kinda like that.

The sadness
I felt was kinda like
watching the ending
to “The Family Stone.”

But,
    Pfffffffttttt…


Not that
I ever saw that movie
or anything
anyway.

    Pfffffffttttt…

Seriously not.

…………
…………
…………
…………
………………


© Calvero 2013

“Oh how you want it.
You’re begging for it.
But you can’t have it
even if you tried.

It’s in the clutches,
in the hands of
this brutal love.”

As long as we don’t wake up my cats, okay then.

one-soul-to-grow:

calveropoetry:

The world laughs
at me
all the time
but that’s okay.

The world goes,
“A-hahahahahahahahahahaha!”
when they see me
because they don’t like
the way I act
or the way I dress
or the way I look
or the way I dream
or the way I write
or the way I pick my nose
in public
and so they laugh
at me

but…

holy shit, this was so unexpectedly great.
It moved me, I loved it, and it gave me hope.

My motto is the longer the better.

Wait… That came off sounding wrong.

What I meant to say is that I like the really long ones that hit you nice and hard and right in the sweet spot too so it really makes you feel something.

There. Much better.

(Jokes like these might be the reason why dudes send me naked pictures instead of women…)

Thank you so much for your kind words and support. I sincerely appreciate it.

Much love,
Calvero

“Now you’ve said it. The hopeless emptiness. Hell, plenty of people are on to the emptiness part; out where I used to work, on the Coast, that’s all we ever talked about. We’d sit around talking about emptiness all night. Nobody ever said ‘hopeless,’ though; that’s where we’d chicken out. Because maybe it does take a certain amount of guts to see the emptiness, but it takes a whole hell of a lot more to see the hopelessness. And I guess when you do see the hopelessness, that’s when there’s nothing to do but take off. If you can”

― Richard Yates, Revolutionary Road

It all began the first day
of middle school.

I don’t know how it started
    or why it started.

It just did.

For some reason
I got singled out.

I was blindly chosen
    as if by some idiotic,
    dumb-ass lottery
    for jerks
to be the outcast,

to be the kid
everyone hated.

The whole class
converged
against me.

I became their common enemy
    and from then on out
anything that ever
left my mouth
was immediately considered
stupid,
corny,
gay,
or just plain wrong.

The class bonded
together
and grew closer
over their random distaste for me
and no matter what I did,
    no matter what I tried,
they always just
shot me down.

I tried being polite
and sharing interests with them
but that only made me
a fag.

I tried being funny
and telling jokes
and tried to win them over
with humor
but that only made them
tell me
to stop trying so hard.

I tried sticking up for myself,
    fighting back with both
    words and fists,
but the more I fought back
the more they only
all rallied against me.

I was simply
fucked
and my lonesome fate
was written
in stone.

No matter what
I was,
    at all times,
to be spat at,
despised,
ridiculed
    and to this day
I still couldn’t tell you

why.

The days limped by
and the school years
crawled along
and the kids only got crueler
and more
and more
vicious.

As much as I tried
to be spiritually buff
and strong
and not let it affect me
it was pretty much
fuckin’ impossible.

Every evening I’d go home
and think about killing myself
because I could never
sew up the wounds
quickly enough.

There was just never
enough time.

There was always school
the next morning
and weekends weren’t nearly
long enough
to do that much sewing.
    Plus I was a boy
and I hated sewing
to begin with
and I was just really shitty at it
too
so all I could do
was just try to stop the bleeding
day
after day
after day
by pretending
that this all
wasn’t happening.

But it was
happening

and waking up
every morning
felt like a fresh
death sentence

and as I waited for the bus
I knew what was in store
for the day
because I had lived
the day before
    and what was worse
I knew had to live it hundreds
and hundreds
of more times
too.

It was all
just so tiring.

It was all
just so exhausting.

Every day was a struggle
and after only
    one year
I just didn’t have the strength
to keep it up.

I stopped trying to be nice.

I stopped trying to make friends.

I stopped sticking up
for myself.

I just kept my mouth shut
and let them chip away
at whatever
was left of me.
 
Then the day
finally came
when there was nothing left
of me
to pick at.

I had this dead,
belly up guinea pig
inside me
and they could all feel it
in there too
and so
    therefore
it was no longer enjoyable
for them to pick on me
anymore.

They knew picking on someone
was only fun
if the person had something
inside of them
that could be dragged
through the mud
but all I had inside me
was some dead,
belly up guinea pig
because I had been totally gutted
of everything else
that had ever made me feel whole
or special
or unique
so they all just finally
left me alone
and moved onto someone else,

onto some other poor target
who didn’t deserve it,

onto some other poor target
who didn’t see it coming.

And even though I was freed
from their hatred
and all their stupid bullshit
the damage
was already done.

I was a beaten dog
and people
were the rolled up newspaper
I cringed at
    in fear
every time I saw
them.

I didn’t trust people.

I hated them.

I was constantly on guard
    waiting for someone
    to try and hit me
    with a rolled up newspaper
but no one did.

No one bothered with me
and eventually
all of the kids
just forgot about me.

Years passed
and I entered high school
with most of the same douche bags
who had made my life
a living hell
all through middle school.

They all
matured a little,
grew a little wiser,
    and some of them even grew
    a little bit kinder,
but I was still the same old,
scared, beaten dog
that cringed
at the sight
of a human face.

Some of the kids
even tried to be nice to me
only I didn’t know it
at the time.

    “Hey, Calvero.
You trying out
for the baseball team
tomorrow?”

    “Why the fuck
do you care?”
I’d snap back at him,
assuming I was just being set up
for some kind of insult
or put down.

    “Jesus bro,
I was just asking you a question,”
the kid would reply.
    “Relax…”

but I wouldn’t care.

My back
was already turned
and I was already halfway
down the hall.

I continued on
like that.

I continued
fighting off
the entire world.

I was constantly
in self-defense mode
because self-defense mode
was all I knew.

I couldn’t tell the difference
between sincerity
and sarcasm.

I didn’t know how
to interact with people
    cruel or kind.

That was all 13
years ago.

Now
I’m 28 years old
and when I began typing this
the font was in italics
for some reason
and I got so mad
that the font was in italics
instead of non-italicized
like it’s supposed to be
I wished the monitor
were alive
simply so I could smash
my fist through it
and kill it.

I wanted to kill
my monitor
because I’m just so full
of hate - hate that I know
I didn’t put there
inside of me
either
    bur rather that the world
and its people
have stuffed inside of me
instead.

This poem
is what hate
looks like.

I am what hate
looks like.

Most days I just want someone
to put me in an exhibit
in a museum
and then when a class of students
who are on a field trip
walks by
and the tour guide
is like,
    “Now, everyone,
this is what hate
looks like,”
I would just smile at them
and wave like a princess
on a parade float
and then the kids would cower
at me
and some of them
would even cry
looking at me
and making some of them cry
would secretly
make me feel really,
really, realllly good
because I had hatefully
paid it forward,

because I had hurt someone
after having been hurt
by some douche bag kid
from 13 years
ago.

I never
intentionally hurt people
though.

I never take
my own hatred
out on other people.

Just myself

and that’s why
I love
holding girls down
by their throats
in bed
and slightly choking them
and giving them little slaps
across the face
when they ask for it
    or even
    when I just feel like it
and pounding them
like I’m trying to
tenderize meat
instead of making love
to them
and spanking them so hard
that their asses are red
and have my hand prints
on them
    and most of the time
if you find the girls
who are tattooed
and pierced
just like you are
they’ll happily let you do
all that
because they hate themselves
as much as you hate
yourself.

Rough sex
is the only way
you can physically hurt
someone
and get away with.

Rough sex
is self hatred
masquerading
as love

and I have so much
self hatred
inside of me
that it makes me hate
everything and everyone
in the entire world.

I’m 28 yrs old
and I wanna kill
my monitor
and I wanna be put
in a museum
so I can scare little children
and I wanna violently fuck
beautiful women
who should be made love to
in the same delicate way
you’d pick a flower
and most of the time
the only thing that keeps me alive
is my dream
of writing lots and lots
and lots of words
for the world to read

but now

sitting here

    and so fuckin’ badly
wanting to wipe
that shit eating grin
off my monitor’s face

after 28 years
I still remain totally
unsure
if the world
is anything worth
writing for

and all just because
of a bunch
of douche bag kids
back in middle school
who all were trying
to fit in
just so they wouldn’t
hate themselves
then
as much as I hate myself
now.


© Calvero 2013

my poem, someday i’m going to marry Katy Perry, from my book of poetry by the same name. (written while her and that crappy British comedian were still together)


someday i’m going to marry Katy Perry
by Calvero


Someday
I’m going to marry
Katy Perry.

Just wait,
you’ll see.

But wait.
What’s that you ask?
Isn’t she already married?
Yeah.
So?
She’s married
to that crappy
British comedian,
    what’s his name?
Randall?
Huh?
What’s that,
you say?
It’s Russell?
Oh.
Well, whatever.
I’m sure
they’ll get divorced.
In fact I know
they will.
I have faith.
I know that probably sounds horrible,
and I know my poor Katy
will probably be heartbroken
over it all
when it eventually happens,
but I also know
that she and Randall
splitting
is ultimately for the best.
Besides,
I’ll be there for her.
    I’ll make her feel better.
I’m not a comedian
per say,
but I can make her laugh
too.
I’ll tell her jokes.
    I’ll be like,
“Katy,
how do you get a dog
to stop humping you leg?”
“How?”
she’ll ask me.
“Pick him up
and start sucking his dick,”
I’ll reply
with perfect comedic timing.
And then she’ll laugh,
and then I’ll laugh,
and we’ll laugh together
so hard
that we’ll fall asleep
in each other’s arms.

That will be the beginning
of our courtship,
and it wouldn’t take long
after that
for her to see
what a stand-up guy
I am.
I would drive us
to romantic places
with scenic views
in my dented ‘96 Geo Prism.
I’d take her out to dinner
whenever I could afford it.
I’d slow dance
with her to Sam Cooke
and Ritchie Valens.
I’d even leave little love notes
around
for her to find,
and they’d say adorable shit like,
“I’ll be thinking of you
all day today,”
or,
“You farted in your sleep
last night
and I thought it was really cute.
xoxoxo”

In a little over a year
we’d surely be married,
and I’d be the happiest man alive
because I’d get to take care of
Katy
for the rest of her life.
I still live with my parents,
but I’m sure they wouldn’t mind
Katy moving in with us.
They’re cool like that.
We’d be one, big,
happy family.
Just me,
Katy,
my mom and dad,
my two cats,
and of course her cat,
Kitty Purry.
It’d be great.
Plus,
I don’t want to toot
my own horn,
but I’d be the greatest lover
she ever had too.
(Toot,
    toot!)
I’d seduce
my beautiful Katy-bear
every night
to make sure
all her deepest
physical desires
were always met…

“Hey baby,”
I’d say to her seductively,
“I know you’re probably
still full
from all that Hamburger Helper
I made us for dinner,
and I know the smell
of fresh cat shit
permeating from the litter box
at the foot of the bed
isn’t ideal,
but maybe you’d like to make some
sweet,
        sweet,
                love?
Yeah?
You guess so?
Yeah,
there really isn’t anything good
on TV tonight.
Sounds good,
baby.
Let’s get at it.
But we need to try
and fuck quietly.
My parents are asleep
right next door.”

Ya see?
Katy would be happier
than she’d ever been
in her whole life.
She’d totally forget about
what’s his name,
    Randall?
Russell you say?
Oh whatever.
And to answer
your question,
no,
I’m not deliberately
forgetting his name
just to belittle him
like he’s not important enough
to remember.
I’m not immature
like that.

    Anyway,
Katy would be so happy
living with me
in my parent’s house
and with all our cats
that she’d never want
to leave my side.
Not even
to go out on tour
or to go record
a new hit album.
But don’t worry.
I wouldn’t let that happen.
I’d be really supportive
of her career.
I’d remind her of her gift
and that she needs to share it
with the world
because she and her songs
make so many people
happy.

So ya see?
I’d be a really good
husband,
and Katy and I
would have a great life
together,

and it’d be
beautiful,
and
wonderful,
and
scary,

and it’d be
difficult
at times
too,
because

true love
comes broken.

    It is not something
you fall into
and hold onto,
but rather
is always
continually
being built
from the ground up,
    constructed from
    the collective rubble
    and remains
    of two,
    separate,
    lost souls.

It is hard work,
    true love,

    a gamble
you don’t
leave to chance,

and as long
as you know this
and grasp this firmly
with all your heart
and with all ten
of your fingers,

and as long
as you are bold enough
and strong enough
and willing enough
to painstakingly
build it
brick by brick,
then you already
have more to offer a woman
than most of the richest men
in the world.

Someday
I’m going to marry
Katy Perry,

    and not only that,

I’m going to hold onto her
too.

Just wait
and see,
Randall.
Just wait
and see.

xoxoxoxo