poetry/prose by Calvero.
dirnt, dirnt, dirnt… (there’s a certain ignorance that goes along with being sane)


I am sitting in a room
filled with boxes
today.

It is my job
to move the boxes
from one part of the room
to another part of
the room.

There are lots and lots
of boxes to move
but, instead of moving them,
I’m mainly just staring
at them,
    like if I stare at them
long and hard enough
they will move themselves
or something.

Hahahaha.

My main motivation
in wanting to move the boxes
from point A
to point B
is not because it’s my job
and because it’s required of me
    but rather
the mental image of me
having successfully transported
all of the boxes,
    towered in a perfect stack,
and then just knocking
all of the boxes down
    just because.

Hahahaha,
    
    killing what you’ve
    created.

Awesome…

America.

I am alone
in this room
I am sitting in.

It is me
and the boxes
and a bunch of oscillating
fans.

Just me
and my boxes
and my fans.

My boxes
and my fans…

my boys,

my homies,

my dawgs.

    Thug life.

Thugs
fo
life.

The room is cool
because of the fans
and also because a big window
is open too.

The window is open
all the way.

    Instead of moving
    the boxes,
I get up
and look out the window,

    15 stories
    straight down.

    As I look straight down,
I can see/feel a single string
in my head,
    stretched very taught,
        almost to the point
        of snapping,
and then a skeletal hand
comes from outta nowhere
and plucks at this
string.

Dirnt…

    Dirnt, dirnt, dirnt…

That is the sound
the string in my head
makes…

    Dirnt, dirnt, dirnt…

    and every time this bony finger
    plucks at this one string
    I have left,
I feel myself heavily contemplating
throwing myself
out of this window.

Hahaha,

smiling the whole way
down.

Cowabunga,
    dude.

My last words.

    My last thought
        ever.

Cowabunga,
    dude…

I continue looking
out the window,
    15 stories
straight down.

The people move around
on the streets
like a colony of
ants.

But I don’t mean
that they all    collectively
move/look like an ant colony.

I mean each person
    individually
moves/looks like an ant colony,
    consumed with nothing
but him or herself
and their tunnel visioned
goal
or task at hand.

Hahahaha…

Me hurling myself
out the window,
    crashing into the sidewalk
    like some semi-handsome
    comet
    with an untrimmed beard,
        but not nearly enough
        to destroy the planet,
and then all of the busy
New Yorkers
walking past me/around me/
over me
like the self-consumed
ant colonies
they are.

Never stop
moving,

never stop
working,

never start
grieving;

        the life
    of an ant colony.

Dirnt…

    Dirnt, dirnt, dirnt…

I continue looking straight down
out of this window
but I dunno what is keeping me
from throwing myself
out of this window.

Maybe it’s the boxes.

Maybe it’s the mental image
of building them up
only to bring them all
down.

I don’t know.

Don’t care.

I go
and sit back down
on the couch.

I feel the cool
air
in the room
on my skin.

I stare at
the boxes
and wait for them
to move themselves.

And then

one
by one,

    and in perfect synchronization
    to the sour music
    inside my head,

(Dirnt,
    dirnt,
        dirnt…)

they do.


© Calvero 2014

I really like what they do over at Alt Lit Press.
And I think you will too.

I really like what they do over at Alt Lit Press.

And I think you will too.

people never sit next to me on the train


I am sitting on the train
waiting to leave
Grand Central Terminal.

The train is full,
    totally packed,
but the two seats
next to me
are empty.

People never sit
next to me
on the train
and I’m not sure
why.

Perhaps
there is something about me
that looks like
a booby trap.

Perhaps
I have a “booby trap-looking”
kinda face or something
that makes fellow train passengers
feel like if they sit down
beside me
an axe will swing down
from the ceiling,
    decapitating them.

I dunno.

For the longest time
I thought it was
my cologne,
    “Trout” for Men.

They did a very good job
naming my cologne
because the name
is a very accurate description
of what it smells like;
    trout.

So I stopped wearing
my trout cologne
for awhile,
    figuring perhaps
its unorthodox smell
was what was keeping people
from sitting next to me
on the train
but,
    as it turns out,
that wasn’t the case.

People still wouldn’t
sit next to me.

So I started wearing
my cologne again.

I guess I just figured
if people aren’t gonna
sit next to me on the train
then I might as well
at least smell
how I wanna smell.

I don’t know…

I don’t know what
it is.

I don’t know
why
people never sit
next to me
on the train.

    Like,
I really wonder
what the reason
is.

Even though I spend
most of my time
avoiding people
it still kinda hurts my feelings
that no one ever
sits next to me.

It makes me feel like
I’m a mailbox,
    an old, rusted,
    metal mailbox
    whose little flag is broken
and who sits out in front of
some run-down house
in the country
that no one lives in anymore
and whose front yard
hasn’t been mowed
or attended to in years
and so the grass is growing
all over the place,
    all crazy and wild-
    like.

That’s what no one
sitting next to me
on the train
makes me feel like…

So I sit here
alone.

I feel sad
and semi-violent
and uber-lonely.

A grizzly bear
in a really expensive-looking
suit
comes and sits down
in the three seater
I’m sitting in.

He puts his briefcase
in the empty seat
between us.

    Outta the corner
    of my eyes,
I see him stick his nose
into the air
and then sniff.

“What is that smell?”
    he asks out loud.
“Is that you,
    kid?
Is that trout
I smell?”

“Yeah,
    it’s me.
It’s my cologne,”
I tell him.
    “‘Trout’ for Men.”

“Wow…
    I love it.
        No Seriously…
    Like,
I really, really love it.
    It’s ravishing.
I know ravishing
is usually the kind of word
you would use to describe
a lady’s perfume
and not a man’s cologne,
    but I hope you don’t mind me
saying that…
    It’s just ravishing…”

“No.
    No, that’s fine.
And thank you.”

“Takes me back
to my old forest days,
    your cologne.
Ya know?
    Ya know what I mean,
    kid?”

I don’t know what
he means

and all of this small talk
begins making me really
anxious,

so I nod to him
and then I grab my headphones
outta my messenger bag
and put them in my ears
and then I plug them into
my iPhone
but I don’t put any music
on.

I turn my head away
from the grizzly bear
and look out the window
into the subterranean darkness
of Grand Central Terminal.

I sit there,
    pretending to listen
    to music,

        totally and completely still,

like some kinda sad,
pathetic monument
to my own inane
sickness.


© Calvero 2014

Man you are some kind of genius!

I may be a genius, but hey, I’m just like you. And I’m just like everyone else too. My super model maids/servants/sex slaves put my pants on for me one leg at a time just like everyone else. Ya know what I mean?

Haha, just kidding. I’m a stupid shithead. But you’re kind for saying that.

Hope all is well.

Much love,
Calvero

my poop this morning


    Long,
    slender
    and brown,
it looked like an exclamation
point,
    ready and willing
to submerge
into a perilous aquatic adventure
in search of its missing
dot.

Standing there,

    looking at it,

I felt love.


© Calvero 2014

Love.

You will too.

one Raymond Carver, lightly toasted with butter, and one Bukowski toasted nice and dark and with lots of cream cheese


    An old lady walks through the front door of a poetry establishment.
    She walks through the door like she’s being played on a dusty phonograph rather than walking in on her own two legs like she actually is doing.
    The man behind the counter looks up and sees the old lady.
    He has to keep himself from grimacing.
    The man behind the counter, who is also the owner of the poetry establishment, doesn’t like the old lady even though she is his only steady customer.
    She comes in every day, the old lady.
    Every day, always at noon, and always at noon on the dot.
    For example, it is noon now as she enters the poetry establishment like stale, unwanted music.
    Yesterday she came in at 12:00.
    And the day before that, 12:00.
    And the day before that, before that, 12:00.
    And the day before that, before that, before that, also 12:00.
    The old woman is so punctual the owner of the poetry establishment could set his watch to her.
    He doesn’t though.
    He would rather smash his watch (one that his deceased father gave him before dying) into fucking pieces with a tack hammer before he’d ever set time to her.
    Here we go again… the owner of the poetry establishment says to himself as the old lady approaches the counter.
    The owner says, Here we go again… to himself because everyday he and the old lady have the exact same conversation and today, July 25th, 2074, is no different.
    Owner: Good morning, Miss.
    Old Lady: Mmm.
    Owner: Can I get you the usual today?
    Old Lady: No. No you can’t get me the usual today. I want something different today. Don’t go getting me the usual today.
    Owner: Alright… Then what can I get you?
    Old Lady: Give me one Raymond Carver, lightly toasted with butter. And then give me one Charles Bukowski toasted nice and dark and with lots of cream cheese. And I mean lots. If you’re gonna go charging me extra for additional cream cheese then there better be lots on there.
    This, in fact, is what the old lady gets every day. This is her usual. But the owner doesn’t bring it up to her.
    He doesn’t want to get frustrated or mad.
    He already has high blood pressure.
    “We need to lower your blood pressure.”
    That was what his doctor to said him about his blood pressure, so the owner of the poetry establishment tries to stay calm.
    He has to.
    He has a wife and two kids to think about.
    He hopes to send his two kids to college so they don’t have to work with him in a failing poetry establishment and serve bitter old wenches with no manners poetry every day like he does.
    Owner: Coming right up, Miss.
    While imagining himself cutting off her head and then punting her decapitated head as hard and as far away from him as he can, the owner picks up a piece of tissue paper and walks over to the wall lined top to bottom with baskets full of poetry.
    At random, he picks up “Straw Hats” by Charles Bukowski and “Happiness” by Raymond Carver.
    He thinks to back in the day when he used to care and take consideration in what poems he picked out for his customers. But now the customers don’t come in like they used to.
    Only her.
    And he doesn’t give a shit what poems he gives to her.
    Sometimes he thinks about how he would give her recycled toilet paper if one day, in her old age, she just so happened to become senile enough for him to get away with it.
    The owner walks over to the toaster. He puts the poems inside. He leaves the Carver poem in for fifteen seconds or so and the Bukowski poem for around thirty seconds or so.
    After they’re finished being toasted, he smears a modest amount of butter on “Happiness” and a whole heaping amount of cream cheese on “Straw Hats.” Then he wraps them up, puts them in a small, brown paper bag, and with a smile that could be used as a murder weapon, he returns to behind the register and places the old lady’s poems down on the counter.
    Owner: There you are. That’ll be three dollars, please.
    Old Lady: Now wait just a minute. You mess up my order every day so I have to check it. I shouldn’t have to check it, but I do…
    The old lady opens up the bag and reaches inside and takes out the poems and then unwraps them.
    Old Lady: See?! I said one Raymond Carver lightly toasted with butter and one Charles Bukowski toasted nice and dark and with lots of cream. Do you call that lightly toasted? And do you call that lots of cream cheese?!
    The owner cannot have this argument again. If he does he might possibly snap and kill the old lady. That or at least hold her head in the toaster, laughing maniacally the whole time, and then eventually screaming, “Is that toasted enough for you?”
    But the owner can’t do those things.
    He can’t go to jail.
    He has a wife and a two kids to still think about.
    He also looks fierce in orange and his bone structure is soft and feminine.
    So the owner decides to do something different today…
    Owner: Ya know what? You’re absolutely right, Miss. And I apologize. Have those on the house. From me to you. Okay?
    The old lady doesn’t know what to do.
    She is shocked.
    This polite gesture is not part of her daily routine. She and the owner should be arguing for, at least, the next ten minutes or so.
    Not knowing what else to do, she wraps up the poems, puts them back in the bag and then walks home.
    She sits down at her kitchen table. She takes out her poems and unwraps them. Using a knife, she scrapes all of the cream cheese off of “Happiness” and then devours it. Then she scrapes off the light amount of butter on “Straw Hats” and then devours that one.
    She sits there in her kitchen for forty-five minutes and listens to the tick of a clock she forgot she even had in the kitchen.
    She feels it’s ticking in the wrinkles of her brain.
    Bored with listening to the clock, or unable to feel its presence in her brain any longer, she stands up, leaving her poetry wrappers and knife on the table and walks into her living room where she stands in front of the mantle.
    She gently stares at a photo of her husband. He is dressed in uniform and there is an American flag behind him.
    She thinks about the days before he got drafted for the third World War. How much simpler of a time it was back then. A time when the world made sense (not a lot, but a little). A time when people didn’t smear different kinds of delicious spreads all over their poetry. When people went to bookstores or libraries for their literature.
    Nothing makes sense anymore.
    Everything is changing around the old lady but she, in of herself, remains a constant. Nothing new ever enters her because she doesn’t know how to let anything new enter her.
    She is not physically capable of doing so.
    She stares at her husband’s picture.
    She can hear him reading to her in her head…

    …and it was a good drive
    home
    under the low
    clouds,
    nothing wrong at all.
    very strange and
    totally
    acceptable.

    The amount of losing him was so great, so enormously staggering, and so filling, that after her husband’s plane was shot down there just wasn’t much room in her life for anything else.
    Only devouring the semi-buttery wisdom of men as dead as her husband once a day.
    But that’s about it.
    The rest of it is occupied by the space of missing him.


© Calvero 2014

calveropoetry:

Hey guys. I have a few extra copies of my book lying around, so if anyone wants a free copy reblog this post and by Friday afternoon and I’ll pick three or four people or so at random, depending on how many partake in this, and then mail you a copy (continental US only. Sorry…). I figure this is better than them sitting around.
And if you’ve already bought a copy, thank you. You have no idea how much it means to me.
Thanks for all the support, my lovely sluts.
Much love, Calvero

Hello my lovely, sluts.
The randomly chosen winners of a free copy of my book are…
ohheykayleen
wordsunsaidbutwritten
the-pursuit-of-grandeur
Email me at calveropoet@yahoo.com or message me on here as soon as you can with your name and address if you would still like a free copy. If I don’t hear from you in a few days I’ll just take your copy and give it to a homeless guy or throw it in a lake or feed its pages to a goat or something depending on my mood.
Thanks for the support, everyone.
Much love,Calvero

calveropoetry:

Hey guys. I have a few extra copies of my book lying around, so if anyone wants a free copy reblog this post and by Friday afternoon and I’ll pick three or four people or so at random, depending on how many partake in this, and then mail you a copy (continental US only. Sorry…). I figure this is better than them sitting around.

And if you’ve already bought a copy, thank you. You have no idea how much it means to me.

Thanks for all the support, my lovely sluts.

Much love,
Calvero

Hello my lovely, sluts.

The randomly chosen winners of a free copy of my book are…

ohheykayleen

wordsunsaidbutwritten

the-pursuit-of-grandeur

Email me at calveropoet@yahoo.com or message me on here as soon as you can with your name and address if you would still like a free copy. If I don’t hear from you in a few days I’ll just take your copy and give it to a homeless guy or throw it in a lake or feed its pages to a goat or something depending on my mood.

Thanks for the support, everyone.

Much love,
Calvero

Hey guys. I have a few extra copies of my book lying around, so if anyone wants a free copy reblog this post and by Friday afternoon and I’ll pick three or four people or so at random, depending on how many partake in this, and then mail you a copy (continental US only. Sorry…). I figure this is better than them sitting around.
And if you’ve already bought a copy, thank you. You have no idea how much it means to me.
Thanks for all the support, my lovely sluts.
Much love, Calvero

Hey guys. I have a few extra copies of my book lying around, so if anyone wants a free copy reblog this post and by Friday afternoon and I’ll pick three or four people or so at random, depending on how many partake in this, and then mail you a copy (continental US only. Sorry…). I figure this is better than them sitting around.

And if you’ve already bought a copy, thank you. You have no idea how much it means to me.

Thanks for all the support, my lovely sluts.

Much love,
Calvero

However, whatever your own path is, wherever it takes you, there is one instruction you should protect and always carry with you: never give up on anyone. Even if you can’t help someone now, don’t abandon him or her mentally or close the door to your heart. This is the direct word of the Buddha, our ancient revolutionary friend, and if you forget it, you’ll hear it again from the mouth of the rebel buddha you’re living with right now.
Dzogchen Ponlop

"Dear Author,

Thank you for giving us the opportunity to consider your work. Unfortunately, we did not feel your project was a right fit for our agency. But we do wish you the best of luck.

Please forgive the form letter, but the enormous volume of inquiries we receive obliges us to respond in this manner. Thank you, and again, best wishes in your future endeavors.”

I’m gonna get this tattooed on my forehead.

if this poem were a dude’s chest it would have a total of zero chest hairs on it


She wore Roman-looking
sandals
and her toenails were painted
bright pink
but it was the delicacy
of her bone structure
that I fell in love with.

It was like when you gently
roll outta bed to go pee
late at night,
    trying not to wake
    the person you love
    sleeping beside you,
but then,
    despite your best efforts,
the person sorta, kinda
wakes up anyway
but only for, like,
    a minute or so,
because by the time you come back from peeing
you can already see
they’re fast asleep
again.

Her bone structure
that I fell in love with
looked like that…

When I walked past her
to get off of the train
that we momentarily shared,
I wanted to tap her on her shoulder
and say,
    “Thank you for making me feel like
I wasn’t wearing a metal garbage can
over my head
for the past forty-five minutes.

I really appreciate it.

You have no idea.”

I got off of the train
and she stayed on the train.

    Even though I was surrounded
    by concrete
    and was far, far away
    from any kinda nature
    at all,
I heard lots of birds chipping
from somewhere.

Looking back at it all
now,

I’m pretty sure the chirping
came from the ghost
of her bone structure.

© Calvero 2014