he throws his weak body on

the bed

and breathes against the

mattress

and feels around with his hands

in the vain hopes

that maybe, maybe he'll be able

to find another one

of her lost hairs

No luck

Ah, isn't it amazing how much of

a hopeless creature a human's

mind is in this

reality?

The mind of man is the ultimate

loser in all of existence

It literally never wins

against the heart

Never!

If the heart tells you to love

the one being who

wakes you up in the middle of the night

with a vicious bite on the neck

and demands that you

listen to her story about

how her fourth eye opened the last

time you fucked

and she saw God...

The mind can do nothing about it.

Oh, mind, you eternal

loser

Don't you ever get tired

of losing?

Even now as she is far, far away

in another world

you still can't win over the heart who

tells you to remember

and worship her

You're hopeless, mind. Hopeless

All those years ago,

she opened her fourth of ninth or

whatever eye and saw God,

but me...

I had only to close the eyes

that I had

and feel her right there

God is whomever your

heart tells you that God is,

and nobody else

and despite all religions and creeds

and dogmas and indoctrination

and cults... The mind, as always, has no

saying in the matter

All you can do, dear mind, is give up

and rest in peace

Thank you.

***

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for hours and hours

he lies

down

but doesn’t sleep

“Can’t sleep when your

eyes aren’t

tired,” he says

but his eyes are

beyond tiredness. They’re dead.

Been fished out

quite expertly

a long time ago by a

very unfortunate, very unhappy

mother who couldn’t stand

looking into them

“Bitch should’ve gouged

her own then,” he says

these days, laughing and

making jokes about it

Not a lot of

people

find them funny though

but that’s all right

he’s not some standup comedian

No, he sits down

on the park bench

and plays the guitar

from noon to morning

for eager audiences of

dead children

who look up to him as a hero

Sometimes

real people

even throw coins at him

sometimes

even food

And all his songs

are about

cheering

and loving life

***

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She ordered drinks,

but would take them in plastic cups

so she could enjoy

them outside the bar

on the steps

“She thinks she's too good for us,”

said the other girls. “Doesn't

wanna drink with

losers.”

“She's just crazy,” said another girl. “Leave

her be.”

“That's her art and the thing

she's best at,” said another girl. “This girl,

oh, she can out-crazy all the crazies.

I like her. Love her.

It wasn't that long ago

when she

was approached outside

in the darkness by some

thug-looking dude

who invited her into the back alley

and she agreed.

But, she removed her clothes right

there on the steps.

An' pulled a goddamned switchblade from

between her legs.

Told the guy that she doesn't take money.

Tongue, ear, eye, or finger, she told him.

Asked, which would you like

me to carve out and

tuck neatly in my lady pocket for

fermentation?

There was nothing but seriousness in her

eyes.

Apparently, it works. She spoke with the heart

and not the mind, so

it worked.

She outcrazied the crazy.

And the guy just ran away.

There's real knowledge to be taken from

this.

The way out of any situation

is to break the rules, to refuse to play

by the script. Do something

unexpected, something extraordinary. And you'll

always end up on top of

any challenge.

Craziness then, is only a statement

made by the heart

that the mind can't agree with.

Cheers!”

They all drank

and nobody had anything else to say

It was time to

think

and drink

***

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as always

when he found himself

afflicted

with a bad case of

writer’s block

he’d cure it by taking

all the money in the

house and

going to the casino

He’d always play the

roulette

and always bet on

the number 17

If he won

his money would

multiply by 36

and if he lost

he lost it all

Of course

the chances being

36 to one

he mostly lost

but losing at the roulette

brought another win,

a cure from the writer’s block

It’s simple

Where there is regret and

self loathing

and grief

and misery

and depression

and madness

there is inspiration

These are the people

the muse visits

and after losing the money he

made by pawning his wedding ring

he knew she’ll visit him

tonight

Unlike his wife

***

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they scolded the old man

and threatened to

kick him out of

the neighborhood

“You're stinking up the place,

old fool!”

But he only rocked in

his chair

and poured another glass

and raised it to them in salute

and drank

and smiled in spite of their

frowns

He lived in the city of 770

universities. The city of intellectuals,

of the highest, most

educated, most

elevated minds the world had to offer

To live here

one must be either a grade A

student or a published and

acknowledged author or

artist

The authorities allowed this old man

on account of being a poet

but the citizens, with all their

education and knowledge

and diplomas

would never understand that decision

Professors of philosophy offered him

as example to the students.

“This over here,” they've said, “is the

stereotype of

the man who stops searching for

truth on account of taking

to heart the famous words, 'I know that

I know nothing.'

What do you think, is the man right in

his way of life?”

And the answer came not from

any of the students

but the one they were gawking at

“No way,” he said

“Excuse me?”

“'I know that I know nothing' ain't my

philosophy.

Me, I know that there's nothing

I need to know. All I gotta do in

this life is feel.”

“What?”

He put a cigarette between his lips

and lit it

with a match,

waved with his hand. “Now get the fuck

outta here, you and

your students. You're blocking my sunlight.”

***

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“The earlier you start in

life,

the better you’ll get,” she said. “That

is, of course, if you

keep going. If you don’t give

up on your dream.”

“Wise words,” I said

She smirked at that. “You bet. So in your

case, you say you started writing

at twenty. That means you

can’t be that good

of a writer. There weren’t too many years

since then. You’re not even thirty

yet. You must really

suck at writing actually.”

I shrugged. “Probably. I don’t know.

I’m not sharing my work

with a lot of people. But what about you?

When did you start beating

at your craft?”

She let out a

very condescending whistle

as she looked up. “I started dancing

at nine,” she said. “Like, every

evening. My big brother would

call me to

his room and give me

candy bars and cans of coke if I

danced for him. And I did it.

Naked. And I got

better and better at it. Today, you can’t

see a more experienced stripper

in this club. I dare you

to look for one

better than me. I really dare you.”

“Damn,” I said, “And how’s your

brother doing these days?”

“He’s in the back room, managing

the club. Why ask?”

“No reason.”

***

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the phone rang at 03:08

unknown number

Well, the bleeding wound

on his forehead prevented him

from sleeping anyway

He picked up

"Yeah?"

"Hey," a girl's voice said. "Are

you the guy who

has a thing for crazy girls fresh out

of the psych ward?"

"What?"

"Am I speaking to the guy who's

very much into dating

sexy girls with mental issues that

other guys refer to as red flags?"

"Who is this?" he asked

"Oh no, this is not

about me. I just wanted to

introduce you to my sister. I think she

fits the bill quite perfectly

with you. What do you say?"

He sighed. "Tell her I'll call back

once my current girlfriend

breaks up with me. I hope she's patient. It'll

take a good couple of hours. Bye."

He hung up

***

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standing naked on the

wide window sill

she struck a match and lit

her cigarette

and dragged deep

listening to the tobacco

sizzling inside

and giving up smoke

“It's not some special gift,” she says.

“I don't hear things

that others can't hear. It's just awareness.

Being aware of the things

others hear but

never notice.”

“Damn,” he said from the reflection

in the window pane. “So

everyone else is haunted. They

hear and see it, but they just

lack the awareness to

acknowledge it?”

She put her head against the glass

and exhaled smoke

on his reflection, painting his barb-wire

limbs gray.

Her good eye fixed on his snake head

with a wet feather for tongue.

She said, “That's right, love.

Now, how about we go and set fire to

a fire station?”

“How will it be different from last

time?” he asked

She laughed. “It won't be. And that's

what makes it fun.

Let's go.”

“I'll be at the edge of your

blade, love.

And, always, inside the fire.”

"Of course."

***

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she was the girl who told everybody

to hold on to hope

while she hid in her bedroom

at night and cut herself

She’d pass the razor blade

by the side

of her ankles

and then crouch so as to lick

and slurp

the blood

swirl it around her mouth

until it lost its salty, iron taste

and then swallow

She always wore pants

never a skirt

and she was the girl who

told everybody to hold on to hope

until the last moment

She would climb on the roof

and smoke menthol cigarettes while

watching the stars in the sky

and slowly, slowly drift into touching

herself

I don’t even know her name

but I would like to

ask her

to be my muse

***

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time flies differently when you

stand alone in a

room and think

about the past with

regret

Pigeons with glass shards

in their wings, reflecting

sunlight in their fall. That's how time

moves lately

“It's gotta be a long time ago,” he

said. “I know it's gotta

be a long time ago

because the times I've thought

about it were so

damn numerous.

I was just... Just walking back home

when I saw her.

On the side of the road, covered by

her black hooded jacket.

Black stockings on slim legs.

In high, black boots with elevated soles.

Her face totally concealed by the

shade of the hood.

Yet as I passed by her

I saw the paleness of her features.

Big eyes locked with mine. A cold snap in

my very soul.

I just... kept going. Too afraid to even

look back.

And the more I walked ahead and

the more I refused to look back...

The more I regret.

Today,

I am here.”

“What's there to regret?” asked the

cold air in the room. “She could've

been a ghost. You could've

been dead by

her hand now.”

“I know,” he said. “I will never

forgive myself

for walking past. Never.”

***

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