A poem should be read all at once
To enjoy his selected poems
he only reads the first stanza
before going to bed
and keeps the second one
for when he wakes up in the middle of the night
to pee or to have a sip of water
or to spy on the couple next door
But he can’t enjoy it because he is busy
working on a dream,
a dream he won’t tell anyone about
even his psychiatrist.
He delays the second stanza to lunchtime.
He never finishes a poem when he is full.
He is always cautious
checking the poet’s biography on the cover.
In the evening
the taste of words slides over the ice cubes
of the homemade lemonade he was forced to buy
from the annoying kid next door
to support the kid’s scout club.
After reading four stanzas he starts to feel dizzy.
His heart beats speed up.
His mouth becomes dry.
He can’t breathe.
His legs are numb.
He tries to reach the phone
But instead he reaches the end of the poem.
With fuzzy eyes he reads
Your neighbor discovered your affair with his wife,
Don’t drink the lemonade.
My buddy is panicking:
What should he wear when aliens come to visit?
And he does not mean aliens coming illegally to the country
Looking for jobs.
He’s concerned about his sex appeal.
Acne has been loyal to his face since he was fifteen.
It would be a challenge to ask any cool aliens out
And he’d end up collecting the geek ones.
From a pixelated computer screen and a keyboard missing letters and luck
He bids for a facial cream made of lemon, honey and rare bugs’ digestive enzymes.
It has been advertised that this cream kills blisters and doubts.
As he struggles to save the twenty bucks needed to buy the cream
I suggested he sell his antique bicycle.
No dude, I can’t sell Aunt Sylvia’s bicycle, he shouted.
The pink bicycle he rides every day to the bay
searching inside cargo ships for aliens.
Aliens do not travel in spaceships, too idiotic! he claims.
He always wonders how could we tell if an alien is a male or a female?
Do they eat ice cream?
And if so, what flavors do they like?
He reveals that the landlord is taking him to court for eviction
I advise him to challenge the short fat bastard in a game of basketball
He admits that he could not jump so high or say the explicit words
And he only uses a knife to make a green salad
His last chance in this world will be aliens adopting him
And he becomes one of them
I shave his head
We watch a few stars smile in the darkening skies
Feeling the stitches on his scalp and sipping what is left
Of an old can of beer
He whispers before falling into a deep sleep,
“You know that they are coming, right?”
I shake my head and cover him with old newspapers, never delivered.
I leave three bucks and collect dreams foaming from his mouth to water
The little Bonsai, Aunt Sylvia’s Bonsai.
I wander the street with guilt.
I reach my hole and shave my chest
I wake up my sweetie and we make love all night long.
Aliens do exist. They do not care about acne
and they love hazelnut caramel ice cream.
A taste of ourselves
We keep our distance
ROUGH and tender times
Green olives or Pistachios
I couldn’t decide