Go Green, Throw Yourself in the Trash Can or Throw Someone Else, a Chronicle

[Chronicle certain to be reedited in the future, hope you enjoy it, as well as the design to it!]

Go Green, Throw Yourself in the Trash Can or Throw Someone Else, a Chronicle

Have you ever shared the same feeling as I do now when you, a very good and respectful citizen (not always, not never), was putting your recycled trash in the trash can? The feeling may start going through your head only when you’re actually cleaning your filthy garbage but eventually, trust me, it will run marathons in your mind at any time of the day. That was how it happened to me.
This rainy morning, I put aside all my paper and plastic and cans and all that same ordinary ritual. As I was dropping one of the bags, anticipating the drummy sound of bag hitting metal trash can, there was no sound: it fell in slow motion and silent. And then the epiphany! No, not that everything is recyclable but that everything is disposable and that many of these things are indeed recyclable.
That thought kept me uneasy the whole day and it only got worse throughout the years. For instance: I met this girl the other day and I completely identified her as being a recycled product of Marianne (my ex) because she had almost all the same physical features, mixed with some materials of Jessica (one night stand) who was extremely psychotic. Really, a total recycled material, of course that wasn’t going to work out, thus: trash can. Easy, it’s easier than a 1, 2, 3-step, it’s a 2-step program, you just throw it away. And that not only with one or two people but a WHOLE bunch of them…
It is freaking CREEPY to be aware of all this recycle-self-awareness that has been going around nowadays! If only people knew how bad it can be to recycle, they wouldn’t be throwing campaigns about it around now, would they? “Go green”, “Recycle!”, my ass!
Two weeks ago I went to a job interview, the same old questions, the same old memorized answers, the basic formal ceremony of acting and the result, another mediocre job, another pattern kept in my trash can. I guess I can’t seem to get enough of drinking the same milk because baby, these boxes of non-progress in my life won’t just leave. See, recycled, they may change a little but they are all the same, although you try to throw them away, they persist, they endure in being part of your trash.
God knows when I met this cute guy, very different package than any other I set aside, in fact, he was a lot like me, and that obviously made me act all retard and wanting to be near him because let’s face it, I NEVER find people who are at my level, they are always wearing these weird inferior packages so they end up recycled. But this guy… well, he never called again, although we had a wonderful time, but none of that matters because everything is disposable and you can always recycle.
And that is not a bad thing… sometimes it’s better to get a recycled material rather than a non-recycled one… it makes us appreciate what we had before in a different context, and the context is everything.
Too bad sometimes we never know when to stop recycling or throwing things away.

Dialogue Between Someone Who Never Found Love and Someone Who Is Still Looking

- Little girl why are you crying if love never dies? Are you crying over infatuation? It's ok, don't worry, we all are infatuated, until we are not.

The Poet and the Junkie

Words inked on a
white sheet of paper:
I want to sniff into
my heart the word
and make liquid
into my veins,
make balance
a shot in my brain.

But no, I can’t
seem to roll blunts
of happiness and
the ashes are too
gray to be happy.

Perhaps if I wrote
with a capital letter,
on paper acid,
I’d feel like I belong

For now it’s just me
and the white sheet of paper.

I lighted matches thinking it was a Zipo

Part 1


Do you lose
in people easily?
No, I gain interest
in everyone really quickly.

And there stood I,
one of many.

Imaginary answer

Listen, I am 24 years
old and I don’t need

The unreal most real answer of all times, the biggest joke of the century

Is everything ok?
Huh? Yeah…


How about you?
I lose Interest
really quickly.

And there stood she,
one of many.

Relationship: a very subjective word

What? There was no
date! I am not meeting you.
Mmmm, is everything alright?
I’m just in a bad mood
now. People ask me stuff I
don’t want to talk about.
Who was it on the phone?
(Fuck! I shouldn’t have asked it)
I need some time alone.

She turned her back
and walked away,
I turned mine
but stayed.

Part 2

Attempt of connection #1

She came,
then she came to
see me perform.
I knew one or
two things about her;
talking was not really
her thing (she was a dancer,
among other things).
Talking was mine though
(I was a poet, among other things).

When did you write that poem?
(It was an old poem, and I, as
clever as any poet is, knew what
she wanted to hear)
Three months ago, but you
could have asked me
I chose to perform it tonight.
Why did you then?
(there, the smile I wanted
to get off her apathetic face)
Too bad you didn’t
ask me that in the

Attempt of connection #2

She came,
then we met
among innumerous sweaty
tight bodies, mmm very,
very nice bodies
must I say,
urgh, OK, maybe not all
hot, but yeah, all moving
to the sound of anything
else than their own
hammering thoughts.
There she was,
staring at nothingness,
barely blinking, faceless.
I approached her
anyways, at the
someone else grabbed her,
she looked at me and
closed her eyes.

Attempt of connection #3

She certainly came,
I pretended I did,
and when I fake it,
I fake it to the bone,
when I’m hurt,
I hurt back three thousand
times more,
she just didn’t know it, yet.

Look, girl, I grabbed her,
we need to talk, now.
We blabbed and uttered words,
we threw
phrases in the semantics of air;
communication was the
joke of the century for her,
and I took it very,
very personally,

What? Am I too sweet for you?
Too sweet and too intellectual for her.

Finally she had the chance
to be the inspiration of
my writing, just like
she wanted in the first place.


Tiny spider hands
tingling all over my body,
one, two, three thousand
of them,
fast and hard,
like last night’s kiss…
I kissed a whore.

There’s acid in my
stomach , I call it
post-modern nihilism,
post-modern pluralism,
dualism, egocentrism,
and all the isms that I may

Parfait excuse for shoving
my fingers down my throat
and looking like an intellectual
who actually gives a damn
to the world, and thinks of
metaphors worth sharing.

I vomit at any given alley,
on any given day, it’s
all a given something
through blurry and teary eyes
there’s the salvation to
in a capsule
named whatever:


I do it in the pitch dark and all my isms are back.

Even the singular is plural

Invisible but sensorial
Untouchable yet tingle
comb-shaped particles that dissipate
across our skin to the universe
of dark blue
(her favorite color)
there’s no time for that moment,
no moment for a state of being
for we are, we are,
I swear I feel we are,
we must be…
this time

Can those particles be found in a certain
tone, in a particular repetition,
in a precise combination of
saturation and hue in our irises?
Or are they tone, repetition,
and combination of saturation
and hue themselves now on
our kiss?

Love is plural to me,
this time,
I put my pants back on,
leave her sleeping,
looks too beautiful unaware
of my agony for leaving,
I smile and leave behind my
hat, placed by her chair,
where in my head she’d
sit and wear it, just to,
just to feel me.

She never called me back.


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