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
Every once
and awhile
while digging around
inside my wallet,
or coat pocket,
or pants pocket,
I’ll come across
an old,
crumpled up,
wrinkled
receipt,
and because
I’m such
an incurable fat ass,
9 times
out of 10
the receipt
will be for one of many
fast food places;
Taco Bell,
Wendy’s,
McDonald’s,
Burger King,
you know,
the usuals,
and I’ll look down
at the receipt
in my hand
and reread
what I had ordered
for lunch
or dinner
on that day…
4 SOFT TACO BEEF
- NO LETTUCE
1 LRG DIET PEPSI,
and if I’m lucky
the receipt will still have
some kind of grease stain
on it,
and after I’ve made sure
no one is looking,
I’ll bring the receipt
up to my nose
and take a sniff
and breathe it in,
and all the wonderfully
tasty
memories
will come flooding back
into my brain,
and as I reminisce
I’ll smile,
and I’ll feel warm
and good inside,
and the sun
will suddenly piss
special
rays of sunshine
down upon me,
and only
upon me,
and as the world dissolves
around me
I’ll just stand there,
wherever I may be,
in a state of
chubby blissfulness
staring at the receipt
ever so longingly,
almost as if it were
a photograph
of an old girlfriend
I had never really
gotten over,
or a photo
of me and a bunch
of forgotten friends
that I dearly miss
and haven’t seen in years
and know
I’ll most likely
never see again,
and then
it will hurt,
because those tacos
were good tacos,
really… good… tacos.
I remember them
so clearly,
so perfectly,
and I loved them
so,
and they tasted
so delicious,
but I know they’re
never
coming
back.
Those tacos,
those really, really good tacos
are gone.
The song
“Memory”
from Andrew Lloyd Webber’s
Cats
will begin playing inside my head
and I’ll become
misty-eyed
over the whole damn thing,
and to keep from bawling
I’ll have to
secretly scold myself…
Really, Calvero?
Really?
You’re going to weep
in public
over an old
fast food receipt?
You pathetic,
sentimental
sack of shit!
You sniveling bitch…
There are plenty of tacos
in the sea.
Find your damn balls
and move on
with your life!
So I’ll reach my hand
down into my pants,
wherever I may be,
and find my testicles
smushed inside
my boxers
(that’s usually
where I find them
whenever I misplace them),
and with my balls
in hand I’ll
finally snap out of it
and end up
throwing the receipt away,
because
a mind
that reminisces too often
is a mind
that murders the present
and smogs the future.
So with the receipt
in the trash
I’ll just get in my car,
drive to the nearest Taco Bell
(or other
nearest fast food location),
and make some
brand new, tasty,
fat-ass
memories
to last me awhile,
or at the very least
to last me
just long enough.
I’ve always been
a real viking
when it comes to eating.
I devour my food
almost instantly.
I go
Nom, nom, nom!
and then my food is gone
just like that.
You probably wish
you were as good at eating
as I am,
but you’re not.
I’m the best.
Sorry.
One afternoon
not too long ago
I had just victoriously
polished off my lunch
at this favorite fast food place
of mine.
I went
Nom, nom, nom!
and my lunch was gone
just like that,
just like always.
I was real proud
of myself too,
just like I usually
am.
Sitting in the booth across from me
there was a man
eating his lunch.
He was siting alone
just like me,
but he wasn’t as good at eating
as me.
Not even close.
The man
was a black man,
a very big black man.
Not fat kind of big.
More girthy than anything,
and tall too,
and with his large stature
he should have been very good at eating,
but he wasn’t.
I was better.
I don’t like to brag,
but I was.
I should’ve gone over there
and talked to him and
given him some pointers;
Open your mouther wider,
Take bigger bites,
Don’t chew. Just swallow.
It was a real amateur hour
over there.
I should’ve helped him,
but I didn’t want to
although
I wasn’t sure
why.
So he just sat there
taking modest bites
out of his cheeseburger,
eating it all wrong,
while I sipped my diet soda
and watched him eat
out of the corner of my eye.
As I watched him
I slowly came to
the realization as to why
I didn’t want to help him:
I hated him.
I don’t think I hated him
because he was black.
No,
that wasn’t it.
That wasn’t it at all.
I didn’t hate him
because he was black.
That would mean I’m racist,
and racist people
are fucking assholes,
and should be herded
into rockets
and shot into the sun.
No,
that’s not me.
I’m not a racist.
I didn’t hate him
because he was black.
I hated him because
he was human.
I was human too,
apparently,
although I never came close
to feeling like one.
Don’t get me wrong,
I did a lot of things that
most normal humans beings
do; I ate,
slept,
crapped,
pissed,
farted,
cursed,
wept.
I picked lint
out of my bellybutton.
I watched my cats
shit in their litter boxes,
but still,
even when doing all these typical
human things,
I never felt much
like one of them.
Not even
close.
So I just sat there
hating that guy
who didn’t know how to eat.
I was good at that too,
hating that is,
a real viking,
just like I was with eating,
but shit
was it exhausting.
It was making me tired.
Real tired.
I couldn’t believe
how much energy it took
just to dislike someone
so strongly.
I better stop,
I thought,
or else
I’m going to fall asleep
right here,
right now.
So I sat there
and I waited for myself
to stop hating him.
I waited
and waited
and waited.
I waited a long time
but I couldn’t do it.
I couldn’t stop.
I hated that man.
Not because he was black,
but because he was human,
and because he most likely
felt human
too,
and I didn’t.
I hated him
because I felt
so disconnected
from something
I was innately
supposed to be.
Amidst my hating,
a fat Spanish woman
sat down in the booth
next to mine
and began eating her food.
I hated her too,
and wouldn’t you know it,
that made me
even more tired.
And then,
minutes later,
an entire family
of four sat down
in the far corner
of the restaurant.
They all looked
really happy together.
I really hated them.
So much so
I could barely
keep my eyes
open.
Holy shit…
I better leave…
right… now…
or else……
I…… might
fall………………
“Hey you!
Wake up!”
I startled awake.
The manager
of the joint was
standing over me.
He looked down at me
with fuzzy, furrowed,
twitching eyebrows.
I had no idea how long
I’d been out.
“You can’t sleep
in here!”
the manager yelled.
“What are you?
Some bum?
If you wanna sleep in here
you’re gonna have to leave!”
I slowly stood up
and grabbed my coat.
“Hey…
have you ever
heard of anyone
being crammed
into a rocket
and shot
into the sun?”
I asked him.
“What? …No.
Why?”
“No reason,”
I told him,
and then I walked out,
walked to my car,
drove home
and took
a nap.
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…
Calvero currently resides in Connecticut where he lives in his parent's basement with his two cats, Ralph and Matilda. That sentence is also the pickup line he uses when trying to meet girls at the bar, but, surprisingly, it never gets him any action whatsoever. When Calvero isn't writing he is more often that not eating Taco Bell, daydreaming about hunting ghosts, daydreaming about Taco Bell when he is not eating Taco Bell, pretending to look for a job, or screaming in frustration at whatever video game he is currently addicted to. You can read more of his poetry at http://calveropoetry.tumblr.com.
ISSUE:
F A L L
2012
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