Out of the Cupboard #8

Presenting: Peycho Kanev

picture of a dog

someday she will look exactly
like my body
and then I will not be able
to love myself
I will be old dog blind
of old age
and if this happens
I will say;
my Heart is a dead cat
but
the bitch of my night
drags the dogs of my days
while I read Dylan Thomas
and watch on the roof across the street
1 cat between the winter’s pigeons.

 

Peter the dog

my friend Peter works
in a slaughterhouse somewhere in the deep South
he kills horses
and make them into dog food
just slid them throats and puts them
hanging on big hooks until their blood
runs out

I hear him on the phone often

I can’t take this anymore, dude
I will do something horrible

and I imagine him now
how he stands in this big storage freezer
surrounded by tons of dead meat on hooks
covered in dry blood
how he runs his index finder along the edge of
the butcher’s knife
and looks thoughtfully at his manager’s
throat
no tears in his eyes
no remorse
blood and dirt

just this unbearable world

I hang up the phone
open the fridge
take the bottle
and I sip
thinking about my 9 dollars an hour

don’t worry my friend
we will succeed
just wait
we’ll show them

we’ll show them.

 

 

kind of blue

the human race don’t know
anything about humanity and
mercy

I said to myself

as I try with trembling hand
to dial her number

and outside in the dark
something knelt before
something else.

 

 

my daddy

daddy was always very sick
laying In the bed shaking
and cursing
with rivers of sweat pouring out
of him

the doctors came to our house often,
and after they’d leave
my mother would lock herself
in the bathroom. I’d hear
he cry and
the soft prayers

one night dad called me with his
weak voice:

You know, son,
there is one scary monster under my bed.
go to the basement and bring my shot-gun
so I can kill it

I did.

he said;
now, son,
go out of the room.

I closed the door
and then I heard the

shot.

I ran to my mom with
yells of joy:

Mommy, mommy,
daddy killed the monster.

 

 

just

I was driving the truck today
on the express way
passing by people with expensive cars
expensive lives stupid dreams
everybody is nobody here
we don’t care about each other
like the eagle don’t care about the fly
or the flower
oh just this blue-collar dead end job
just this bottle in my fridge that keep me
going for one more day
does anybody here on this road care that I
have read all the great books
and I am still reading in the night
that I speak 4 languages
that I have the ability to love
as the lion rips a piece of flesh from
the zebra
but nobody don’t even know my name
and we keep driving
everyone sinking in their own stupid world
soon
I reach a prison bus
and I look at the faces at the windows
and they seem happy to me

I am thinking that maybe they did not
convey the right person
but I wasn’t completely
sure.

 

 

What is it?

lazy summer afternoon
it’s hot
and I don’t have a book
published
and I don’t have beer
just one bottle of wine

knock on the door
and there she is
my true love
standing there with a smile-
goddess in the doorway

“do you still love me?”
and she enters
“do you?”

“oh,baby,my poems just came
back from New York Quarterly.”

I pour myself another glass
and take an apple from the bowl on
the table.

“I love you, I just came back from
New York.”
she said
and enters the bedroom

sometimes my heart is empty enough
for both of us
and it’s
out of poems
too.

 

 

Questions and Answers

Q)How did you get involved in writing poetry?
PK)Well, first of all I read a lot. when I am not at the stupid job I read. I read and drink. I guess it all came natural. I started to write. This was like 7 or 8 years ago and I never stopped.

Q)Do you consider your head to be on the chopping block every time you send a poem to be considered for publication?
PK)No, because 90 % of the stuff that I’ve been sending gets published.

Q)Are you involved at all in your local poetry scene?
PK)No and I don’t want to. I don’t like poets. I mean, I don’t like to talk with them or whatever. I like reading them. The good ones of course like myself, that’s all.

Q)Who or what inspires you to pick up a pen or peck at your keyboard?
PK)The bottles full of sorrow, the woman that I will never have, the poverty and something else.

Q)Do you consider being published in a print magazine to be more important than having a poem featured online?
PK)Doesn’t matter. The word exist in its perfect shape on the internet as good as in a book.

Q)Your poetry conveys a certain sense of vulnerability, do you find it easy to write openly about personal matters?
PK)My work is 99% biographical and it will remain like this. You can’t lie about something that comes from your gut, from your pain, from your sweat. You have to be real, you have to. That’s the only way.

Q)What are your plans for the rest of 2008?
PK)Putting the word down.

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