Obsessed – a poem

I don’t want to get sick,
I don’t want my pencil stick
out one millimeter beside my schoolbook.
Scrubbing hands, control freak.
I try hard to hide it,
but whenever the anxiety is getting to me,
I have to do this ritual.
They had me committed,
a girl their said she had bothersome thoughts.
She used to slit herself with a razor.
It wasn’t constructive to my recovery,
I am in this for life probably.
It’s eating all my time,
time I could be happy.
Obsessive Compulsive Disorder they call it,
I call it a shitty curse.

I am only happy when it rains – a poem

I hate laughter,
I hate happiness
in others
in me.
I am morose,
addicted to a depressing mood.
I watch pools where I want to drown in.
Train tracks are made for laying down on them.
An artist’s life is made of suffering,
the hunger days,
days lost in liquor.
An eternal unrest,
manifest in our breast.
Our heart beats out of tune,
to societies wishes.
We want to die,
but only know how to survive.

Insurance – a poem

They’ll gave you an umbrella,
when it wasn’t raining.
We have a discount fella,
didn’t hear you complaining.
Now you are really sick,
they treated you like a dick.
Saying their contract doesn’t cover the treatment,
quite a predicament.
Placing yourself in debt,
for a suited rat.
Insurances are their to pay for,
and lot’s of the time you pay more than you get.
Their lawyers always have excuses in store.
They sell false security,
but in the end you are all alone among the debris.

City- a poem

The city skyline,
a portrait to behold.
The bum on the bench not withstanding.
Roaring traffic,
bristling life.
Always something to do,
shopping is heaven there.
Want something,
here is the credit card.
You can get mugged of course,
or hit by a car.
The exhaust fumes can take away your breath.
But this giant place,
chewing on people and spitting them out,
from traffic jam to train crash,
it’s the place to earn cash.

When life gets you down – a poem

When life gets you down,
don’t frown
if you get beaten,
don’t pull your punches.
Alive we don’t won’t to get eaten.
Everything is run by hunches,
that fate crunches.
If you fall,
stand back up.
If you hit a wall,
hit it with your club.
Maybe it will splinter,
but you will have made your point.
If you have a person treating you unfairly,
confront him or her.
At the font, you don’t have a fairy.
It’s all up to you,
you are responsible for the shit you blew.
Of course you can have a disadvantage,
the classic tale of the poor and sick,
real vintage.
But realize you can overcome,
improve at least some.

The case of the missing leg – a story

The crime scene was mayhem. The technical division in their white suits where all over the place. Inspectors and chief-inspectors conversing nervously. It was after all the major of the city that was murdered.
‘Any enemies?’ Watson asked taking out his notebook.
‘The mobility plan to get more space for bikers got some angry reactions. People told they would get lost in the city with all those ridiculous one way roads. And they would have to drive longer to get somewhere. When we installed cameras to fine them all hell broke loose. Our email accounts were flooded with dead threats.’ the Deputy Major said uneasy.
‘Why is his leg missing?’ Holmes asked.
‘It was a prosthesis. He had only one leg,’ the chief-inspector noted. He wasn’t a big fan of Holmes. The fat man with a beard and an angry look on his face always tried to humiliate him and scorn his talents.
‘Still doesn’t explain why it’s missing.’
‘Maybe the killer took it with him as a trophy,’ Watson stated.
‘Possible, but this blood trail tells me something else,’ Holmes answered.
He followed it, stopped at the back of couch, went down and fetched a blood-stained wooden leg.
‘I rolled all over there?’
‘Since the major put up a struggle I would suggest so. He is beaten severely but a gun wound was what did him in. There were two killers. One strong one and another rather feeble.’
‘Why you say that?’
‘The first one used his bare fists, the other a pistol.’
Holmes skimmed the room. He opened the agenda of the major.
‘Look at these X’s, what are these mysterious marks?’
‘Maybe he didn’t want to reveal the identity of who he was meeting,’ Watson tried.
‘I think our mayor had an affair,’ Holmes said producing a ticket for a flower arrangement to be sent to an apartment ‘who lives there?’
‘His secretary, I believe,’ the Deputy Major said.
‘Go question her, and ask her who her strong friend was.’
‘Holmes, we don’t have much to go on.’
‘Do it delicately, I’ll watch her body language.’

The body language of Nessie Taylor didn’t leave much to the imagination. She was fidgety, crumpling her handkerchief. Her tears where crocodile tears.
‘Where were you between 10 PM and 12 am, miss Taylor?’ the inspector asked.
‘Watching Netflix.’
‘Anything interesting on?’
‘The Queen’s gambit was pretty good.’
‘Funny,’ Holmes stated ‘they deleted the contents a week ago.’
‘We can verify that,’ the inspector said.
‘Alright,’ she yelled ‘I had a blackout, I have a drinking problem.’
‘Do you have a lover or a brother, miss Taylor?’ Holmes wanted to know.
‘No,’ she said faintly.
‘So who is this lad then on the kitchen counter in the photo frame?’ Holmes asked.
She refused to say anything without her lawyer. Then Sherlock got up. His keen senses had alerted him to something.
Holmes started to sniff. He followed a trail incomprehensible for his colleagues.
He opened a closet and took a box out. Inside was a gun.
‘Do ballistics, I believe it is recently fired. There will also gunpowder on her hands. Quite a dunce to keep a murder weapon laying around.’

She did have a brother without an alibi. A tall, strong men with wounded knuckles. He was arrested too.

But about Miss Taylor he wasn’t quite sure. She had lied on several occasions. But the possession of the gun bothered Holmes. Also there was no gunpowder residue on her hands. He went to the tenant of the building and asked if miss Taylor got any visitors.
‘Oh, Brenda is much to herself. But there is the cleaning lady who comes over every week when she is at work.’
‘And where can I find this cleaning lady?’
‘She lives downtown. I’ve got her address laying here somewhere. Can you wait a minute?’ said the overweight man chewing his cigar. His tie hang loose around a crumpled white shirt with sweat stains.
‘I’ll wait.’

At the address of Conchita Acosta he saw the building was dilapidated. It was riddled with cigarette buds, empty beer cans and syringes.
Minding where he stepped he went up a creaking, old stair in bad condition to apartment 1B.
He knocked several times.
A chain was pulled from the door.
A petite Latino woman opened the door.
‘Yes?’ she asked suspicious.
‘I am Sherlock Holmes and I believed you killed the major. See he wanted to rat you out to immigration after getting you pregnant.’
It took some interrogation but she caved in pretty quickly. Sobbing she said she had loved him. She told her brother Emilio. He was furious and decided to go knock some sense in the major. He gave Conchita a gun when she insisted on coming along.
Afterwards it was only a question of hiding the gun in the secretary’s apartment. She had gotten to know her while cleaning the offices of the major’s staff.

Convinced he had found the right killer Sherlock went home. He had the Queen’s gambit on DVD, he decided to binge watch it.

Devil – a poem

The sight of his goatee made me want to run
and hide under my sister-in-law’s bed.
I thought he was the devil incarnate,
when she was babysitting
I dreaded having him come over.
He always had that strange look in his eyes.
He took an interest to me,
I found it suspicious.
I wasn’t an open carefree child.
That was my salvation.
They got him on sex-offending charges.
At least I could come out from under the bed,
and sleep in peace.

Odd guy – a poem

Jerry liked to look at nude paintings,
while eating garlic ice cream.
He was an oddball.
Wearing trousers cool thirty years ago,
his hear in a desperate need of a haircut.
He used to strut,
as if he owned the place
wasn’t stuck in an eternal rut,
as the failed painter he was.
He never got the colors right,
the proportions were awful.
His subjects quite dull,
how many times can you paint an apple?
But all in all he was a nice guy,
never complained, never a sharp remark.
God makes them in all sizes they say,
he must have been very creative that day.

On capitalism – about life

When I was young I went fishing with my dad. I noticed he had to pay for a license, the food and drinks in the bar and also I had to fork over a coin into the dispenser with cheap toys.

It got me thinking on that age about the importance of money. What if you didn’t have it and why we needed it in the first place.

Now I am older and read an interesting quote:

America’s abundance was created not by public sacrifices to ‘the common good,’ but by the productive genius of free men who pursued their own personal interests and the making of their own private fortunes. They did not starve the people to pay for America’s industrialization. They gave the people better jobs, higher wages and cheaper goods with every new machine they invented, with every scientific discovery or technological advance—and thus the whole country was moving forward and profiting, not suffering, every step of the way.

It’s from Ayn Rand, writer of the novel “Atlas shrugged”. It’s an ode to capitalism.
I don’t agree with her premises.
We don’t need wealthy men deciding what is good for us.

What we need is a system that doesn’t involves money that can multiply or vanish.

Ancient civilization traded goods. They didn’t fare any worse than we do.
Everyone has a talent for things, or something he can trade. The wealth will not accumulate and inequality will be considerably less.

Of course you will state there are much more people now and the economic system will crash launching us into poverty.
I don’t believe that’s true. We are addicted to money. All because it’s a measure of the worth of a product.
But it isn’t evenly distributed. That’s it’s major flaw. It creates debts and poverty.

Trading goods would be a good alternative.

The case of the cold killing – a story

Sherlock was called in by using his police scanner. There had been a domestic dispute but the husband wasn’t found anywhere on the scene. His phone was dead and nobody saw him leave the house. The police hired him as a consultant.

The first thing Holmes asked was if he was allowed to smoke.
‘No, it ruins the wallpaper,’ the woman sneered.
She didn’t seemed to shocked to be honest.
Holmes decided to keep his visit as short as possible. He let Watson ask the tiresome questions while he investigated the house. He checked the coat rack. The winter jackets seemed to be all accounted for and it was cold outside. He reached in the man’s vest and produced a business card.
“Lily Love’s escort services” it read.
Holmes became intrigued. Next he sought fights of a struggle. Imprints of the chairs on the carpet revealed they had been removed and hasty but sloppy replaced.£
Also the solid chair leg was cracked.
‘It’s like I told you, officers, he hit me and then run off. Probably going out drinking,’ the woman stated.
Holmes intervened.
‘How tall was your man?’
‘What kind of question is that,’ the woman said angrily. She kept a dry handkerchief against her face.
‘If you would be kind enough to answer my question,’ Holmes insisted.
‘He is short. A meter and a halve tops,’ the woman answered reluctant.
‘And he visited an escort service, marriage wasn’t going to well?’
‘I have never heard of that, I didn’t know he was unfaithful.’
‘Oh, I think you discovered it this night,’ Holmes said calmly then he stood up out of the chair and yelled: ‘well, let’s have a look in the freezer then,’
They went in the kitchen all baffled.
‘I noticed some condensation on the wall in the kitchen, probably coming from the deep freeze chest.’
The woman turned pale and started to tremble.
Holmes did the honors and opened the deep freeze. A man was laying in it with a cracked skull.
‘Et voila, a murder victim,’ Holmes stated ‘probably killed by his wife.’
‘You can’t prove that,’ the inspector said.
‘Oh but I can,’ Holmes said triumphantly. He pulled out his rubber gloves and fished something tiny out of the deep freeze.
‘What’s that?’ the inspector asked.
‘A broken fingernail. Probably it came loose during the fight and landed here when she placed the corpse in the freezer. Just check it, the colors match perfectly.’

Holmes was glad to be out of the house. He looked how the woman was being handcuffed and placed in the back of the police car. He pulled out his pipe, stuffed it and lit it up.

Neighbor’s feud – a poem

He collected garbage to put it in his neighbors yard.
It all started with the other’s dog shitting on the lawn.
Things escalated,
furious words where exchanged.
Both to proud to take them back.
The women joined in the feud.
Hate was crossing the fence,
hence it came to fisticuffs,
the police came,
things got rough.
Things unrelated,
reasoning deranged,
into the walls was a crack.
The policy was to be rude,
it became unbearable.
One neighbor moved,
the other got his point proved.
Humans can be irresponsible
Nature’s struggle to keep us unreasonable.

Reckless – a poem

When motorists sped in and out of traffic,
all she could think of was those in need of a transplant.
An orchestra of nonsense,
male testosterone acting out.
We can do without it,
those riders chasing freedom without rules.
The code of honor,
the code of violence.
The gangs rule the roads,
until a truck hits them frontal.
Drugs-trafficking, arms-dealing
stealing,
a murder sometimes.
It’s a reckless life of crime.
You won’t get old on that roaring machine.

Freedom – a poem

We hope for that heavenly spark,
human sacrifice placed in dark.
The dissonant choir,
situation dire.
The scary sky,
filled with lust
and condescending air.
Kiss the ring,
it’s a choice you embrace.
Loss of fantasy,
travel with poetry.
Follow your destiny,
you weren’t meant for suffering and slavery,
to clean up the mess of the high class.
May they burn in hell.
This is a choice you embrace,
witchcraft filling your mind,
never to drunk to see.

Shudder – a poem

The greatest revelation,
it can lay in the realization of the unseen.
Shudder for the beautiful,
among green and blue,
every lovely hue
we live in harmony,
if only we allow it.
Soaring higher, a distant music.
So we pay alimony,
life can be shit, but find peace in the rustic.
Country life, the great mountains,
fountains of rejuvenation.
The best of times spent in isolation,
contemplation
of what it means to be a living being on earth.
We all have or worth.
The music of this heart,
with it’s silence between the notes
fills me with delight.
It’s a new start,
granting me hopes,
and there is the magical light.

Resignation – a poem

I signed in my resignation,
chemistry wasn’t my destination.
Alchemy a revelation.
Searching for the philosopher’s stone,
alone
I experimented.
Fermented, merged,
converged.
I’ll to turn metal into gold,
the carrier-move was bold.
But I was happy,
the bills kept pouring in, that was crappy.
I had to sell my place and equipment,
taking the wrong turn, we can lament.
But following your heart,
doesn’t have to be the wrong choice at the start.