The Poet

The poet lived in a cramped and messy apartment. Traces of cigarette butts in random spots in his residence. Over the television set, under his coffee mug, beside the telephone. Signs of his defiance and poor hygiene taking permanent places in his lonesome flat. His only companion is a mute green parrot that takes an almost euphoric joy out of picking at the sofa shredded cloth. Or sometimes clinging to the shabby curtain that is obviously in a poor state and was handed down to him by an old roommate.

The poet dresses in baggy slacks and even baggier polo shirts. His only respectful fashion statement is his Ray Ban sunglasses that he had since his college years. The years he spent lamenting over Ludwig Wittgenstein's philosophies. Driving around in his battered Chevrolet with Billy Ocean bawling out of his car speakers. He makes the fashion crime of wearing his tan sandals over black socks. Nothing tops that atrocity but slipping on his green crocs once in a while for a breezy stroll in the neighborhood.

The poet replaced his decrepit Chevy with a white Hyundai. Billy Ocean is replaced with Bon Jovi. But nothing has replaced Wittgenstein so far. He works as a temporary English teacher in the city's community college. His students have mixed feelings of cautiousness and loathsome toward him. He was never good with people anyways. His colleagues aren’t sure how to treat him too. The closest he got to have any kind of social interaction with them without the compulsory teacher's meetings is the lunch hall. And those awkward gatherings were rare and usually uncomfortable. He spent most of his lunch hours in his office reading news blogs and National Geographic.

The poet has an older brother who works overseas in a Middle Eastern, oil-enriched, country. His fridge is crowded with pictures of his beefy brother and his taut wife, both deliciously tanned. Their sun kissed toddlers wave to the camera at the distant uncle who they only see every other holiday. The uncle with the funny accent and "The Simpsons" tie. The brother sent more pictures of him leaning over his new and gleaming Audi TT. Silver in color and affluent in attitude.

The poet usual pastimes are spent in his writing den. Which is really a crammed office with old leather seats and paintings of winter seaside's or shells. He has an oversized shell he got with him on his last summer trip to Ecuador. He uses it as a paperweight to all the old papers he never looks at. Manuscripts of half-written novels or pieces of prose he wrote in a moment of deceived enlightenment. He cringes every time he intends to read one but never throws them out.

The Poet's parents are long gone and soundly buried. Side by side in a beautiful cemetery overlooking a lush pasture. He never understood his mother's obsession over buying a burial ground in such a place if they will never enjoy it. The only benefited party is himself when he occasionally comes to the graveyard to pay his respect. He spends more time gawking at the scene than acknowledging his buried parents. He religiously visits his late parents every mother's day, or every time one of their birthdays occurs. He brings orchids for his mother and cigars for his father. He would lay the orchids over his mother's grave and smoke the cigar over his father's. His father never spent a day without smoking one of those devils. It was a wonder he didn’t die of lip or lung cancer or whatever disease linked to smoking. It never bothered him smoking while standing over his father that was six feet deep in the dirt. He would have probably liked that.
The poet spends his weekends browsing for books in old bookshops. His sad apartment was already swarming with books. He had serious debates with himself whether he should move to a bigger place in order to afford a room for his educational hobby. But the paycheck didn’t encourage the thought. He sometimes indulged in a guilty pleasure of buying a celebrity biography, when he almost always discriminated such books. Blaming the brain washed consumers on encouraging such filth to reach the market. Yet sometimes he would sneakily slip one under his arm, looking around him in shame and prudence. Even though he knows he will never bump into anyone that might judge his purchase. He doesn’t know that much people to start with.

The poet spends some lonely nights in deserted bars. Sipping a foamy beer and grazing over a peanut bowl. He avoids everyone's eyes most of the time, and shares not more than two words to any seated neighbor. The only one he could talk to was the handsome bartender and the conversation usually revolved over the hygienic state of the bathroom or the weather. The bartender tried to pull him into a sport conversation when the football world cup was around the corner, but the poet shot him a dubious look. He was never a sports fan, especially football. It reminded him of his school years when all the boys spent every waking moment in football shorts while he was wearing his back brace. Bitter memories of his first crush flashed in his mind as he downed the tangy taste in his mouth with another swig of beer.

The poet enjoys evening strolls by the beach. The cool salty air lifted his soul to a distant place that only caressed his conscious. Nothing would wipe the satisfied grin off his face as he shivered in his heavy coat overlooking the grey sea. Inhaling the overpowering stink of the ocean and listening to the roars of the waves. Random memories would flood his mind; different faces that past his life. Nothing seemed to upset him on those evenings, not even the upsetting memories. He relived every short failing relationship in his head as he sat on the cold sand. Sometimes altering a detail, sometimes pushing in an extra line in a reminisced conversation. He would drown in his scheming hallucinations until the night catches up to him, and he realized how late and cold it is. He would jump back to his car for a late night grocery shopping or to crawl back to his shoddy apartment.

The poet would turn off the television but turn on his stereo. Nothing put him to sleep better than listening to Leonard's Cohen mesmerizing voice. Its depth and monotony sent chills in his body but lulled him to a peaceful snooze nonetheless. He turned off all the lights in the apartment but the kitchen and the bathroom. He sometimes read but mostly didn’t. It was mostly poem collections by Walk Whitman and T.S Elliot. He always laid on his right, staring at the vast space next to him. He sometimes imagined a lover sleeping peacefully. An old lover or a made up face. He would caress his lover's face; listen to the imagined soft snores. He would sigh in dread, a sigh that came from deep within him. A sigh that he usually held for days and days in a stretch. His old dreams come repetitively. But nowadays they feel more distant and far fetched. It didn’t bother him anymore, not like it did a few years back. Dreams are for the young anyways.