SIX POEMS by LUCAS RESTIVO

THESE POEMS ARE FROM LUCAS'S CHAPBOOK, 'CRINGE COMP #076,' COMING OUT WITH BULLSHIT THIS FALL.


FUCK


what the fuck is up

what the fuck

is up

what the fuck

i got the mic

you all gotta listen to me fuck yeah

awesome


things have actually been pretty difficult for me lately

i just got out of a relationship

and i'm working this shit job

and i'm approaching thirty so i'm wondering if i am going to die alone

due to the whole not having any prospects in life or money thing


so the other night i got high so i was thinking very logically

in that an A to B kind of way that's so boring and true

i just have to think about everything and then i'll figure it out


so i was thinking about how my sexuality is a lot more fluid than i realize

and that got me thinking about my gender

and it dawned on me that i can’t be a man because i was born from a woman

like she's a part of me

and how can i even be one person when i'm born from two people


fuck fuck we should be watching documentaries shouldn’t we

or workaholics fuck yeah

and fuck trains too

they're so loud

next time one of those fucks pops off i'm gonna show em how we do it in boston*


*drink 16 bud heavies and call my stepdad a bitch


a little something for the ______ in the back

one time i knew i'd be missing valentine's day so a random night i decorated my apartment in pink and red

streamers and cooked a homemade brown butter sage gnocchi with roasted asparagus and merlot out of these

tacky valentine's day glasses i got at the dollar store and then I gave my then girlfriend five selfless orgasms


so think about that

 

ABSOLUTE DAWG


absolute sicko

yeah! you know it

in my zone

you cannot touch me in my zone

(no really you can't

i have a rare skin disorder

from being too hard

and eating too many gushers

as a kid and it's wicked contagious)

my sunglasses are on

the sides look like they're made of flannel -

perfect for the dog park with my neighbor’s dog

when he's at work

there's not a care in the world

though i'd be very warranted

to be pissed off

(my 14 year old cousin just got promoted

and now he’s my manager???

i only did whippets twice with the whipped cream

and once was after hours

so it shouldn't matter that i forgot the car was running

and i passed out from carbon monoxide

and the ambulance took up the whole parking lot)

good god i am so lonely

and swagalicious

and fuck it if everyone hates me

then at least i have haters

 

CHARTING THE EMOTIONAL DENSITY OF THE LAST THING TO MAKE ME CRY


10/20/2021


Maybe now is needed most. Brad Phillips' Letters From The Battlefield. Like rolling a huge stone from a cave opening. A cave that holds an ancient cup, or provides shelter from a huge storm in a deep forest. Both of which are, of course, myself believing again. The faint flicker. The first in six months. God bless.


10/20/2021 - Three Hours Later


Ok so the boulder may have only moved a little. Maybe a foot, if I'm feeling lucky. Feeling lucky, or a suspicion of luck, at the very least feels like an indication of movement. An emotional Jenga at -1000 speed. This is good. I would not want a radical shift. Do not trust radical shifts. Goodness moves slowly, like a shark stalking dinner. Feeling less feels more. I will read it again and suck the juice from its bones like the desperate hurt crow I still am.


10/21/2021


I do not want to fall in love again. Belief is gone. Feeling is gone, if I am not actively thinking against it. In the wrong end of the tide pool. Gravity's bitch. For now at least, which is where all, if any, progress stalls.


10/27/2021


Letters From The Battlefield making table conversation. I think about it about 1-3 times a day. I do not feel it, necessarily. I don’t know if I trust people again. I don’t know if people are generally good (which is how I carry my self-conception through the world). Back to normal. I feel fundamentally unnormal. Listened to my mother cry this morning because I’m afraid she will drop dead of a heart attack if she doesn’t cry more. I don’t think it’s helpful to remind her suffering never ends, but I do it anyways. She calls me floundering. She isn’t wrong, but she isn’t right either. Her new pool doesn’t make her happy. She lost a son. I’ve lost stuff too but that doesn’t matter right now. I think books that make me cry are steps to becoming a better version of myself. Steps thick as potato chips.


10/27/2021 - Four Hours Later


Fulfilled my promise. Cried again but not really. A testament to the elixir quality of words. An infinite monkey with a typewriter yadda yadda yadda triggers humanity. The best I could ask for. A feeling so pure I search for it again. I tell myself I’d end up here, in this exact spot, regardless. I resist because that is logically impossible, everything changes everything. This unfortunately will not be enough to prevent the argument from mutating into another avenue of my crowish life, wreaking havoc on the same faint glimmer this story sparked in the first place

 

THE INTERNET MISCALIBRATED RELIGION


If miscommunication

is expected

is it no longer

a miss?

The Bible did not account

for the internet.

My friend received this

as opportunity

for theory.

I think he hates women.

Something image

and innate fallibility.

I was making a joke.

The Bible was sort of

an internet.

He thinks I’m dumb.

He’s probably right.

I found a footprint

in the cement

meaningful

 

WALK HOME


a child runs a bulldozer

up the glass deli case

i was raised

to be beside myself

i walk home

it starts to rain

warm enough

not to stop

at the bar

will the water

break my phone

it's hard to write


a covered bench

big money

no hellos

to the others

in my predicament

i wait

then leave


a squirrel chases

a squirrel

down a tree trunk

this is mating

or worse

i cross the pavement

between them

the chased runs

into a brush

the chaser freezes

in my shadow

i am perfect

cover

a giant

cop

in a second

a whole day

saved

ruined

 

SOUP POEM


I watched my coworker transfer soup from the big pot into the smaller pot using a ladle

It was like a metaphor for death

which all the metaphors are turning out to be

which was a bummer for me


I was in the middle of slicing a dead pig into mild leisure

I couldn't write down what I was seeing and thinking

I felt like nobody


I told myself

it's not important


It sounded like “I'm definitely gonna forget this”

and “The time would bastardize it anyways”


Anyways I'm on break now and wanted to tell you about it


You're the big pot, steaming, bubbling, everything together

Then your scooped out into a body and born

This a kind of death

The kind that can can dribble and burn your hand


You, the soup, also inevitably cool off

and you die again poured into that second pot


Or maybe it's like getting poured into a second pot that’s actually the first pot all along


I am no Soup God


This is why metaphors are dumb

 

Lucas Restivo is a writer from Massachusetts. One time when he was a kid, he was riding a bicycle to his friend John's house to swim in his pool and he put his bathing suit over his helmet and yelled "I'm bathing suit man!" over and over until the bathing suit slipped off and got stuck in his back tire, which sent him flying over the handlebars. John's dad had to come and take apart his bike. He remembered this because Facebook just told him that John just got out of prison. His Instagram is not_lou_. His Twitter is @_Mr_Lou_.