400,000 men are stalked each year in the United States.

•August 20, 2009 • 1 Comment

You meet a woman or a man.  He or she seems nice.  You talk.  You get together.  It doesn’t work out, so you move on.  Sounds simple enough, doesn’t it?

Well what do you do when that person refuses to go away?  What do you do if she—in my case—continues to email you months or even years after you told her to leave you alone? Would you ignore her?  I did.

Now what if she found your blog and started leaving angry and threatening comments.  What if she left these comments under the username “fuckyou”? What if she somehow found your new phone number?

Well that’s not hard to do in my case. My phone number is easy to find.  I put my phone number on every syllabus I hand out.  My phone number is on my office door at work.  I usually don’t mind when people call, but when someone starts calling me day after day, and week after week, I start to mind.  When she leaves voicemails accusing me of using Buddhist mind tricks to rob her of sleep, I mind.  When she tells me—through tears—that she doesn’t want to use her witch and voodoo connections against me, I get concerned.  And when she tells me that her boyfriend is out to hurt me, despite her pleadings, and claims that I brought this on myself with all my evil writings … that’s when I go to the police.

I know you are reading this.  I am officially asking you to stop contacting me.  Any further contact will constitute harassment.  I am going to the police now.  What happens next is up to you.

If you want to read some awesome New Jersey laws, click HERE.

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Professor Charles Bivona reports on the funny and sad of American culture.

•August 5, 2014 • Leave a Comment

Charles Bivona writes regularly at njpoet.com and on Twitter.

Follow @charlesbivona and #njpoet.

Freewriting Journals — 8/24/2009

•August 24, 2009 • Leave a Comment

— creativity born of shock pressed
senses — all five compressed into donut waves of pure awareness
bursting from my head — focusing my compressed existence on the complete environment —

Guru Gomez: On Self-Analysis

•August 23, 2009 • Leave a Comment

“These kids spend a lot of time trying to figure out their own lives, huh?” My friend Gomez was giggling through his smoke.

The woman who came with me to his house was stunned. She stopped in the middle of a well-articulated self analysis and said, “You mean you don’t do that?”

“Not at all.”

Gomez like to articulate every word of of phrases he really felt. His NOT AT ALL said, I meant this shit.

The young woman was agawk. “But why no…”

“BECAUSE I KNOW I’M FUCKED!” He interrupted before she finished her NOT.

“And if I know I’m FUCKED, why should I sit around reminding myself of that FACT?”

My date and I left, soon after.

Friday Night Writing Dual: FOR FUN!

•August 21, 2009 • Leave a Comment


In this corner, Luz M. Costa Writes: I hate that I miss her.  I hate that I didn’t even mourn my last relationship, a two year relationship, as much as I am mourning this breakup.

&

In the other corner, Charles Bivona Writes: I miss her.  I hate that I miss her. I didn’t mourn my last relationship—a two year run—as much as I’m mourning this thing: this silly breakup.

Sang Lee writes: “It’s just a  typical Friday night in the lives of you guys.”

I love hanging with writers.

Read more of What Luz M. Costa writes –> Click HERE

Read more of what Sang Lee writes –> Click HERE

NEWs RESULTS for Cats

•August 21, 2009 • 5 Comments

A Slammin’ Rant By C. Biva

Let me tell y’all what has happened to me.  I went and got myself a CAT.  That’s right.  I am a cat man.  I am a cat person.  My friends are catty too. In fact one of them shady motherfuckers used to be a CAT burgler.  Whenever he comes by we eat cheese burgers smothered in CATsup.  We browse through a CATalogue of CAT toys, but of course.  I drink my CATnip tea, take my daily CATnap, its all so non-CAT-a-strophic.  So don’t judge me, CAT.  It is CATegorically cool to be a CAT man.  Werd to all you other CAT peoples.

Exerting My Very Limited Visual Expression

•August 21, 2009 • Leave a Comment

I decided to start using the header of my site to visually communicate my mood. I will change it often. Please take a look at tonight’s mood. Subscribe if you like my work, and pass it on. Check back often! Thank you! Thank you!

[…to protect and…]

•August 21, 2009 • 1 Comment

[This is dedicated to my little brother and my baby sister.  I did what I did back then — and I tell you these stories now — because I love you both very much.]

I flashback to seven-years-old.  My father was exploding, again. His fists hit the walls with military trained precision.  The drywall crumbled to dust.  He didn’t have his gun, but I knew he owned one. He showed it to me. He told me about all the people he killed. He told me he wore a necklace of Vietcong ears in the jungle.  He inspected the weapon and spoke in a glaze of a trance — after you kill the first one, he said, the rest are easy.

I remembered that lesson whenever he raged like this — whenever he started hitting my mother or me.  I remembered that he had killed hundreds.  My mother would be easy.  I would be easy.  My younger brother and my baby sister would be very easy.  I had to do something.

So I did the only thing I have ever done.  I debated him.  I explained to him the ramifications of his actions.  Sometimes this worked.  After the divorce, whenever we had to visit him, he would threaten to kidnap the three of us. He would ask us how much we would miss our mother.  He would tell us to remember her face because we would never see it again.

My brother sat in shock.  My sister sobbed.  And I talked him down.  It was all I could do.

But on nights like this there was no one to reason with.  He had snapped into jungle combat mode.  His eyes were pure black.  He was fighting for his life.  It was hand to hand combat again.  The enemy was all around him.  The enemy was within him, and he screamed in pain to get them out.

As the pitch of his fever peaked, the baby called the police. We had all memorized the number long ago. It still makes me cry to imagine this: She dialed the phone with her chubby fingers.  She told them that daddy was hurting mommy.  She asked for help.

The police arrived late.  My mother was already bleeding.  The babies were under a blanket crying.  I sat listening to the police talk construction with my father.

They talked about the work he had done on the house.  They talked about the pool in the yard.  They were laughing at each other’s stories.  My mother sat weeping from her bleeding face.  I wrapped her in a blanket and boiled with rage.

The man of my family, the one who was supposed to protect me, had failed me since birth.  Now the other men of my society — the men who I had been encouraged to call on for help, the men who teachers and preachers and TV and friends had told me were “the good guys” — now these men were failing me, too.

They eventually left and the beatings continued.

So today I again asked these men for help.  It was the first time I’ve asked them for anything since that night when I was seven.  I hope they serve me better this time.