Poems of the Day 10.31.08

an old poem, but fitting (kind of) for today

one scary movie

the movie wasn’t so great.
it had a lot of tricks to try
and make you think that it was
shocking and intelligent
but any fool could’ve figured it out
and the gore was a little too false,
the characters didn’t suffer enough
to satisfy me.
in fact, i spent most of the evening
trying to figure out what kind of
idiot pays good money to see a film
like this.
but then again, most people are dumb
and hadn’t i paid to see this
piece of cinematic shit too?
after the film, ally turned off the dvd
and we sat in silence for a while,
finishing our cheap chilean wine

“well, what did you think?”
she asked.
“i didn’t like it, “ i answered.
“it wasn’t scary. if they really
wanted to make a horror film
they should’ve made a movie about
a guy forced to work overtime,
or one about a maniac stuck in traffic,
or a film about a single mother trying
to pay the gas bill in the dead of winter.
now that shit would be scary. but
hollywood doesn’t make horror
films like those.”

ally said nothing and we had
another glass of wine, then got
ready for bed.
but before i shut the light off
i grabbed the movie out of the dvd player
and made sure to put it back in its case.
i didn’t want it to be late.
there was no point in paying for our
failure
twice.


good will

we put the pants
and shirts aside
the larges for roger
who’s in a wheelchair
and looks about thirty years
younger than anyone in this place.
the mediums we are giving to robert
who keeps standing
in the doorway
crying and talking about
world war ii
or maybe he’s crying
over my grandfather
but none of us can tell.
we can’t find anyone who
will fit the shoes
so they stay in the corner
with a box holding
his old zippo lighter
old lottery calendars
and a pack of luckies
colored green from the war.
my father takes the swiss army knife
we bought for pap almost
twenty years ago at cooks forest.
i take some hats and a jacket.
we take the last
of bud’s beers out of his
mini refrigerator
an i.c. light and two genny cream ales
unplug it and then we drink
them as we put aside
his photographs
the heart monitor
the packages of depends
the digital alarm with numbers
big enough for him to read
and take down his clock.
my mother unplugs two lamps
and puts a box of things aside
for my uncle to look at
when he gets here from shaler
and nobody can think of what
to do with the powder blue
recliner sitting in the middle
of the room
so the old age home worker
who has been lingering around
eyeing all this stuff, says her son will
take it
and he’s here before we can say
yes or no
so we all vacate the room
and watch with dumb smiles as the kid
hoists the chair onto a dolly
and wheels it away.
paula’s getting the plant that has been
growing for twelve years
since my grandmother died
and someone is coming to get
the stand that stayed in my grandparent’s
living room
all forty-nine years of their marriage.
there was a blue blanket
somewhere around here.
it had red and white and yellow stripes
going across the thing
but none of us can find it
so we shut the lights off
and leave the room idle for someone else.
if you see it, maybe you could give it
to dave who is just down the hall
who says he’s cold all of the time.

Poem of the Day 10.29.08

bag of your things

i
am
on a new york
train
holding
a bag
of your
things
inside it
there is
a blue
flannel jacket
a red
flannel
shirt
your satin
jacket
four of your
hats
and a
pittsburgh
penguins
snowcap
an i.c. light
vanity plate
a foam carving
of the brewery
where
you worked
for thirty-five
years
a silver
plated watch
a yellow
t-shirt
commemorating
forbes field
and your death
notice
which i got
off the
internet
to prove that
you are gone
to the
good people
in hr.
yes
i am
on a new york
train
holding
a bag of your
things
things
that you won’t
need anymore
things
that i’ll have
to find
a space for
in the tight
dimness
of my
brooklyn
apartment
when i
unpack
this bag
tomorrow
things
that have
suddenly
become mine
on such short
notice.

Poem of the Day 10.28.08

walking to work

you just fucked
you should feel good
except you walk through
the mexican neighborhood
hoping for death
because you are thinking about being broke
having no time because of the job
and about your wife, at home,
writing out the bills because
the act makes your system shut down.
you’re a coward.
you lament the fact that it’ll be
another eight hours
before you get to tip the scotch bottle back,
throw on shooter jennings,
and just sink into the couch,
forgetting everything.
this is the blues.
the doldrums.
you are down and out
and your fingers still smell of pussy
but your nose it too busy smelling
car exhaust and garbage.
we all stink.
where is the knife?
where is an inch of water to drown
yourself when you need it?
then the wind howls
and you realize the day is lost.
it is like a crying child in a tight room
when you are nursing another hangover.
you look up the street.
4th avenue is endless.
it is a metaphor for life,
if you ever worked in metaphors.
at about 30th street, you think you’ll
take that bodega up on its offer
of ninety-nine cent tallboys of coors
and go get lost in the park.
then some kid dressed all in red
gets wise with you and pretends to lunge.
you flinch with a fist.
he wasn’t even after you.
he cowers back to his boys
and laughs nervously
and you move on wondering
about the next asshole
on the block
of if it’ll be another misunderstanding
like the alarm clock,
the never-ending years,
waking up,
and everything else.

Poem of the Day 10.22.08

i want

to sit here staring
at the wall
drinking this
entire
bottle of wine
greasy
unshaved
and not doing
a goddamned
thing.

i want
to forget
the noise outside
the goals
the jobs
the friends
the love

and i want
to forget how
to be a writer
this monster
of myself
this
distortion
i created so
long ago.

but i can’t.
as evidenced
by this poem.
even wanting
to do nothing
becomes
something
in the
game
of making
“art.”

how sad
we’ve truly lost
the soul.
i’d watch
the rain fall outside
and the leaves
blow
off the trees
but that would
probably just
become another
poem
too.

Poem of the day 10.21.08

RIP Grandpap

bud
--for alexander “bud” mcintyre
(1920-2008)

we didn’t see
eye to eye
or didn’t see
at all
that is we
never said
much
to each other
just
co-existed
between
one woman
your daughter
my mother
and now
it doesn’t matter
anyway
what with you
gone
and me sitting
here
in my stained
shorts
drinking
milwaukee’s best
and buying
jet blue tickets
to come home
for your funeral
but, bud,
there was that one
time
you and i sat
at the dining room
table
passing a bottle
of imperial whiskey
back and forth
and laughing
at everyone
until our eyes
went blurry
and christmas day
went
to hell
that i’ll never
forget.
and although
you never gave me
much
and maybe
i gave you less
than i should have
especially
toward the end
when you didn’t really
deserve it
at least we’ll
always have that moment
and, bud,
some people
know each other a lifetime
and give
each other much
much less.

10.21.08

Poem of the Day 10.20.08

tightwad

she is looking
back at me
come hither eyes
red hair
chocolate skin
slumped demeanor
so i start moving
slower
act distracted
because this happens
almost everyday
to me
on this block

someone always
wants money.

and i hear good
stories too.
a daughter in the
hospital
someone here from
new orleans
because
of hurricane katrina
aids
someone just needing
money for a pint.

i’m waiting on the
foreclosure
or busted wall street
broker stories
but they haven’t come
yet.

usually i’m pretty
good with giving it out.
the money.
i don’t discriminate.
i’ve been known
to hand over
my last buck
because at least
i know where
my next buck is coming
from.
usually.

but something about me
lately
has me telling everyone no.
call it a lack of benevolence
monetarily
or otherwise
the economy
my health
maybe handing over cash
feels redundant
and i should just donate
to a charity.
i simply do not know.
but i’ve been interested
in keeping my cash
interested in denying
those who ask.

i hope i get over
it soon
the world could
use one less
asshole in it.

but for now
i’m keeping a tight grip
on the wallet
and at the next light
i’m crossing the street
to get a roll
and a hot cup of coffee
from that deli
and ms. red
with the come hither eyes
and wonderful chocolate skin
can find herself
another
willing benefactor
to woo
this morning.

Poem of the Day 10.18.08

progress

reading
a.d. winans’ poems
as some guy
motherfucks at his wife
at a computer
blasting viral videos
on his cell phone too
as another lady plays
online trivia
shouting questions
into the earbud phone
she’s wearing.
we are in a library
but we could be anywhere
like a goddamned circus
or a bus station
because it is not quiet.
libraries are no longer quiet.
you can’t shush
or shut anyone the fuck up anymore.
but this is a good thing.
it’s a sign of progress
like portable music players
on crowded, tired subway trains
or while you’re in line
for some groceries
or in the middle of a thought.
it’s just progress
put here to appease
and amuse the masses.
just like the cell phone
or the online trivia game
the viral videos
but sometimes progress
just isn’t good enough
to keep you going on
toward wishing
for the light
of the next goddamned day.
sometimes progress is just
another motherfucker
trying to beat you down too.

Poem of the Day 10.17.08

aneurysm

heavy head
sore neck
getting worse
on my in-law’s couch
on a cool october
saturday evening
and i can’t shake it
so the panic sets in
and i go outside
to take in the night air
bare feet
start shivering on painted
white wood
the thud-head
and panic getting worse
tightening my chest
gas pains too
another problem
from other months
this year
and i think
i’m doing it
i’m finally falling apart
i’m too young to die
i haven’t even seen
my new book
or got the next one
put together yet
i haven’t toured old
british pubs with my wife
or taken a train with her
across india
the steelers are 4-1
the giants are 4-1
and i don’t even know
who’s going to the
world series this year.
when my wife comes out
to check on me
i calm a little bit
my head lightens
and i tell her i thought
i was having a brain aneurysm
though i don’t quite know
what having one entails
and she laughs kindly
then takes my hand
she tells me my blood sugar
is probably low.
it’s just that simple
sometimes
i guess.
and we look at the
darkening sky
over monroe, new york
where
i saw my first shooting star
about ten years ago.
then she asks me
if i want to go back
inside
get warm
get another beer
and have some dinner.
i do.
so we do.

Poem of the day 10.16.08

darts

i was bored
of the conversation in the bar
so i watched this brunette
etch something into
the bar table with her keychain.
she looked drunk
and determined.
she’d etch then pick up her pint
and take a long pull.
she did it again.
then her boyfriend came back
with two pitchers of beer
and some darts that he got from
the bartender.
she wasn’t done etching yet
but he pulled her from her chair
all the same
and took her into the back room
and the two of them took turns
drinking and necking
and throwing darts.
that was pretty boring
to watch as well,
but i figured you take a mad artist
some sharp utensils
and a decent amount of beer
and maybe
just maybe
something could happen
or someone could die
and for a spectator like me
the night could finally escape
the void
of all of the other nights
where people play it safe
and then just go home
to sleep it off.

BONUS poems 10.15.08

...and if you won’t save me
please don’t waste my time

deja vu streets
in the city no one misses
but everyone lives in
gray morning
gray faces
chinese charles bronson
going back and forth to his car
like an obsessive compulsive
aneurysm head
atypical cells
heart attack gamble
gas pains
chest pains
chess nights
sodium spells
cholesterol nightmares
talking pipes
falling leaves
browning city blocks
whisky breath
and winedrunk soul
2008
you whore
you harlot
you work calendar
with not enough days off
kids crying in storefronts
chicken wings lining the sidewalk
as a man plays
the accordion and smiles
toward glass cities
made out of beer bottles
as women pull babies
along glass cracked sidewalks
as fortunes rise and fall
and the next thirty years
paint themselves
across my mind
in muted color
while the sun rises and falls
over all
that i’ve ever known.

still has fire

well
here it is
the morning
and i can’t get
it down.
the dj won’t help
he’s hell bent
on strauss’
sunrise.
i try and wait
it out
but my stomach
starts getting to
me from hunger and nerves.
this has gone
on too long.
too many mornings
without the word.
i look at the
publications
lately
and i’m doing all right.
but that was last month
that was the summer.
christ, have i become
one of those writers
who are already resting
on the past?
writing about writer’s block?
or is this it?
nearly twenty years up
on rimbaud
and it might be time
for me to put down
the pen
shut off the machine
pack up the notebooks
and head off to africa
for cancer, ethiopian women
and an eternity locked up
in the family vault
or to simply fester
in brooklyn
until i rot and wither.
i hope not.
i hope this passes
whatever it is
an aversion to the morning
an aversion to strauss
and that i can put it down
again
like always
because this kid
still has fire
i know it
and i hate safaris
verlaine
and the taste of absinthe
in a cafe
by the seine river.

Poem of the Day 10.15.08

soon to be in a wonderful mag called Cherry Bleeds. Enjoy...or don't.

memorial day

i told her we should
go to the park and have
a picnic.
she told me i hated picnics,
which is true.
picnics and parades
and kids and dogs
and disney and
the 4th of july and
football sundays
and people who talk to me
in bars when all i want is
a drink.
but it was worth a shot.
the summer was coming
already the cats were laying
on the linoleum in a heat-induced
coma.
it was getting harder to fuck,
burning and sweating until
we had to pour water on each
other’s assholes just to
settle down.
in a month the apartment
would be unbearable.
we had to get out and do something
now, i thought.
maybe we could just walk up
and down elmwood avenue,
going only into the air conditioned shops
but you hate people and shopping too, she said.
which was also correct.
so we opened up a couple of bottles
of cheap wine,
then the 12 pack of yuengling,
pulled down the shades,
and didn’t answer the phone.
we watched a couple of bad movies,
and fell asleep before the sun went down.
it was a good holiday

Poem of the Day 10.14.08

form letter blues

dear author
thank you very much for giving me
the opportunity to read your submission.
it was good for a laugh.
i appreciate you considering me
for representation
of your project.
unfortunately, after careful review
and coming to my senses,
i have decided
that i’m not the right agent
for your work.
i don’t deal in markers
and crayons.
this industry is incredibly
selective
and also a huge waste of time
for authors and publishing houses.
there are many agencies out there
with many different tastes,
although most, like mine,
have only the most
direct and pedestrian monetary
goals in mind.
it is for this reason that i strongly
encourage you to keep submitting
elsewhere, in the hopes of finding
an agent not as concerned with big money
and making a big name for himself,
one who will be an enthusiastic champion
of you and your work
(or one that at least sees dollar signs
when they read your prose).
i apologize for the form letter reply,
but the volume of submissions
i receive has finally made it impossible
for me to personalize responses
as i have for years.
also, with the rise and gas and food prices,
the war, rent and bills, i have to spend a greater
amount of time going through
people’s literary drivel, in the hopes
of finding someone who will
help me pay off my car.
you, unfortunately, couldn’t pay off
my lunch.
i hope you will understand
and forgive me this necessary efficiency.
after all, we are in an age of
forced preservation.
in addition, i do not feel it is
appropriate for me to provide
detailed editorial feedback on projects
i have decided not to represent
(i will try my best not to imagine you
languishing in a sea of booze, bills, endless
work hours, and a pile of form letters
just like mine).
i wish you all the very best luck
and success with your writing.
but don’t quit that day job
just yet.
sincerely,

Poem of the Day 10.10.08

old man

jesus
christ
i
hope
it never
gets
like
this
old man
in a motorized
wheelchair
with piss
on his
pants
holding up
the
grocery line
knocking
candy
over
can’t find
his
wallet
as the
cashier
dances to
a pop
song
jesus
christ
i
hope
i’m dead
and
resting
magnificent
before
it
ever
gets
like
this

Poems of the Day 10.09.08

These poems will be appearing in Octopus Beak Inc's Cool Season issue:

the king

my brother calls to tell me
he is playing “kentucky rain”
over the loud speakers
on an endless loop
inside the retail store he manages.
elvis.
it is driving the college kids mad
& the customers out in droves
when all they wanted to do was
a little mindless work, or some
measly holiday shopping.
i laugh when he tells me this.
i am hungover and tired,
battling red wine, insomnia,
and ray carver’s poems.
november is back,
it is cold outside & the wind
is roaring.
until that phone call
a cat’s body was keeping my legs
warm from the chill of the apartment
& the horror of my coming work day.
next it’ll be “suspicious minds”
he tells me.
i laugh again, sadder this time,
& then he has to go.
we hadn’t really talked since may
& it was good to hear his voice.


obit anus, abit onus

i think about schopenhaur and caroline marquet
while sitting here at the work desk.
seems schopenhaur, sick and tired of the noise
this whore brought right outside his doorway,
pushed and assaulted the woman enough that
she took him to court and won a settlement,
a payment that lasted twenty years,
until the bitch died.
and on a copy of her death certificate schopenhaur wrote
“the old woman dies, the burden is lifted.”
as well as anyone knew, old arthur didn’t like noise.
as well as caroline knew, she stood to make
a good buck standing outside his doorway
yelling and screaming for all of berlin to hear,
waiting schopenhaur out.

so where does that leave the two of us?
i wonder, you lousy cunt.
me sitting here with the work blues,
thinking about philosophy and schopenhaur,
and the free release of assault,
and you at the desk next to me, dumb and oblivious,
shouting, blasting music out of your earphones,
and singing the same line of the song over and over,
just like you’re the only motherfucker on planet earth?

Poems of the Day 10.08.08

These will be appearing in Clockwise Cat in its December/January Issue. i'll provide a link to Clockwise after the poems.

looking through all of you

poets tell me about
poetry readings
while the birds die
outside now,
and the seasons turn
to mush.
poets go to poetry
readings
as the world continues
to give in,
heading toward some kind
of digital apocalyptic shit.
but the poets don't care about
this.
they will continue
talking about readings
or their "work."
they will talk about their
books
as if the things are great
monuments of knowledge,
understanding,
and faith,
instead of cheap dimestore
words
and self-involved musings.
we can never remember a time
when the poets were gods,
or when they said things
the world needed to
hear,
because
we are beyond that time.
we remember whitman like
a grandmother's birthday,
as we scrounge and look for meaning,
as the poets shop for new shoes
and the latest itunes downloads,
as the poets throw down money
to see some indie-darlings new
film, so that they
can talk the thing to indie death
over weak
import beer in dim indie bars.
we try to make sense,
as the poets write new poems
to share with the soulless,
looking at themselves in the
mirror,
and we burn as the poets congregate
on street corners
to wipe away the bums,
paving a new path toward the classroom
door.



indian rez

this is just like
adrian louis wrote
the beat-up trailers
the flat tire swings
the dog by the
highway
eating god knows what
out of a plastic bag.
angola, new york.
angola is small town
death.
and i am in
a commercial van
going seventy
on the backroads
while my co-worker sleeps
in the passenger seat.
he holds the directions
to this place,
and i am forced
to listen to his
shitty punk rock music,
as the decimation
of another american pact
falls along before me.
when we get to the site
we meet this indian dude
with a carthart jacket
and a long white ponytail.
he takes us back into
his work shack
so he can give us the check
for the windows we delivered.
he's a potter,
and the shack is full
of tea cups and bowls,
and sculptures of
crying indians
holding out their hands,
looking for either rain
or god.
but what hits me most
is the collection of
sports patches he has
tacked to the wall
the chicago blackhawks
the cleveland indians
the washington redskins,
next to a poster of uncle sam
pointing his limp finger,
saying he wants me
for the u.s. army.
uncle sam wants us all,
and he'll take us either
dead or alive,
red, white, black, or yellow.
when we leave,
my co-worker turns off the
punk and puts on talk radio.
it's a conservative station
and the talk show host
is really giving it
to the black folks today.
he says it's equal opportunity
and nothing personal.
and we move on
to the next job
on our list.


http://clockwisecat.blogspot.com/

BONUS poem of the day 10.07.08

what can i say? i'm on a roll this morning.

uncle ray

stuck in a rut
third morning for a rut
which is hard for me.
it doesn’t help that the cat
is vomiting again
or the radio jock
insists on marches
and thunder
at 6:10 in the morning.
i’m just not cooperating
with myself.
there are better things
to do
on the internet
than write a poem
or some fiction
like reading this
wikipedia entry on
raymond carver.
ray was a famous
short story writer
a poet
influenced by hemingway
kafka, babel, o’connor,
pritchett, and most famously
by anton chekhov.
ray was also a famous drunk.
he cleaned himself up
good in 1977,
but the gods only gave him
eleven more years to get
the word down
before cancer came
and ended it all.
i’ve always liked
raymond carver.
he seemed to say it
in a way
that no one ever could.
better than chekhov even
although i doubt he’d
believe it.
i even have a picture
of ray in my living room
a black and white promotional
photo
that came with his last book.
a picture of ray, sober,
piercing,
looking back at me
inside of a silver frame.
and i think of it this morning
i think of raymond carver
this morning
in between another hurl
of vomit
strauss’ sunrise
tchaikovsky’s overture 1812
and me trying to find
my way back
toward the muse.
i think of raymond carver
and i know it’ll be all right
soon.

Poem of the Day 10.07.08

one drip one drop

the king of beers
has taken out an ad
along the side wall of a subway car
just to let us know it is
still the great american lager
even with that sale to a belgium conglomerate.
how nice.
this is capitalism begetting
cheap nostalgia and regret.
but who really cares?
there is the spiraling world market
to consider
and gas.
the holidays are coming
and people are taking out loans
just to fly across the country.
this year’s election has thrown us
two more false idols.
who are making history out of
bigger piles of shit
than ever before
as the debt keeps rolling in
and the seasons keep getting hotter
as the freeways become more maligned
with potholes and the beaten
as this train car becomes
filled with the degraded
and people are getting jumped in the streets.
who needs this kind of promotion
in this day and age?
the king of beers.
king of cards and illusions
just one drip, one drop
of false courage and consideration
and it doesn’t matter
if the water is being dredged up
by the north sea
or the mississippi river
it all tastes the same.
bitter
just a momentary relief
from the next problem.

poem of the day 10.06.08

i get

some people
get the world
get bailed out
get new cars
when their old ones
break
new music when they want
new clothes
nice food
i get the skateboard
kids
on the pavement
and dogs biting at my
feet
and bills
and mailmen who
won’t deliver packages
and lackluster versions
of beethoven’s fourth
on the radio
and a landlord that won’t
fix my light
a literary agent
rated the 20th worst
ever
i get the hipsters smoking
cloves
outside my window
and the guy
with the beemer
playing bass
i get harassed on
the pavement
by aids patients
from new orleans
from brothers just
trying to make it
from people in the hr department
some people get nice
dinners
and casual conversation
i get burned by the microwave
and lunatics spitting prose
at me on the three train
i get the bums
with a story to tell
and the one guy no one
wants talking to me
when i have a hangover
and need another cup of coffee
bad news in the mail
shoes with broken soles
pants with holes
in the crotch
headaches
vomit spells
the worst schedule at work
bad books to read
bad meetings to go to
bad cats with bad breath
caught in the rain
debauched from the moment
i step out the door.
some people get it all
and others
like me
like us
get shit on as a matter
of course.
but...i guess i got you baby
you and that smile
and that way of yours
and it makes all the rest
of it bearable.
something those other fucks
can’t say
on a morning when they
get caught in the rain
without an umbrella
and not a cab in sight.

Poem of the Day 10.03.08

cold chicken taco

hands
formless
can’t seem to grasp
anything
contemplating this
cold chicken taco
court street, brooklyn
with autumn turning
outside
and this woman
slamming into my chair
as one of her kids
wails
and the other screams
bloody murder
as businessmen come in
and talk about
their vacations
to yosemite, san francisco
about hiking trails
away from tourists
no one thinks they’re
a tourist
everyone is wrong
and the cold chicken taco
is laying in foil
that reflects my face
the day
both distorted
she smacks my chair again
slaps the one kid
shouts at the other
with a thick brooklyn accent
businesswomen come in
in packs
suffocating the place
with phones
with perfume
with asses fitting into
polyester pants
good asses
bad asses
fat ones
but i can’t seem to grasp
at anything
this day
the point of it all
why i got up
this chicken taco
getting colder
in the foil
while i wait
sleepless nights
and now the kids
are screaming and crying
and she smacks my chair
a third time
doesn’t apologize
gives them a time out
and holds up the seats
i don’t care
everyone stares
but they see nothing
go back to talking
about nothing
about cell phones
and hiking trails in yosemite
and i shove the
cold chicken taco
down
hoping it stays there
get up
part the crowd
toss my trash
head back outside
onto the busy street
wondering what the fuck?
looking for the nearest bar
with the best
midday prices
shoving my
hands
formless
can’t seem to grasp
anything
into pockets
that are beginning to
fray
from overuse.

Poem of the Day 10.02.08

talk talk talk

the words sit idle on the page
as i sit here, too,
and people continue to talk
a fine blather around me.
it is such perfect nonsense,
most of what is said
between one set
of flapping gums and another.
it is a perfect madness.
it is a perfect stink.
wars have been made from
conversations such as these.
empires have fallen.
murders have been committed.
fortunes have been gained
and lost.
landscapes have been stolen
and pioneered,
and one civilization has give way
to the next,
during a discourse on politics and art
over a mediocre dinner
and a warm glass of beer
amongst friends.
such blowhards we are.
such dumb geniuses.
such beautiful uselessness.
we can’t even turn over
on the creaking bed
without farting out an apology
to the one next to us
thus breaking the silence
long fought for in the night
the silence that, once again,
will become so hard
to regain.

Poem of the Day 10.01.08

october

they don’t know
that it’s sunday night
and quiet
and october
that the trees need silence
to die,
and the squirrel the quiet
to find nuts
for the winter.
they only know inane chatter,
leaning on a beat-up car,
the bleep of the cellular phone,
as he calls his woman
a whore
then tells her to act like
a lady.
they only know the cold
blue light
of the television,
as cold as the blue in the
evening sky,
but never nearly so beautiful.
they only know one car stacked
upon another,
inhaling gasoline fumes,
and brutal words spewed
into the night,
as neighbor fights neighbor
over nothing,
and cat fights cat
over nothing,
and nation fights nation
over nothing.
as the dogs bark lonesome
as the trees die
and leaves fall all over
stupid humanity,
and october lifts its mother tongue
to sigh
its god breath.