poem of the day 06.30.11

new hatreds

beer can
thursday morning

i stick my head out
the window

and watch

some young punk
in a yankees cap

throw dirty paper towels
all over the street

washing his
big american car

with rap music
blasting so loudly
in the dawn

that it rattles my walls

scares my cats

and makes distant babies
cry for their mothers.

poem of the day 06.29.11

the sunbather’s ass

while
she sunbathes

in a rose garden
in brooklyn

her bikini top off

her ass barely covered
in a thong

the young boy
walks by

pointing and smiling
at her

tugging his
embarrassed mother’s
sleeve

feeling a new kind
of want
inside of him

one so deep

that he’ll one day
beg for it

to let him go.

poem of the day 06.28.11

brooklyn bus driver

i catch the eyes of an old lady

she’s sitting on the bus
complaining into her cell phone

ten minutes they’ve been there

and the bus hasn’t moved
from 86th street and stillwell avenue

the old bus driver is long gone

the new one still hasn’t come on the bus

he’s standing on the side of the street
taking his time in the summer sun

he’s laughing with the route manager
who doesn’t seem to give two shits

they are talking about the coming weekend

they are talking about getting out of brooklyn

but neither of them can get
this fucking bus down the street
until the union clock tells them that it’s time to go

this is what those fuckers
in wisconsin and indiana are thinking about
when they put those draconian laws into motion
to take away a person’s rights

these are the times
when we give those pricks their gall
on a silver platter

i think about telling the brooklyn bus driver this

but he has it too good to care
he has a pension to collect and a job to do
he just doesn’t have to do it yet

plus this isn’t my bus
so why get involved?

my bus driver usually stops
for lottery tickets and a diet coke

he’s no ralph kramden either

still, i can’t help looking at the lady on the bus
her red, sweaty face screaming into the phone

all of the other tired people

stoic

failed

going nowhere for the time being

the bus driver slapping his knees
and cackling until he nearly chokes

at the front of the bus there’s a sign
that i usually like to read

it tells you that if you assault
a new york city bus driver
it’s punishable by up to seven years in jail

proving that there’s a reason
for everything in this world.

poem of the day 06.27.11

illuminations

some of the workers sit around
and wonder when it was
the last time they saw me laugh

some call me cold and mean

a few wonder if they’ve
ever seen me smile at all

i’m not sure what i’ve done
to solicit the time that these people
have wasted discussing me

but if my sullen and stand-offish demeanor
is the new topic of the conversation in this place
than i must be doing something right thus far

still i play along

i tell them that laugher is for the weak

figure this will get them going
only increase my little legend
at least for another minute or so
before the conversation turns back
to reality television and sports

they mock me
for saying something so outrageous and anti-social

they should mock me

for they are good tax-paying people
and i can’t remember the last day
that i went without a drink

some of the workers sit around
and tell each other that something must have
gone seriously wrong in my childhood

as i turn away and go back to nothing
let friday claim me as its last victim

thinking rimbaud was almost dead at my age.

poem of the day 06.25.11

this poem was supposed to say something

this poem was supposed to say something
but it went on strike and i lost the plot
it called in sick, went awol
i can no longer remember the meaning behind it
this poem was supposed to say something
it was supposed to rail against the government
for fighting endless wars
it was supposed to censure some states
for trying to kill off the union man
but i don’t know where this poem went
it left a note and said
that it was going to the store for some milk
but i checked the fridge and we have a full carton
this poem was supposed to say something
it was supposed to be meaningful and enlightening
it was supposed to tell us how to fix our national mess
how to heal the world
but this poem is in the other room
checking out the baseball scores on the television
it’s updating its checkbook
and banging on the neighbor’s door
this poem was supposed to be soft on immigration
but it keeps on checking my i.d.
it was supposed to support gay marriage
but it’s stonewalling
it was supposed to tell me what to do
to make everything right
but it keeps complaining whenever i screw something up
this poem was supposed to say something
but it’s eating all of the cold cuts in the kitchen
it’s drinking all of my beer
and getting belligerent over dinner
this poem is turning violent
it just pulled a knife on me
and took all of my cash
it sold off my family heirlooms for drugs
this poem was supposed to go somewhere
real and honest and true
but instead it went to the bar
it went to the airport and told me not
to try and find it
this poem was supposed to save my soul
but instead it hopped a flight to rio
and sent me an email
telling me to go to hell.

poem of the day 06.24.11

last call for ivan

ivan
stands outside the
american legion on 78th street
eight o’clock in the morning
just coming off
third shift for
the transit authority
looks drunk
like he’s had it with the day
when i’m just beginning mine
staggers over to
a wall and lingers there
in his powder blue dead t-shirt
his red face catching the sun
slouched
looks like a man defeated by
the world
ivan
who liked to dance
in rooney’s pub
when the music came on
who liked his bottles
of budweiser
and shots of vodka
waves to me when i walk by
winks
gets a glint in his eyes
kicks a rock
puts his hands in his pocket
stares back
down the street toward
3rd avenue
where the bar
used to be
before it closed
and scattered us all
ivan
a hulking god
in the late spring sun
making me wish that
i was a painter
and not just some guy
with a job to go to.

poem of the day 06.23.11

this poem is alone

sure
you could write another one
about the lack of humanity
the neighbor pounding
across her floor at six in the morning
but there will be better ones
about both subjects
so why waste them on this
you could write one
about the weak coffee that you drink
because of your sour stomach
or maybe one about the sartre novel
that you’re trying to read
but no one wants
to read poems about sartre novels
and the coffee is your fault
a hatred of nature?
i think we’ve covered that
on several occasions
plus it’s hard to hate nature
when the sky is gray in june
angering the ugly masses
ah, but there you go
with people again
people are the worst
you hate people
but cannot stop writing about them
perhaps you secretly love mankind
shudder to think
no, this poem is alone
meaning nothing, signifying nil
it is just meant to exist
filling in the space
of each line with words
until the end of the page
has been reached
until a better poem arrives
and to the reader
i am truly sorry
because that’s a pretty lousy reason
to be up with the sun
and a scotch hangover
playing at artiste again
wasting your precious time.

Poem of the day 06.22.11

shooting at the beach

i listen to her talk
about the shooting at the beach
that had made the news in the last week

she says, you know what i think?

which when being asked by a human being
can never mean anything good

i think they should stop selling all of that booze
at those seaside bars, she says

it’s the alcohol that makes them all nuts
carrying on and shooting each other

and it’s not just the beer
it’s those fruity drinks that they sell
the ones that come in those
fancy-shaped plastic glasses

those are the ones that really get them going

and you know they aren’t checking i.d.’s, she says
those beach bar bastards are only out to make a profit

what do they care if some idiot gets drunk
on beer or their sweet grain alcohol
and then goes off to kill a bunch of people?

i tell you the world’s not right anymore, she says

which is a lie

the world has always been wrong
because it’s only been run by human beings

we need something else

or nothing at all

they oughta ban that alcohol, she says
they oughta put up cameras too

maybe if there’s cameras everywhere
people will think before they act, she says

she’s a good woman, i suppose

she votes and has kids

she goes to the beach and eats hot dogs on the fourth of july

she probably holds her farts
and makes love to her husband a few times a year
to keep him quiet

she believes in jesus and fears god

she’s the perfect american fool

but i know i’ll never be lucky enough
to get her drunk ass in the crosshairs of a gun
on the wrong side of a saturday night

and to be quite honest
that thought depresses the hell out of me.

poem of the day 06.21.11

california gold

my toe nails are bitten to shreds

i tell her that this way
of life cannot sustain itself
for much longer

i drink another green beer

and tell her how horrified i get
just walking up the street

cat hairs blows across the soiled couch

while she asks me if
i feel the same way about us

it’s so warm in here
the paint might as well be
peeling off of the walls

when i tell her
that with all of the other shit going on
i haven’t even had time to think about us

we listen to the same dogs bark
about the same things

as i tell myself to stop
reading beckett and sartre

one of the cats starts to shit on the floor

when she asks me
if i’m sick of living
or just sick of living in new york

my fingernails are red
with blood and puss

as i look at her and say
california always seemed so nice.

The Camel Saloon and Carcinogenic Poetry

Hello All

Today I have poems over at The Camel Saloon and Carcinogenic Poetry. the poem over at Camel
Saloon will NOT be appearing here on Winedrunk.

Please stop by both places and check out the wonderful
writers they have.

thank you
JG

poem of the day 06.20.11

scatological poem

i wonder
if i write
so much
about
shit
because it’s
the first thing
that i do
in the morning
or
because it’s
the first thing
i think
when i open
up
my window
and take a look
outside.

poem of the day 06.17.11

empties

the streets are lined with empties
empty bottles, yes
but empty storefronts

another one gone
in the ever-spinning downturn

that old bar
an italian restaurant
that looked intimate at night
despite the people congregated there
playing on their smart phones

someone’s greek diner
a paper store bold enough to open
in the twenty-first century
selling those nostalgic luxuries

they are empties lining the street
building shells
with colored paper on the walls
and bright closed signs
hanging on the door

the record store
the newsstand
even the big box store that took a hit

empties

that guy sleeping on the grate
since april

the kids
tossing hats and tassels into the air
on permanent summer vacation
in their parent’s home
staring at the empty walls
of their childhood bedrooms
looking down the barrel of an empty future

where will all of these people go?
surely they’ve been reading the paper
and have seen that the ones we put into power
simply do not care

the middle eastern joint gone dark
the bakery with stale cookies
in their cloudy window
the fruit stand where everything
has gone rotten

they couldn’t hack it out there in this mess
with those kinds of fools running the show
and i won’t be the one to blame them
because i’m barely hanging on

for there is nothing
and there is nothing to be done right now

because this has been going on for years
and there is nowhere to go for comfort

nothing to do

but filter yourself into this broken system
drink the tainted water
and gaze into the scorched and humid sky

update your facebook status
and twitter your displeasure

blog your sullen little heart out

wander these corroded streets
of dead dreams and burned out ambition
past the chains and graffiti-covered awnings
past rental signs fading from the sun

think about what was
and where we’re all heading

continue to watch the winter of our discontent
live on your favorite 24/7 cable news source

until it becomes too much
and you want to storm the capitol building
with torches and enough rope
for a solid day’s work.

poem of the day 06.16.11

father’s day cards

thirty-seven
awash in mediocrity

pen to paper
fingers to keys

the cold cup of coffee
at my side
denoting another morning
with the proverbial thumb
up my ass

playacting poet

i think about the suburban house
that could’ve been

the college loans paid off
cold beer in the summer sun
admiring a lawn kept green and sharp

thirty-seven
i check the piled up
wine bottles for something tangible

read the rows of rejections
in my email
searching for enlightenment

i think of two cars
in a well-paved driveway
and barbeques with neighbors
who don’t make me sick

good clothes
and a gym club membership

thirty-seven
killing the bugs
on the old scotch glasses for sport

sweeping up the roaches
to keep the arms lean

looking at bookshelves
full of useless gurus
who have nothing left to give me
but indigestion

for they are worn out
as i am worn out

thirty-seven

i think about the good jobs
that never came my way
the years of toil and restraint

good jobs like fantasies
like mind-numbing deliverance

all for a stack of unwanted scribbles
this forever tiredness of the mind
and a sore back from a hardwood chair
that knows no mercy

thirty-seven
checking the soles of my shoes
bracing myself for the downgrade

thirty-seven
like a pension that i’ll never see

thirty-seven with a bullet

to the head

awash in mediocrity
on another warm day in june

soliciting the mailbox
for pipe dreams, chapbooks
menus and bills

and in my head
counting all of the father’s day cards
that i’m never going to get.

poem of the day 06.15.11

should’ve stayed in bed

awoke into a cold heat
sent the poems out
the poems going out to the radio
thoughts of hemingway
thoughts of fante
thoughts of hank and kerouac
they made it
while i simply fell incognito
into this picasso
biography at my side

drank the wine
fondled the beer cans
in the fridge
drank the good red wine
and decided to walk five miles
five miles in the sun
realizing ten blocks away that
i was drunk before noon
and couldn’t take another step
drunk before noon is a revelation
only not when you’re on the way
to work

took the bus
that sweet piss-scented chariot
took the bus with america’s future
clogging up the seats
their heads buried in cell phones
and video game machines
looking at them
at the old ladies they made stand
in the aisles
with canes and shopping bags
those white haired, frail patriots
who’ve seen it all
but still expect a seat

those christian soldiers
who refuse to die and meet their lord

and i wondered if anyone else
was reading a biography of picasso
or was on a strict diet
of cheap french red before noon

this is my protest
this is what works for me

listened to music
from rock and roll bands
whose members could almost
be my children
i’m a silly gray man who’s high on wine
listening to rock and roll music
on a mid-day bus
but the music serves its purpose
it passes time to time
in such a careful way
music always does

even though nearly every genre of it
has failed me at one time or another

saw the sun
that obnoxious cow
heard the birds
those lazy cunts
and realized that summer was
on the way
with its beaches, picnics, and fireflies

it is always a dreadful time for me
being a human being
when the summer comes

i simply cannot stand
all of that yellow happiness
and watermelon

went to the job
and the electric company cheered
the cable company sent me
a thank you note
the student loan people brought
a young female by
only i had to refuse
because of too much red wine

as always, the phone company
never called

stayed at the job
stayed at the desk
read the fake news of the world
war, debt, destruction,
and this weekend’s box office results
only i felt caged reading the news
being at that desk
i felt neutered
wanted to pace my little box
and grab everyone around me
to ask them
is this really it?

but they’ll just tell me
that i’ve been drinking too much again
and i’ll say, only enough
to protect my plastic soul

and she is on the evening bus
in tight black shorts
with a bikini top
and he is on the bus looking at her
and when they both get off
at the same stop
i wonder if we’ll all make
the eleven o’clock news

on the couch
on the couch as the sun sets
with the wife
scotch after scotch after scotch
but i feel english
or i feel nothing
i let the fan blow my face
as millionaires toss balls
on television screens

i use that picasso biography as a coaster

and when i go to bed
in the blistering cold
waiting to do this all over again
i hope i feel as bloated
as a squid filled with black ink.

poem of the day 06.14.11

spanish couple

the spanish couple in the bar
don’t seem to like my wife and i

because we are speaking english

because we are american

which i find funny
because those are two of the many reasons
that i also use for disliking people

oscar thinks that they do not like him
because he’s speaking english
to two americans in an irish pub in madrid

regardless, we can tell that they don’t like us

or that we are ruining their evening
with our wah-wah-wah american accents

they keep stopping their conversation
every so often to look our way

i can do nothing but smile and shrug back an apology

to the guy who looks like a soccer player
to the girl who looks like a famous mexican actress
and has her ass hanging out of the back of her jeans

they do not like us for sure

it may sound strange but i get a certain
satisfaction from not being liked

i feel like i’m on the right path
in our little race toward the grave

but the soccer player shifts anxiously
and glares over at us again

so does the replica mexican actress
before she gets up and heads across the bar
her little ass bobbing and swaying
as she takes a set of old, wooden steps

and i think that there will be no cozying up
amongst the group of us on this night

then a song comes on

it is an american song that i recognize from baseball games

where did you come from, where did you go
where did you come from, cotton-eye joe

i think that it must’ve been the girl who played it

when she sits down i stamp my feet to the song
raise my beer glass to the couple and wink at the girl

they look disgusted and get up to leave

as soon as they are gone
cotton-eye joe comes on a second time

i point at the jukebox
and tell oscar how funny it was
that she played that song for us

not once

but twice

he gives me a strange look and then he laughs

he tells me that machine is not a jukebox

but a cigarette dispenser

i can’t help but laugh
get up and buy us another round of beers
forever the stupid american

paying for his ignorance once again.

poem of the day 06.13.11

oceans and seas

they look like rabid dogs
locked in a cage

foaming at the mouth
taking their hardships out on each other

i think that they are rabid dogs

and i stand there
waiting for them to turn on me

which doesn’t take long in a place like this

for we have animosity here
as wide as the oceans and seas

these dogs they come at me
showing their yellow teeth

their mouths filled with blood and snot

barking at me

lunging

hungering for my throat

but to win i must keep juking left and right
keep moving beyond this

because i know that if they get me
they’ll never let me go

these dogs

these company men

these american workers
trying to squeeze water from a stone
on a friday afternoon

doing their best to make damn sure
that your coming weekend
will be as bad as theirs.

poem of the day 06.10.11

vision

at the picasso guitars exhibit

i think about picasso’s guitars

i think they couldn’t have
been much trouble to do

paper
and sheet metal

a little paint
some paperboard

wallpaper
and old french newspapers

enough time on one’s hands

to create

this almost looks too easy
i tell my wife

as we walk the exhibit backwards

(which was not an artistic statement
on our part)

(we simply failed
to read the directions)

it is, she says

you just need to have a vision

right then and there
i have a vision of forsaking the art world
to go and get drunk on beer

which is probably why
you’ll never see my shit

hanging in the museum of modern art.

poem of the day 06.09.11

grocery clerk on the late night train

all over the black city

rerouted
and delayed

hung out to dry

mortally tired

wife resting on my shoulder

visiting parents
with eyes closed in seats
across the train

then i see you

black dress and black hair

brown cream
shoulders and legs

tattoo on your ankle
and a humid frown
on your face

coming home so sad
from where this late at night?

and i’m thinking
was it really
twelve hours ago

that i saw you
bagging groceries

while i was three lines over
buying orange juice

so sure that we all had
enough energy
to take on this day.

poem of the day 06.08.11

shitting my pants in finnegan’s irish pub (madrid)

oscar had been right about the spanish food
only maybe i’d had too much of it

pulpo ala gallega
and albondigas by the plateful

enough tortilla espanola to last a lifetime

all washed down with cold cerveza
or a nice rioja

foods whose names were as
fun to say as they were as good to eat

my wife and i
all over the streets of madrid, chanting

albondigas
albondigas
albondigas

as if we weren’t just walking around shouting

meatballs
meatballs
meatballs

or maybe it was the heat
that hot and dry spanish air

but by the time we made finnegan’s that night
i felt as if i were ready to die

running past the smile of the bartender
who had only last night told oscar that i had a kind face

and down those old wooden stairs to the bathroom
whose caballeros sign i’d ripped off the door two nights earlier

because i was a drunk american in madrid
and it seemed like the thing to do

into that little stall
with the door that didn’t shut
bracing it with my foot hoping no one
would try and come in

sweat pouring down my face
all over me

making a tight shirt feel tighter

caught in the spanish night, looking for release

just one fart i told myself

but it was one fart too many

a burst of shit came before
i had my drawers down

and then there i was
a grown man
a helpless mess in a strange country

shit, i said

not this

not tonight

i stood there bowlegged
foot against that door
music pouring down on me

my wife probably wondering where
in the hell i was

still, somehow i got the jeans off
the ruined drawers
that i had to toss in a corner of the small stall
while i tried to clean myself the best that i could

but that was when the pain came
and i dropped down on that bowl

like an anchor

grunting and moaning

no longer chanting

albondigas
albondigas
albondigas

but instead wondering if maybe there was a god

and if he could see to it
to end my misery as he saw fit

maybe death or something else

the shits came like a river
hissing brown rapids of disgust

the stench was maddening

christ, i thought
first i vomit in the reina sofia and now this?

what else is there for me to do in this country?

the door to the bathroom opened
a stranger came in and started coughing

i feel your pain, i said in english
but he did not answer me

he washed his hands and left

i took no offense to this
i was happy to be alone again
to finish doing this terrible deed

i looked over at my soiled underwear

if only i hadn’t farted, i said
as the pain began to subside
if only i’d stuck with american food

mcdonald’s or burger king

the american stomach is conditioned
to handle that kind of bland junk

ah, but the spanish food had called to me
as so many things had in this country

as picasso had
as goya had
as the long endless steps leading to toledo had

i rose from that bowl, wiped,
and surveyed the damage that i had done

still as proud as any man
after a typically good shit

life is funny like that

i pulled up my jeans
and grabbed my drawers
with whatever dignity i could muster

threw them away

washed my hands and took the long walk
back up the wooden steps
to where my wife was waiting for me

one of those sad looks on her face
typically reserved for children and dogs

two cold pints of carlsberg sitting on the table

she said it happens to the best of us
but i just waved her off

i sat down carefully
the unfamiliar sensation of
my balls scrapping off of the stiff denim

i had a good pull on my beer
looked at that portrait of samuel beckett by the door
and shook my head

as we sat there in silence
waiting for oscar to show.

poem of the day 06.07.11

ballgame with my old man

i’m going to the ballgame with my old man

two arthritic knees
and our bad shoulders are coming along

i hope that our team jersey wins

i’m going to the ballgame with my old man

my allegiances stitched on hats and shirts
thwarting a stadium full of angry fans

we aren’t on our home turf

i’m going to the ballgame with my old man

we have our wives with us
and they don’t mind coming along

i’m going to the ballgame with my old man

it’s memorial day
in the united states

and i’m thinking that it’s
been a while since my old man and i
saw a ballgame together

we’re drinking cheap beer
in a ballpark steakhouse
taking photos as country songs are piped in

remembering what it was like
when he took my brother and i
to games when we were children

my brother and i
are hot dogs and cokes
in the memory of the humid pittsburgh sun

i’m going to the ballgame with my old man

we’ve already been
to the top of the empire state building
and all over manhattan

we went to katz’s for
corned beef sandwiches

i still have an okay job
but my old man paid

still i can buy him
beer and dinner
italian food in brooklyn
whenever i want

i can get him all of the hot dogs
and cokes that he needs

i don’t know if that matters

he won’t even take the lemonade
that comes in a souvenir cup

i’m going to the ballgame with my old man

we’re sitting in the nosebleed seats
like in the old days
checking out scoreboard america
and watching all of those expensive ants
shag fly balls out in center field

trying to figure out who’s who
with our aging eyes

as military bands play at home plate
and people file into their seats
with plastic cups of beer
and cheese covered nachos

everyone looks happy
and for a change, i don’t care

because i’m at the ballgame with my old man

and damn if i don’t feel
like a kid again.

poem of the day 06.06.11

i have a heart

i have a heart
but sometimes i just
can’t find it

it has a mind of its own

i have a heart
but it is driving down
sunset boulevard in los angeles
looking for one of bukowski’s old haunts

it is hanging out
at the star bar in san diego
drinking scotch and hiding from the sun

i have a heart
but it is drowning in pabst
down on broadway in nashville
right outside of layla’s bluegrass inn

or i heard
it is in memphis
watching the wolf river
meet the mighty mississippi

my heart is going to graceland

i have a heart
but sometimes it
just takes off for new orleans
for a little dixie jazz on frenchman street
or some red beans and rice
at coop’s place on decatur

my heart is a streetcar named desire

i have a heart
but it is on a plane to paris right now
for a vigil a the grave of samuel beckett
it is wandering around stratford-upon-avon
with the ghost of shakespeare
or avoiding oxford street in london

my heart is in madrid
i just know it is
where else would it be?
it is at an irish bar in the plaza de las salesas
taking beers with some good friends

i think i left my heart
in san francisco
right there on russell street

but that can’t be right

my heart is in lowell, massachusetts
it is shuffling through
dallas, denver, and salt lake city

my heart is tipping a beer
on 20th street in chelsea, new york city
in honor of mr. kerouac

i have a heart

i swear i do
because i can sense the void

it just doesn’t want to go out
and get drinks
or attend a dinner party

my heart is not interested in the protest
or in annual budgets

it has retired from a lifetime of hard labor

instead my heart is lurking outside
of the village vanguard
waiting on johnny coltrane to come back
or it is in the MoMA
passing the time with picasso

it is at the grand canyon
or watching trains go by
in grants, new mexico

my heart is probably
stuck at the top of the sears tower, chicago

its pulpy mass reflecting in the june sun

i can just see it there
my heart

looking down
looking down

wondering where in the hell
the rest of me is at.

poem of the day 06.04.11

the smell of fish

the smell of fish
gives me a dizzying sickness
in the stomach
as he sits there like a turd
legs open
elbows wide on the table
steam and stink rising up
off of his plate
the smell of fish
the scent of a dying asshole
he has one earbud is his ear
the other dangling down to his gut
1980s music infesting this small room
as he chomps away
his cellphone beeping endlessly
cackling at comics in the daily news
someone asks him to turn
his music down
he says, oh, i didn’t know that it was so loud
but he makes no attempt
to lower the sound
just shrugs and goes back
to the smell of fish
as wake me up before you go-go
chokes the silence
i grab my shit off of the table
the smell of fish embedded in my flesh
figuring i’ll go outside
to kill the hour
letting the sun do what it will to me
looking at him one last time
this steaming dung pile of american ingenuity
our eyes meet
and he says, you’re not leaving on my account, are you?
no, no, i say
i just hate 1980s music
and the smell of fish
he laughs
goes back to tearing flesh from bone
as the summer of ‘69
comes on his ipod
and i think about how easy it is
to want to commit murder
in this vast and disparate land.

poem of the day 06.03.11

fear of flying

fear of flying to europe
delayed flight four hours
drunk in a jfk lounge
with people clacking away on their cellphones
and watching television on their laptops

fear of flying
fear of communication breakdowns
the whole world gone mad
because bin laden is dead
and my only wish
is that the goddamned president
had waited another month or so to kill him
before i decided to get on a plane

i mean why not?
we’d already waited ten years
what’s another week in the war on terror?

fear of flying
fear of america
and erica jong

curious about why i don’t read women writers
must have something to do with my penis

fear like a big itchy ballsack

fear of animals

i hope my cats are okay at my in-laws
one of them can no longer eat hard food
and the other has a bad heart murmur

fear of my cats no longer recognizing my face
or of them dying on me before i get back

fear of flying
fear of taking off and landing
deathly afraid of turbulence
or getting that one motherfucker
who puts their chair back the whole flight

fear of whatever it is that they
pass off as food on the airplane

fear of the in-flight movie selections

fear of the atlantic ocean and all of its majesty
every time that i got to europe
i have to keep the windows shut

because contemplating that much water
makes me feel as though i’m bound to drown

fear of leaving the apartment
did i shut off the coffee pot?
unplug the lights?
lock the windows?
lock the door?
turn off all of the faucets?
take down the garbage
because it’s full of rotting meat?
the stove?

did i even use the stove that day?

fear of all of the mail being held
the bills that will be waiting when i get back
the lease renewal

fear of the landlord raising the rent

fear of flying
fear of losing a job
because they are talking about layoffs again
three years running

fear of everything all of the time
and it makes me tired of fear

i think i’ll stop being afraid
have another beer in this lounge
or go and look for a book by erica jong

finally find out what in the hell
a zipless fuck is after all of these years

or maybe locate my wife somewhere at 30,000 feet
and induct us both into the mile high club.

poem of the day 06.02.11

spanish sunsets and american sunrises

standing in plaza mayor
10:30 p.m.
the sky still streaked
with hazes of blue
i realize that the sun never seems
to set in spain
but is always up
beckoning
calling you for more joy
and more drink
more food on metal counters
along the cava baja

standing in the plaza mayor
at 10:30 p.m.
this is the first time that
i’ve ever liked the sun

peering out of my brooklyn window
5:15 a.m.
the sky periwinkle and foreboding
a worker’s sky
a taxable sky
a monday through friday sky
an american sky for sure
sky like a warden
leading me toward the noose
the gallows
a sky that has never tasted
ice cold cerveza
outside
the cerveceria alemana

or drank rioja
with the ghost of garcia lorca

peering out of my brooklyn window
at 5:15 a.m.
i know why i never liked the sun
in the first place.

poem of the day 06.01.11

outside my window

outside my window
the chinese woman
is keeping her ritual
digging through the garbage
for glass and plastic
while the neighbors linger outside
smoking cigarettes
spreading their joyful wrath
i’m sitting here
with the radio on
the same ratty t-shirt
the same stained shorts
scotch glass in hand
keeping up my end of the night
thinking it’s as if i never even left america
there is a little girl with a whistle
she keeps blowing it
with no set rhythm or pattern
her parents laugh at this
as more noise envelopes the street
looking outside my window
i daydream of spain
think of brooklyn
as some woman that i’m simply
tired of fucking
i think of going outside
and shoving one of those
recyclable bottles
down the chinese woman’s throat
taking that whistle
shoving it right up that child’s ass
as her parents look on in horror
of grabbing the neighbor’s cigarettes
and storming back inside
to smoke the whole pack in the dark
with this bottle of scotch
at my side
waiting on the police sirens
that will surely be coming for me
grinning like a madman
looking outside my window
as the american evening bleeds
into the coming
apocalyptic night