poem of the day 08.31.11

photographers

the photographers
are standing on the quiet street
with their digital cameras and sunshine faces

they are shielding their eyes
trying to get the perfect shot
of downed trees and smashed windows

the photographers
are laughing and having a good time

they have wide asses and wide smiles

they look as though they haven’t
a care in the world

they are taking photos of boarded up doors
and crushed cars

as people living on the quiet street
clean up tree branches and glass

they are getting dramatic shots
of cracked pavement and splintered word

the photographers are posing
for each other’s pictures

smiling in front an uprooted tree
that had probably been on this street
for at least one hundred years
before it suddenly became kindling

as old people sit on their porches
with coffee and blank faces
surveying the damage in their neighborhood

the photographers
are looking into their digital cameras
telling each other how wonderful their pictures are
how much the tv stations and newspapers
are paying for photos like theirs

the photographers
are talking about the radio station contest
for the most destructive hurricane scene
you can find

they are in the middle of the street
blocking the garbage men
and an ambulance that has its red lights flashing

the photographers
don’t even move an inch

they just stand there looking at their pictures
until it’s time to get back into their polished cars

off toward another destination
and another award winning snapshot.

poem of the day 08.30.11

even the pigeons
are starting to make war

open
window
apartment
hallway
white
and
gray
feathers
scattered
all
over
jesus
christ
the
world
is
getting
so
bad
that
even
the
pigeons
are
starting
to
make
war

poem of the day 08.29.11

world against me

i get no mercy
and no miracles

perhaps i should learn
how to pray or beg

but i have this cat that sneezes
in torrents

who has gotten so thin
that she almost passes out

yet the good doctor
finds no tumor in her nose
although he’s sure that it’s there

so now we’re waiting on death to arrive

she has three rotten teeth as well

but…

i listen to the doctor talk

i believe that he is a kind man
merciful where many others aren’t

he cannot say the phrase

put her down

without blushing

i like this doctor
but i find it hard not to wonder
what he’s done with all of the money
i’ve pumped into his business this year
with two aging cats at home

all of the teeth extractions
the x-rays
the anesthesia and antibiotics

it adds up
almost over two grand
since this miserable calendar flipped

shit, some days it feels as though
the world is against me

like the optical assistant
who charged me five hundred for new glasses

she showed me the real cost
on her calculator
just so i knew that i was getting a deal

i knew that i was getting something
but it wasn’t a deal

i know that these people are just doing their jobs

the vet and the optical assistant

the booze merchant
who keeps raising the cost
of my scotch and wine on a monthly basis

the poetry and fictions editors too
who feel it incumbent upon themselves
to reject me in mass waves

i just wish that they wouldn’t come at me
all at once

especially on days like this
where i’m sick and sweating
can’t even lift a beer to my mouth

they should all get together
have a conference on me

try and space out the hardship

because i’m a merciful man too

i know how it feels
to hold the paycheck in my hands
every two weeks

feeling it gone just as it arrived

staving off the madness
a bottle of wine in one hand
the fraying noose in the other

drooling on street corners

waving at the good animal doctor
as he passes

fingering my monthly bus pass
as he gets into that big black car of his

a fine ride that purrs like a kitten

one with perfect ivory teeth
and not a bulb of snot
in sight.

poem of the day 08.26.11

days like this

the soda delivery man
on fifth avenue
counts a wad of money
tells the arab bodega merchant
that he can’t do it anymore
that it’s not worth it to him
the merchant just stares at him
his face darkening
murder in his eyes
and you wonder what kind of deal
they had

the streets offer no clemency
on days like this
where the summer kids
keep screaming for ice cream cones
and video games
while the old chinese women
sort through garbage
as another summer dies

the streets offer no soft touch
as we head to our fates
some of us in luxury cars
some of us packed on buses
like cows going to the slaughter
others of us going off to serve
hamburgers and french fries
to the fattening swarm
while the rest take up their places
on bar stools and benches
lost men and women
shouting into cell phones
to people on the other end
who truly do not care

it has gotten so that you cannot
choose your own destiny

it has gotten so that the only ones
chasing the dream
are the madmen and the deluded

so bad that the soda man
has taken a kickback

and when you pass the ups man
on the next block

red faced
in his little brown uniform

packages torn and scattered along
the busy and broken street

and he looks up at you and says
buddy, days like this, right?

be sure to nod
and try to understand this man
with a crystal essence

because on days like this
he’s the closest thing you have
to a guru, a god, or any other kind
of benevolent deity.

poem of the day 08.25.11

liars are we

i am a liar
when i tell the small children
with their small children eyes
that i do not know
what happened to their tutor
when i know damn well
that he is dead
i am a liar
in order to protect myself
from the crying and the hurt
from company policy that stipulates
that i give no answer
from angry parents
from the pain of the truth

i am a liar
and that’s just one example
most of you are liars too
it’s not only the government
it’s not only the tax cheat
the warlords in the desert
or the neighbors
you are probably lying to yourself right now
reading this poem
you know
that bullshit that you tell yourself
in order to keep the breakfast down
the great cover-up
lying until you’re blue in the face
telling lies about the job you go to
the people that you love
lying about your life just like me

we are liars
liars are we

i am a liar
sitting at jobs
for people that i do not want to work for
eating in restaurants of the damned
lying when i cast my vote for the president
when i stare at the sunrise and smile
and you are liars right back
telling me to have a good day
in the grocery line
asking me how i am in order
to talk about yourself
collecting friends like sports cards on social networks
kissing ass for a place at the human table
looking into your morning mirrors
with toothpaste smiles
talking your petty bourgeois
politics on a saturday night

liars are we
liars like the american way

i am a liar
i have been doing it since birth
white lie upon white lie upon white lie
infecting my cold black heart
and i do it to get a reaction
i do it to see the smile on your face
i do it for the paycheck, baby
for war and peace and survival
lie after lie after goddamned lie
like turd droppings on my conscience
like an open abscess on my back

i’ll probably lie on my gravestone

here lies so and so
oh, how he loved life

and you are liars too, my friends
(see how easy it is?)
lying to your god
lying to the cable company
and the gas man
lying to the person resting next to you in bed
telling such tall tales
in an effort to get to the next day
where it’ll be easier
where we all know it’ll be easier

the new day where the truth will be

and then they’ll be no more lying
for you, dear kids
and no more lying for….

poem of the day 08.24.11

little earthquake

small vibrations
from underground
cause big waves

until the whole thing goes viral
and in under twenty minutes
the world wide web
is already asking

where were you when?

so the east coast had
a little earthquake

yet sadly the east coast is still there

and baseball season goes on
in all of its glorious monotony

football season is coming too
to help raise those domestic beer sales

the forgiving autumn is on its way

but you wouldn’t know it
from the news reports

from the interviews
with the everyman on the street

from the evacuations and cable overkill

from the people with their knowing eyes
whispering tsunami

from nuclear reactor nightly news broadcasts

i heard the president just
received a care package from japan

it was three pounds of shit
stuffed in a one pound bag

with a note from this week’s prime minister
saying, hope this helps

but ain’t that america?

land of the free
home of the tabloid conspiracy
and the 24-hour news network

ain’t that america?

where the only structural damage
is to the national ego

where every day for the last decade
has been 9/11 over and over again

it would be laughable
if you didn’t have to worry
about the bad vibrations
spreading from coast to coast

feel the motion sickness
from the wobbling national conscience

still barreling down those interstates
in a car full of gas

that we’ll keep telling ourselves
only cost us a buck or two a gallon

poem of the day 08.23.11

now where are you going?

drunk
lost on another sunday
in america
caught in a torrential downpour
that has flooded
new york city
fighting with the wife
fighting with the job
strangling yourself in this life
staggering up
75th street with no destination
soaked after a block
sweat and acid rain
clogging your mouth
blinding the eyes
what an idiot
what a fool
what stubborn stamina
smiling at the way
the safe umbrella people
keep moving away from you
laughing at how
the pizza parlor people handed you
your lonely dinner
as if you were insane
you lousy drunk
now where are you going?
to burn mouth
and eat food in the rain
to chuckle at your idiocy
piss between two cars
on the avenue
hope that you don’t get caught
by some citizen
or the mickey mouse police
so wet and slurred
that you can’t see straight
you should’ve stayed home
where the wife was
calmed down
fucked
had dinner
read or watched a movie
but it’s another wine and scotch day
another antagonistic day
another one that you don’t
care to live
and so here you are
alone
singing in the rain
it beats sobbing
it beats running into
the middle of the street
hoping for automotive bliss
but now where are you going?
my man
my aging man
sad, flabby boy
with a gray heart
getting pelted by fat
cold raindrops
where are you going?
on another
lost sunday night in america
another one that you’ll
never get back.

poem of the day 08.22.11

the boys

the boys
sit at computers
from sun up
to sun down
in this place

life is nothing but
video games

the boys are pale
sickly looking
rail thin
malnourished

they have dull faces

there is not a poet amongst them

nor a doctor
a lawyer
a ballplayer
or a teacher
for that matter

the boys
sit at these computers
playing death games
with weapons
and scopes
and crosshairs

when they are not
on front of their machines
they sit at tables
with portables devices
blasting each other
into a video hell
laughing about
whom they’ve killed

there is not a literate one
amongst them

the boys
those slobbering fools
handfed by their
idiot parents
as they press thumbs
hard onto
keyboards

they actually make me fear
for humanity

doubt the future

for there is no leader
amongst their slack jawed tribe

just a bunch of future snipers
who’ll still need their
asses wiped

too dumb
to shoot straight

too stupid
to count the dead
on their weak, baby soft fingers.

poem of the day 08.19.11

the weatherman

the weatherman warns us
of another humid one
while i sit here in old humid shorts
stinking of beer and wine
wondering who in the hell this man is

the weatherman
with his smug voice
laughs at the humidity
because he knows that next year
he’ll still be able to pay his bills

the weatherman
so calm and reassuring
says it will be ninety today
forgetting that last friday
he told us that it would be eighty-one

this weatherman
he can’t get his shit together
neither can i
i haven’t gotten a story published in months
and i keep sinking deeper and deeper
into my backup plan

the weatherman
he doesn’t have any guts
he just hides behind this radio
he’s probably never pounded out a poem
before the sun has come up
he’s probably never
gone to work with a hangover

this weatherman
just knows fahrenheit
he never thinks in celsius
he’s never met a high pressure system
that he didn’t like
or a low pressure one
that he couldn’t relate to

the weatherman
he just sits in his little booth
protected in his little world
reading off today’s temperature
like a good automaton
never breaking a sweat

this weatherman
he’s checking the radar
for another cataclysmic event
he’s got earth shattering news
on his mind
while the rest of us sit in traffic
our lunches making us sick in the heat

the weatherman
he’s hoping for something big
something so catastrophic
a flood, tornado, hurricane, or tsunami
that it’ll give him a name
so that the next time
you hear his voice

it’ll be during the sports report.

poem of the day 08.18.11

dead man’s locker

the dead man’s locker
has been open for weeks now

as per a memo from the head honchos

they’re the ones who wanted
the dead man’s locker open
and everything taken out

because it was time for us all to move on

but no one has come to claim his things
not a single friend or family member

so the dead man’s locker stays open
in the staff room

some days the door is open wider than others

people are probably looking inside

we are fascinated
and terrified of the dead

i know that i’ve looked inside
the dead man’s locker

he has rulers in there
packages of paper and pencils
a black jacket
three full plastic bags of books

there’s a 20 oz. bottle of coke
that the dead man will never drink

i’m curious as to which staff member will take it
because the dead man hasn’t been dead too long

or maybe a member of his family
will claim the drink

that is, if they ever show up

maybe a member of the administration
thirsty from hiking it down here
will open the locker, see the drink,
and claim it as theirs

then we’ll all sit down and discuss
why the dead man’s locker is still open

we’ll all talk about
how well we’re coping with this tragedy

the fine people in this organization
will see firsthand how well we’re all doing

and that the work flow hasn’t stopped
not even for a day.

poem of the day 08.17.11

artists every one

we’re all artists
he always said
though i found it hard to believe him
sitting on the couch
smoking cigarettes
crushing them out in a massive
gray, ceramic ashtray
drinking beer after beer
watching seinfeld reruns
we were all artists
every one of us
the two writers who didn’t write
the two musicians who couldn’t
make a sound
all artists he’d say
i guess he could say that
he was every kind of artist
one week he was a painter
one week he was a writer
the next month he was making films
i never saw him do a stitch of art
from where i was sitting on the couch
he smoked a lot of cigarettes
and watched dawson’s creek
we’re all artists, he’d say
sitting there
every one of us
brilliant undiscovered geniuses
he was going to draw
he was going to sculpt
we should do a literary journal
because we’re all artists
hold readings throughout the city
get an artist’s commune going
this whole city is filled with artists
he’d tell me
as we smoked cigarettes
and watched old episodes of friends
he’d wait for my response
i knew i didn’t like this city for a reason
i’d say
but he never listened
because the next week he was a dancer
or an actor
he was a comedian
and one time he thought that he
was gay
but whatever he did
he knew that he was making art
because he was an artist
we were all artists
sitting there, smoking cigarettes
waiting on the cable bill to arrive
a couple of years ago
i heard that he finally got up
off of that couch
and moved to another city
apparently he’s a photographer now.

poem of the day 08.16.11

ken

ken shared an apartment
with a group of us
years ago
he was a tidy sort of guy
swept a lot
always had his shirt
tucked into his jeans
the rest of us were a mess
smoking cigarettes
leaving the ashtrays full for months
getting stoned
piling beer bottles in dusty corners
living on television reruns
and hot dog dinners

ken had a third floor bedroom
when he came home
from work
he walked by us without
saying anything
and went right up to his room
only coming down again
to make one of those
packaged dinners
that always had
the right amount
of meat and vegetable
and dessert

ken once told me that
he didn’t think it was fair
that he had to pay the cable bill
because he was never
downstairs with the rest of us
wasting our lives
in front of the idiot box

my girlfriend and i
had a dog at the time
it was a dumb move
because we could hardly
take care of ourselves
and every time that ken
would come home from work
the dog would get nuts
and try to run after him
as he made his way away from us
and up to his bedroom
on the third floor

the dog liked ken
better than she liked me
or the girlfriend

but one night
just after ken made one of his
packaged dinners
he received a phone call
which he took right in the kitchen
just as i was returning
from taking the dog for a walk
ken looked nervous
talking to someone in front of us
virtual strangers
of course the dog ran right to him
trying to smell his balls
when he pushed her away
she went right over
to where his dinner was cooling
knocking the whole thing
on the floor
eating it before any of us had a chance
to stop her

i had to spring for ken’s
dinner that night
and soon after the dog was gone

toward the end of our lease
the group of us got
the big idea
to see what was in ken’s room
we waited until he went out
one night
then we all walked up the steps
taking each floor slowly
when we opened ken’s door
it was like walking into another home
completely
he had a couch and a bed
a small refrigerator full of beer
a coffee table
art prints on the wall
posters for avant-garde films
and a carpet that gave the room
a real touch

nothing was out of place

ken’s one room was nicer
than the whole house we’d rented

we wondered how and when
he got everything up there

in the corner of the room
he had a television
with a state of the art
vhs and dvd combo
ken had a stack of films
all lined up
he had the big ones
godard and fellini
truffaut, fuller, and cassavetes
the group of us looked
at the films
and then we walked around
still caught in the shock
of its splendor

before we left
to return back to our ashtrays
and squalor
our hot dogs
and malt liquor liters
our dirty shangri-la on the first floor
i sat on the couch
and picked up ken’s remote

i turned his tv set on

sure enough
the bastard had split the wires
and was getting cable.

Putting Poems Places

hello all

i have some poems up over at Mad Swirl
and Red Fez. Please stop by both web site and check out some
of the great writers (an artists) appearing there.

thank you
jg

poem of the 08.15.11

the inventor

the inventor
comes into the job
every day
talking on his cell phone
snapping his fingers at me for
paper and pencils
to write down
important information

the inventor
talks to me about patents
and $3,000 dinners
with corporate headhunters
reality shows
where tech wizards
turn nobodies into somebodies

the inventor
says that his design
is going to turn the tech world
on its head

he tells me that when
he gets famous
he’s going to spread the wealth
get me some new clothes
a new haircut
because when his product drops
the inventor is dropping it
right here at the job
because this is where it all started

this place is going to be packed
with the media
the inventor tells me

i think he better tell the administration
about this

i’m going to be the biggest thing
the inventor says

even though he smells perpetually
of whiskey and weed
and has been wearing the same clothing
for a month

the inventor whispers a haiku

patents
$3,000 dinners
the cover of wired and time

he has his golden future planned out

he’s getting out of this place

and to think i was the one
who handed him
all of those pencils and paper

i was there from the beginning
listening to his dull schemes
for hours on end
thinking that he was crazy

i hope to christ
he makes it, the inventor
becomes a millionaire
with private jets and expensive women
$1000 bottles of champagne
condos on both coasts
and the most brilliantly subtle hangovers

i hope the inventor buys an island
i hope that he moves there
with all of his talent and genius
with a brand new idea to help
pad his wealth

i hope the inventor
makes more money than
the crown prince of saudi arabia
and that i’ll never have
to see his face
at this job again.

poem of the day 08.13.11

poem of the day 08.12.11

unsatisfied customer

he keeps getting closer to me

me sitting there

he’s talking about golden crosses

women at the job
wearing golden crosses

he tells me that you
should have god in your heart

not around your neck

when he asks me
if i believe in god

i tell him that i believe in nothing

his eyes bulge out
of his head

he tells me that he’ll get the media

he’ll have my job

so many people
have wanted my job this year

administration people
city council members
some crackhead with rotten teeth
the mayor

it almost makes me laugh

he can have my job

so can the mayor

he keeps getting closer to me
keeps getting angrier

says we hate him
because of his skin color

he’s color me muslim

playing the 9/11 card

riding it all the way to september
like we’ve been taught to do in new york city

getting closer to me

calling me boy
big boy

which is really the only shit
in this three-ring circus
that is making me angry
this fine summer day

still he keeps getting closer
ranting about god and golden crosses

muslims and christians

he cannot believe
that i believe in nothing

wants to get the media

i hope that it’s not a slow news day

wants me put on my ass
in the street

he’s so close that i can smell his breath

it smells like american aggression

i rise from my seat
waiting for all hell to break loose

waiting for this patriot to strike.

poem of the day 08.11.11

humidiocy

fat gut
pale white
underwear
cold beer on the belly
trapped in the whirl
of the air conditioner
brooklyn is humid
after the rain
but i long for the days
with the windows open
in the summer
it seems crazy
but i miss the noise
of the street enveloping me
like a soiled blanket
the cars
the people
the dogs barking
you just don’t get that
with this mechanical hum
blowing cold air
up your ass
there’s nothing to rail against
in this cave
of a living room
you end up arguing with the cat
bass music
boat horns from the estuary
motorcycle engines
teen posturing on street corners
and some asshole
telling his life story
on his cell phone
this is the stuff i need right now
the stuff of life, i guess
i need an enemy
or a savior
sitting here
fat gut
pale underwear
the last beer empty
sweat rings on my flesh
beethoven on the radio
the stock market crashing
as london burns
outside
outside
as i laugh the madman’s laugh
shaking my
goddamned head
never believing
for a second
that i’d miss any of you.

poem of the day 08.10.11

tree branches

i am breaking tree branches
outside in the unbearable heat

my face is red
my hair is matted with sweat

but i feel all right
breaking tree branches in the heat

someone abandoned them

two thick tree branches
that fell from a massive oak across the street

they put them over here for me to break

i’m at the job

everyone told me that i’m the boss
that the tree branches are my responsibility

they told me to call 311
and have someone from the city
come and get them

this city couldn’t catch its own tail
let alone collect a tree

so i get to play the rugged individualist
dueling within a 21st century malaise

i’m used to gathering nothing but sound bites
and video clips

pale with a digital sickness

but i’m breaking tree branches in the heat

my black t-shirt is covered in dust
my hands are sticky from the leaves

there are cuts all over my fingers
scrapes up and down my arms

i’m bleeding my own blood
drinking the salt of my sweat

i’m unchained to this life and desk
wiping shards of bark out of my eyes

i’ve forgotten those pc bullyboys
with their emails and rs feeds
gathering leaves into piles

i’ve let the college degrees yellow
in envelopes in the closet

i’m just so full of life
and goddamned happy to be
breaking tree branches over my knees
in this ever-loving heat

brother, i’ve been feeling down for months
but i’m working on a dream

brother, i’ve been locked up for the summer
but i’m learning and communing with nature now

brother, life’s hit a dead end for me
and the government is letting it all go to hell

but i’m breaking tree branches
searching for something with my bare hands
grasping wood chips between rough fingers

and i feel like a new man

just to think
last night i sat there on the couch
prepared for another work week

i sat there on the couch prepared to die

but now i’m shoving twigs and sticks and green
into big black garbage bags

breaking tree branches in the heat

if only they could see me now
those yes men and administration bores
if only they could see me
those sycophants who think that they control
my destiny

if only they could see me
bearded with the dull look removed from my eyes

i think they’d run away in fear

they’d know for sure that they lost me

they’d leave me here
with the sun beating down
on the cracked pavement

and all of the kind people of the world
walking their dogs

bending over to get another handful of life
breaking tree branches of bliss and eternity
in this revival of heat.

poem of the day 08.09.11

wild beast

it is hard
when the wild beast
just sulks away
when you are used
to him breathing down your neck
each morning
when he cowers in the corner
and you sit there with the day
taunting him
saying, come on, you bastard
just scare me into
one more good line
but the wild beast
haunches like a grandmother
checking his email
and the baseball scores
you wonder when it was
that he ceased to be so raw
when it was
that the fear of him left you
for you fear nothing now
but you cannot write
about a thing
except the wild beast
sitting there
doing his nails
watching neighborhood dogs
take their morning shit
this wild beast
he used to pummel you
with words
he’s the one who told you
that the art world
was full of shit
he’s the one who said
give it a go, kid, before
i rip your face off
but now he sits there
on the bed
flipping through magazines
and postcards of van gogh
hoping that the yankees won
while you’re stuck
at the machine alone
bad stomach and coffee breath
forty new hours of hell
breaking your back
missing this
wild beast
knowing that you’d kill
the man who tamed him
the one who took his verve and roar
the one who made
mincemeat of his balls
even if it meant
taking your own life too.

poem of the day 08.08.11

august blooms

as
august
blooms

i sit here

going mad

fighting
with
everyone

by
just trying
to keep
the peace

it’s
this city
the stink
of garbage
and sweat

driving
us all
to murder

i
need
something
verdant

like mountains
like a field of grass

oh
i need
something

to
sooth
this asphalt
heart of mine

poem of the day 08.05.11

work

we may not have wanted to
but back then i knew a lot
of other teenagers who had jobs

some of us worked the mall

others did the fast food route

many brave souls cut
lawns in the summer heat

the point is, there weren’t
many handouts to go around
from the parents

now, i know times
are tough these days

jobs are scarce

and with the idiots
that we have running things

times are bound to get tougher

and i’m the last guy
to advocate for employment

but tomorrow morning
if those teenagers
are sitting on that stoop

with nothing to do
but smoke cigarettes in the sun

toss another butt at my legs
pretending that it’s an accident…

well, i’m going to have
no choice but to put them to work

one by one or all at once

even if it kills me.

poem of 08.04.11

car wrecks

the first one
that i saw this week
happened at the corner
of stillwell avenue and 86th street
two sets of old people
in old people cars
people who should
no longer be driving
sideswiping each other
trying to beat the light

the second one
that i saw this week
happened where bath avenue
intersects with 26th ave
one car rear-ending another car
pushing it into someone’s
well-manicured lawn
bending and twisting
their newly painted iron fence

and the third one
that i saw this week
happened where 75th street
meets 3rd avenue
this time two jeeps
one black, one silver
both coming from the opposite way
both trying to make the light
before it turned red

in every situation
the same thing
people getting out of their cars
to survey the damage
incredulous looks on their dull faces
talking on cell phones
as packs of rubber neckers gather around
and no witness comes forward

i wonder if it is coincidence
me seeing all of these car accidents
or if more and more
as our impatience grows in this nation
as our desire to let the other man
have the right of way lessens
as kindness becomes replaced by
a sense of perverse entitlement
as divisiveness strangles unity
that what i have witnessed this week
has simply become common animal behavior

and that by next summer
the simple pop of metal smacking metal
at the intersection of every miserable street
will be as common to me
as the sound of early morning lawn mowers
and idling trucks.

poem of the day 08.03.11

bug noir

sure enough
he was resting right there

underneath a table

right where the dame
had told me he’d be

lime green

a million legs
and a million eyes
looking back at me

trying to blend in

i knew the mug

had seen his type
crawling across

a million walls
and a million floors

but this time
i had him cornered, see

i pulled out my piece

but then i thought better

i blew at him

sent him scurrying
across the tile

the dame
just looked at me

i knew what she expected

what all dames wanted

she wanted
blood and guts

her eyes looked hungry
for murder

but i just winked at her

doffed my hat

killin’s not my thing
sweetheart

i said

before walking away

back into
the fog of night.

Thank you for your support

As always I want to thank all of you who stop
by Winedrunk, even those of you who come by because
you really hate the writing on here. that said, i managed
to get some poems in Unlikely Stories 2.0, and it would be
fantastic if you took the time to stop by , check out
the journal, and give them a little bit of support as well.

here is the link to unlikely stories:

Unlikely Stories 2.0

once again thank you
JG

poem of the day 08.02.11

people of wonder

there are those pieces
of flesh out there

you just wonder how they do it

like this one
on the evening bus tonight

talking to himself

screaming, actually

pointing and carrying on
toward some imaginary transgressor

scaring parents and children

i mean he paid to get on this bus

he dressed himself

not well

but i’ve seen millionaires look worse

he has a cell phone
the he keeps checking

somebody is paying for that bill

he even manages
to ask someone the time
in between outbursts

these people of wonder astound me

they give me fear
they give me hope

this lunatic on the bus

those crazies walking the streets
shouting into the darkness
with their shoes tied
and their faces shaved

the ones who manage to buy
a cup of coffee in burger king
while writhing in pain

the ones in the train stations
testifying with god on their side

they give me mystery
they give me intrigue

something magical to believe in

a different kind of light
to shine on this fat and dull world

they are like a different species altogether

from the other lumps of flesh
on this rolling ball of gas

the ones who always
know the time

have exact change

and never start and argument
with anyone

real or imagined.

poem of the day 08.01.11

chain reactions

it is one of those mornings
where you’re stuck
in the humidity and heat
where you wish that this summer
would die already
you are happy that football is back
but an autumn day
seems like a million years from now
and you start thinking about the job
you get trapped in work thoughts as you walk
your mind thinking, holy shit,
if i remain relatively healthy
i’m probably going to have to do this
for the next twenty-five to thirty years
it is a sick thought
it is debilitating
you pray for a gun or the noose
you curse your parents for their lack of wealth
curse yourself for lack of brains or ambition
think of yourself as a child waiting to get older
you suddenly hate this child
remember that today is your grandmother’s birthday
you remember the way that she died
comatose and heaving with bedsores
and at the street corner
you wait for the next available car
to jump in front of
at the job it is no easier
the day is lazy the people are lazier
sitting at their work stations
talking on their cell phones or playing
video games
they complain and blame you for everything
you wonder where the boss is
it dawns on you that you are the boss
how did this happen?
misfortune?
these people are your problem
but you don’t want them
you don’t even want to know them
you just want to pass the time
because there is whiskey and beer at home
a soft couch and something decent to read
you do not care about the laziness of humanity
you are lazy
you see these people more than you do your wife
staring at your idle co-workers
you feel like going mad
you think, christ, this world is royally fucked up
you want to know who made it this way
who decided to put all of these virtual strangers together
under fluorescent lights
killing their dreams
while sucking asbestos and stale filtered air conditioning
you want to find this person
so that you can go out and slaughter him like a pig
you think you might as well get a mirror
because no one bought and sold you this way
but yourself
you think about fleeing
you wonder about other cities and towns
other lives than this one
still, you have those bills to pay
and your shoes are wearing through the bottoms again
after the job, you stand at the bus stop with the other zombies
their faces dull and dead just like yours
name brand clothing justifying forty-hours a week
of selling their souls
the group of you waiting
for the evening express bus home
waiting on bland meals
bland entertainment
blogs and social networks
bad neighbors
conversation and unsatisfactory sleep
at the corner of 86th and devastation
there is a car accident
one pretty expensive car smacks into another
the people inside frown
their day as ruined as yours
a man gets out of his black bmw holding his head
he shouts no, no, no
into the yellow hazy sky
to you he looks like a prophet
in his tank top and red shorts
he shouts why, why, why
he’s saying exactly what you’ve
been wanting to say all day long.