all good things, right? (poem of the day 10.14.11)

dear folks

first and foremost i want to thank all of you that
have stopped by Winedrunk since i started this experiment
back in 2008. seeing this blog grow has given me a special
feeling each morning when i get up to write.

but all good things must......

so as of today i'm ending winedrunk sidewalk. but endings
are always beginnings. there are a thousand different reasons
to end this blog and to keep this blog, but the most important
to me is keeping myself fresh as a writer. i'll admit sending
out almost a poem a day has worn me down somewhat.

that said, i won't be gone off the blogs for long. the hope
is to have an online journal next year, WineDrunk PoeTics. so all
of you writers out there, look out for it...and send me some shit.

thanks again

Jg

....and now....one last...


ice cream and diet coke

the a.m. dj
keeps talking

about the wonderful weather
coming this weekend

the sunshine

i think of all of the people
that will be out in it

resolve to stay home

kill cockroaches
instead of dealing
with all of those dull faces

shit

i sit here broken and tired again

stinking of scotch and coffee
waiting for an old classical cd
to burn on the computer

collecting the reject notes

unable to write a poem

abandoning a short story
after thirteen pages

maybe done
before i even got started

think of another week in this room

in this chair

wasted on art
on keeping my sanity

all of those weeks
all of those years
lost to small glories and failures

when i could’ve been reaching
for something else

having the world’s loneliest
pity party

looking at a stack
of unwanted poems

knowing none of it will help me
if i reach the age where
i forget shit all of the time

and someone else
will have to wipe my ass

i don’t honestly know
how the great ones did it

massive resolve
or pure insanity

a drive that i don’t have this morning

at all lately

or maybe they had something
as simple as long breaks out in the sun

with the other idiots

walking along the crooked streets

smiling stupidly

eating ice cream cones

or drinking
a tall cold diet coke.

poem of the day 10.13.11

five bangs

the two white teenagers
stand at the bus stop

with their short hair
peach fuzz beards and earrings

they have the world by the balls
talking in hip hop slang
but not having to have to live a hip hop life

it seems terrible to me
that some people die young
but these kind get to live
and maybe one day reproduce

the two white teenagers are talking about girls

about girls at their catholic school
about the girls at the local public one

girls in dyker heights
girls in gravesend
girls all over brooklyn

the taller one is obviously the alpha male

he keeps talking about all
of the girls he’s banged

he banged the one in bay ridge twice
the one in dyker he only got to bang once

but the one from sheepshead bay
the public school girl
he tells his friend that he gave her

five bangs

he holds up his meaty privileged right hand
his fat virginal fingers

five bangs, he says again

the other kid stands there looking at the hand
he stands in awe of his friend
tallying up the amount of bangs in his head

unaware of his close proximity
to such a bullshitter

five bangs, i repeat to myself
still waiting on the bus

more than likely, five bangs in his head

of course, you never know these days
with the way these kids dress just for attention

they leave nothing to the imagination anymore

their young asses
their young legs

maybe all of these kids
are little fuck monsters now

maybe five bangs
is a low ball estimate for this idiot
and i’m just getting too old

married and long past
five bangs with a young girl

too blinded by trivial adult survival
to see a player playing his game
right before my tired and squinting eyes.

poem of the day 10.12.11

frustration

we stand at bus stops
waiting for buses that do not come
to carry us home from jobs
that we do not want

wait in traffic with the other zombies
listening to hate radio and satellite songs

we sit in crowded parks of revolution
dirty, tired, hungry
with the frog-faced cops glaring
holding their pepper spray cans
waiting on the next civil movement to spark

we receive the paycheck
knowing that it will never be enough
to erase our loss of time

or we hunger for the paycheck
as the politicians preen and haggle
over their wasted millions
and tax cuts for the rich

deep down we know that no jobs
are coming this way

we eat unsatisfactory meals
in unsatisfactory restaurants
laden with brainwashing salt and fat
and then we tell others to try them

drink overpriced coffee
out of a chain store oasis

and drive cars that are still the size of tanks

we look for other gods
religion, alcohol, sports, and politics
failures each and every one

we look for connection
in an increasingly isolated world
watch television to ease the heartache of thought
and play with telephones without an answer

we have pets who are so kind
that they’ve accepted our breed of human love

we hate with such beauty
that which we refuse to understand

preach our archaic way around the world

ignore dignity and restraint

we are a lost and foolish people
reveling in our idiocy
flying flags to hide the shame of ignorance
putting the dumbest ones into the highest
positions of power

and there will be no more art
until we figure it out
no great geniuses coming down the pike
no great politicians

but there will be a blackness
a blackness so pure that it’ll be impossible to see

and it’s desolation will taste like blood and flesh

we feed the frustration of existence
by just being as we are right now
by just getting out of bed
for a glass of orange juice
and the morning paper

by finding the strength to do no more
than survive.

poem of the day 10.11.11

purple

mitch and i
had been at the community center all day
trying to get in with the older kids

when one of them pulled out
a can of chewing tobacco

he slapped it with his fingers
before opening it and taking a dip
putting it between his bottom lip and gums

mitch and i
had never seen anyone do this

we watched as he passed the chew can around
as each of the other older kids
took a pinch of black tobacco out of it
putting it between their lips and gums as well

when the can reached us
we didn’t want to look young and foolish

mitch took a huge dip of the chew
and put it in his mouth like the others had

when it was my turn i did the same

then the group of us sat around
talking about baseball and girls
spitting wads of brown saliva onto the pavement

after a while i started to feel bad

my head began to hurt
my stomach began to do cartwheels

i started to sweat

when the other guys weren’t looking
i took the pinch of chew out of my mouth

but there were still strands of tobacco

caught in my gums
causing me to gag

christ, i felt like hell

i looked at mitch

he seemed to be fine

i need to get out of here, i told him
without these guys thinking anything

so mitch took a final spit
and got rid of his chew

he made up some bullshit about us
having to get cigarettes for his mom

because in those days
a kid could get cigarettes without the spanish inquisition

mitch and i began walking home
in the hot summer sun

it was relentless

my stomach kept churning and churning
my face white and covered in sweat

shit, i said
before bending over right there on the street
letting loose a stream of purple vomit
from the three popsicles i’d had earlier in the day

people walking their dogs stopped to look at us

people in cars slowed down

but no one helped
as mitch and i walked along
and i continued to spew purple all over
the pretty summer day

when we got back to his house
i laid on the front lawn
really feeling death for the first time

it took maybe an hour or more
for me to feel right

which was about the time mitch came back outside
with a handful of money

and the two of us walked up to the drug store
intent on buying a can of skoal

instead of baseball cards

as had been the case before that fateful day
arrived.

poem of the day 10.06.11

little

little men
in little blue hats
in little blue uniforms
with little guns
and little billyclubs
with little badges
and little self-worth
carry little bottles
of pepper spray
to put on
little old you
and me
take orders from
other little men
in little offices
then go home
in little cars
to little families
collect little salaries
accrue little pensions
eat little meals
and then unwind
watching a little bit
of television
so that their little minds
don’t have to think
about all the
wrong
that they’ve done.

poem of the day 10.05.11

saturday morning is for tough guys

i stand in a long line
at the bagel shop
listening as the construction workers on 86th
talk about a girl who just walked by
in a short skirt and heels
they talk about how much they’d like to fuck her
all of the things they’d do to that ass
but then the conversation turns to young girls
and what if the chick in the skirt and heels
was one of their daughters
to which the men start talking about how
their girls would never dress like that
how they’d beat the shit out of them
out of any guy who looked at their daughter
the way that they’d just looked
at the girl who sauntered down the street
one of the guys
said that he’d threaten any potential suitor with a shotgun
anyway
after enough of this i finally get my bagel
a sesame with loads of butter
i eat it as i walk down bay parkway
toward the shopping plaza
where i need to buy new shoes
and gifts for my niece
in the parking lot
two cars almost slam into one another
the men in both cars stop and start shouting
all kinds of inventive invective
they tell each other all of the things they’d do
if they got out of their car
this goes on for almost five minutes
one tough guy threatening another tough guy
on a saturday morning at the shopping plaza
and then just like that
with one last fuck you
both of the men speed off toward
ruining someone else’s day
as i stand there for just a moment longer
in the quiet and peace
fist clenched, red-blooded american male
wondering if i should purchase
the brown boots or the black.

poem of the day 10.04.11

in the year of everything dying

the one cat paces around the living room
crying, scratching on furniture
not following old familiar patterns
i think she’s just trying to drive me mad
but my wife tells me to look into the animal’s eyes
which are blank because the poor thing is going senile

the other cat keeps pulling out tufts of her white hair
they float like pussy willows in the living room
where she sneezes blood sometimes but mostly snot
leaving patches of mucus and crimson splatters on
the hard wood floor
like little pollock paintings there for me to find
when i mop

in the year of everything dying all at once
political systems and the stuff of one man’s life
i cannot seem to save a goddamned thing
and fear that i’m losing balance

killing cockroaches to pass the time between deaths
buying new pairs of shoes to replace the old ones
that have worn holes too quickly in their soles
surgically repairing the coffee pot
finding black grubs hiding in the old water stains

taking time off of work to replace cable boxes
that we don’t even use
saying ciao to radios that have rusted
throwing away power plugs that have done their time
smoothing down the chipped metal on the frying pan
so that it doesn’t get into the food

patching the cracks in these old walls
caulking the floors from invaders and drafts
striping the dead pc of its motherboard
before casting it off into the garbage abyss
of the bug-infested basement
patching the tears in window screens
that i’m too lazy to replace
holding sills up with big books
duck taping the old ones that have sentimental value

replacing keys that are too bent to open
the apartment door
exchanging dark facial hair for more
of the white and gray variety
feeling the knee bones crack
whenever i get up off of the couch to fix another drink

yes, in this year of everything dying
i wonder what’s set to go next
my constitution or my civil liberty
what is destined to be replaced or lost for good

the dvd player that is rapidly becoming obsolete
the digital music player pumping mahler into my ears
on gray autumn mornings
the computer router with its green beeps
that can’t find an internet connection most days
the ever-loving toilet or bathroom sink
the oven that smells of old meals digested
on lazy, drunken sunday evenings

or these waning years of anticipation and promise
the ones meandering through the columns
of months and weeks on a calendar
that has to be replaced every twelve months
whether or not i like the pretty pictures of the month
the ones that have haunted me from january to now

offering me nothing but fleeting bliss

poem of the day 10.03.11

candied yams

these ladies have orange faces
drinking pink liquor in this gray bar
on a sunday afternoon
i feel blue watching them
in the mauve light
these ladies
getting loaded and eating big boxes
of m&ms
spreading the green and yellow
and red ones
on the brown bar
like a stoplight
as the other ash faced drunks look on
they have black sunglasses
and rosy cheeks
these two ladies crying over pink drinks
falling off of their stools
scattering m&ms and potato chips
all over the stained floor
playing jukebox songs
to try and make themselves feel better
sad over the world
sad over whatever
sad over i don’t care
i watch these ladies
with bored wonder
as if they are some kind of alien life form
two squat women
hunkered down like toads
with orange faces
they look like candied yams in clothing
sitting at this bar
killing sunday with the rest of us
as the nfl season plays on and on
on the bright television
and the free chili steams from the pot
which one learned drunk
tells to the other
is white hot and scalding to the touch.