Monday, February 28, 2011

poem of the day 02.28.11

the grand dame of section 8

she’s wearing a regal emerald house coat
make-up slathered on her face
crooked glasses
her breath smells of onions
and she will only deal with me
because she says that i make her
feel comfortable

she walks around this place
carrying at stack of police reports
that she has to collate
because she’s having problems
with her neighbor
a young lady of about twenty-five
boombox noise at all hours
men coming in and out of her apartment

she puts the stack of police reports down
says that she has to be careful with them
afraid of retribution
you know, she says, how they can be
mouths “blacks”
before picking the stack up
and going through it like a shaking junky

she says it’s so hard to find somewhere
to use a computer these days
to print up more of these reports
because she has many more of these reports
the mexicans have taken over the internet café
on avenue x
they’re not bad
but they’re always screaming to their relatives
from across the room

it seems the chinese have taken over
everywhere else, she says
or the russians
she’d really like to get out of her section 8 housing
because it’s filling up with hispanics
they’re mixing it up with the blacks
and the boombox music is terrible

but there’s nowhere for her to go
except down to coney island to live
with all of the russians
and the last thing you want to do is live
with the russians
you might as well go on living with
the “blacks” she mouths again

she waits for me to empathize with her
but, shit, we all have problems
i have guitar music coming through
my walls
and televisions humming
neighbors beating their dogs in front
of my living room window
i have lived amongst the “blacks”
the hispanics, the whites, the chinese,
the mexicans, the arabs, and the russians
and have found everyone to be unfavorable
most of the time

she shakes her police reports at me
tells me to wish her good luck
i say nothing and smile
think about onion soup
and how long it will be
before i see another day off from this place.

Saturday, February 26, 2011

poem of the day 02.26.11


the windows
of this gray world
sure, i have opened them
to the stench of
the new day

and i have felt


as i watched the rain puddle
on the street
the women in housecoats
smoking cigarettes
waiting for their shivering dogs
to shit

the breath of the joggers
as they stretch hardened muscles

and the work people heading
toward a certain, crystal death

oh yes
i have opened up the windows
of the gray world

and i have listened closely
as the morning dove sings

so what?
so what?

before it dips its head
searching for that first worm.

Friday, February 25, 2011

poem of the day 02.25.11

a 3:30 in the morning poem

it is it again
3:30 in the morning
the cat is meowing
because she is already hungry
because she has no sense of time
she is feeling around her mouth
looking for the missing teeth
the extracting that cost you
$1200 and a little bit of your spirit
your wife is asleep
3:30 in the morning
huddled into herself to defeat the cold
and you are alone with your
bank account nightmares
with the mounds of rejected poems
with an unsatisfactory existence
that keeps playing each day like
a bad sitcom rerun
with the wine pulsating in your bladder
burning in your stomach and chest
alone wondering if you are having a heart attack
thinking that it is hours
before you call the doctor
and he complains about your cholesterol
3:30 in the morning
and you think it will be a cold day in hell
before i see that doctor again
3:30 and the work week is on the horizon
and this year is like a playground bully
who keeps on pushing and pushing
you wonder when it is
that you will finally push back
3:30 in the morning
and the cat keeps meowing
she hears you moving
so she meows right in your face
you can almost make her out
in the red death glow of the alarm clock
flashing 3:30 in the morning
like a beacon
like a warning
like a farewell sign on the last outpost
before you enter hell.

Thursday, February 24, 2011

poem of the day 02.24.11

we threw them away

we threw them away

the waitresses, the waiters, the bartenders,
the retail clerks, and the mechanics

like yesterday’s papers
like old gum
like another failed lottery ticket

we threw them away

the teachers, the professors,
the kids with college debt,
and the ghetto kids too

then we had a coke and a smile
and didn’t recycle our bottles

we thanked the corporations
that aren’t hiring
killed the union man
gave tax breaks to the rich

we threw them away

the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker

threw them away

like a mcdonald’s wrapper
scraped them off like the minced onions
on a factory hamburger

the librarians, the machinists,
the firefighters, the admin assistants,
and the owner of the shop around the corner

we threw them away

the artists, the carpenters, the mailmen,
the chemists, the social workers,
the disc jockeys, the farmers,
the economists, the seamen,
the notary publics, the short order cooks,
and all the girls in hr

and then we went shopping
fucked our mistresses and masters
came to fantasies of movie actors
and wealthy athletes
writhing in our beds

we threw them away

the landscapers and loan officers
musicians and pharmacists,
pilots and reporters

we tossed them in the trash
like rancid meat
like dog shit or table scraps

we never stormed city hall
we never burned wal-mart to the ground

we threw them away

the secretaries, the urban planners,
zookeepers, and writers
data entry keyers, real estate agents,
and electricians

we watched the big game
and never had a care
we watched the middle east burn
and then sent out for pizza

we threw them away
like they were nothing but flesh and bone

the mothers, the fathers, the aunts and uncles,
the brothers and sisters, the friends, the enemies,
the lovers and haters, the pets

the future

mine and yours


Wednesday, February 23, 2011

poem of the day 02.23.11

the wise and the just

sit in this bar
on president’s day
watching the television

there are riots in libya
riots in bahrain
protests in wisconsin

the world seems almost interesting for once

the wise and the just
watch the news
letting their pints sit

the tools of their plumbing trade
rest prostrate on the bar

they are silent for awhile
as the flames engulf tripoli
and bodies lay scattered in the street

as decent crashes down on madison
soiling the great general’s birthday

then one of the
wise and the just
turns to the other
lifts his pint and shakes his head

he takes a drink
puts his pint back down and says

fucking crybabies

all of them

no shit, the other one says

then the wise and the just
turn back to the television
hoping for a hockey score
or tonight’s lottery numbers.

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

poem of the day 02.22.11

laughing guy

there is always one of them
in a pack of people

the laughing guy

the one who won’t quit chuckling

because everything is funny to him

you can hear him coming
from half a block away
his mundane cackle mixing
with the quiet, buzzing voices of his friends

and you turn the music up
to drown him out
you put down the book because
you know you will be unable to read

you put the movie on pause

hope the laughing guy and his pals
don’t park themselves
in front of your window

but they will

they’ll stand there smoking
million dollar cigarettes
clueless with what to do on a saturday night
because their heads are empty
their souls a vacuum
because there is nowhere to go

and the whole time the laughing guy
will be in the middle
of this dim witted pack
cackling, giggling, or howling over any triviality

and you will pray for famine
for an act of god or terror
to take this idiot down

or for a car to come barreling over
the sidewalk

you will never wonder
what is so funny to this person
because you already know that
whatever it is
it is anything but funny

and the music will stay on loud
the book will lay on your chest
the beer will sit there waiting

or the movie will remain on pause

until this moron and his ilk
finish their cigarettes and move on
toward their glowing and pristine boredom
the voices mumbling their anticipation

the laughing guy
hooting his ass off
until the pack of them make their way
slowly up the block and around the bend

and life can resume its
crooked course
almost as serene as it had been
just a few moments ago.

Monday, February 21, 2011

poem of the day 02.21.11

the restless years

the restless years
are coming to an end for you and i

at least that’s what i think

sitting in the apartment
quietly comparing cities
listening to the wind howl
down seventy-fifth street

those restless years
of packing boxes haphazardly
and hauling ass across another faceless state
in a futile effort to escape
the same things awaiting us when we get there

the restless years

neither of us
want to reawaken them

it seems so hard to get up the motivation
so hard to get up off of this old couch
and grab a map

even if the jobs seem better
that the ones we have
even if existence seems better
than the one we are slogging through

the restless years
they are cruel beasts
trying to rip out our hearts
trying to fool us

we know that the restless years
are never what they promise to be

and it can take years to recover from them

the restless years
we’ve driven over jagged cliffs with them
so many times
i don’t think i have the strength
to do them all over again

i just want to sit here with you
and contemplate the missed paint splotches
on the walls
in the only place we’ve ever lived in longer
than our childhood homes

i want to drink this wine and figure out
if this conversation
is either madness or contentment setting in

before we scratch the belly
of the restless years
and it’s too late to make them stop

because i used to think that people
needed something more than they
were getting out of life

or maybe that was just true for you and i

but now i think that sometimes having a life
means giving up and saying goodbye
to the restless years

sometimes i think i like knowing
where the sun is going to set on us
at night

and which way we should turn
away from it
when it rises again in the next morning

Saturday, February 19, 2011

poem of the day 02.19.11

great men

sitting on the couch
fresh from making a fool
of myself in public
which had really been
a long time coming
my wife and i are watching
a seven-part miniseries
on the scott-amundsen race
to the south pole
can’t drink
can’t eat
my stomach burning
my heartbeat rapid in my chest
every ten minutes
i have to get up and shit rivers
into the toilet
as scott and amundsen make history
battling unspeakable weather
and other hardships
at the southern tip of the world
in the bathroom is
a magazine with
an interview with elton john
talking about his lifetime of success
in the music industry
great men, i think
sitting there flipping the pages
waiting on the next
deluge of the soul
to come sliding out of my ass
some of them can conquer
worlds of ice
others can take the stage
like a storm
pleasing millions
while the rest of us sit
on cold commodes
wishing for death
or retirement
praying for soft mercy
thinking, great men
who needs them anyway?

Friday, February 18, 2011

poem of the day 02.18.11

sound advice

i give sound advice
when i’ve been drinking

it should almost be philosophy

such a wise man

i’m surprised that i don’t have
my own call-in show and loyal fan base

i give sound advice to my wife’s friend
telling her not to sleep with her new boyfriend
until at least april

(it’s february)

make him wait, i say
leaning in with an endless pint glass
glued to my hand
that genius smirk running down my face

unaware that somewhere in america
i might’ve just killed a man’s ambition

at least for a few months

sound advice
you can only get it
from a drunk like me
restless and lost in a dive bar on a friday night

i know everything
i think i’m plato
and i can’t believe that i’m giving
this stuff away

my sound advice
my soused philosophy

i look around the bar
and wonder why these people aren’t
on their knees at my feet

i should have them lining up
in this place

get myself one of those
charles schulz advice kiosks
plant my drunken ass there
instead of on this barstool

and help every other lost soul
find their way

the bartender who keeps hitting on
women who don’t want him

the drunk with his head down

the next fool who staggers in the front door

i’ll get them euphoric on such
sound advice

charge everyone a draft a problem

scrawl my diagnosis down
in a notebook stinking of old whiskey

such sound advice

my wife tells me to play us some songs
and she and her friend go back to talking
while i stagger out of my stool
with whatever money i have left

i see my face in the reflection
off the jukebox

i’m not even me anymore

i am schopenhauer
i am nietzsche or freud
i am kant and heidegger rolled into one

i am socrates as i turn back
to catch the bartender putting another
pint in front of me

another glass of golden wisdom
another round of sound advice

or the cup of hemlock that they’ve been
pushing to give me all night.

Thursday, February 17, 2011

poem of the day 02.17.11

stroke victims

the old bat who lived
above our bedroom
had a stroke
my wife tells me

the old bat
with her sinatra albums
blaring down on us
during dead sundays in bed

she had a stroke
and the landlord is renting out
her apartment

now there is a waiting game
to see who will move in

through hammers and nails
and buzz saws
the sound of men remodeling
the old apartment

in need of an owner
for the first time since 1947

we imagine worse than frank sinatra’s voice
assaulting us in the afterglow

we imagine the worst kind of people
taking her place

with their endless weekend parties
drag friends
and ridiculous tv at all hours

blasting maudlin music all night
mistaking it for art
quoting movie lines through the thin ceiling
until we’ve gone mad

party girls
with their heavy clanking steps
with their sighing and laughter
their slut burps
and magnificent drunken fuck dates

frat boys
with endless loops of espn
and kid rock anthems
raining down

we’ve been here before
my wife and i

in countless apartments
in countless cities
in countless situations of domestic gloom

victims of the economy
victims of circumstance
and bad luck

stroke victims, too

humming death marches
to the sound of construction men farting
measuring the space
where some ignorant asshole’s
fifty-two inch television
will soon come to destroy us

set perfectly above
the pillows on our bed
where we lay our heads now
drinks resting on our bellies

no retreat
no surrender

in harmony with the fleeting silence

waiting for a new hell to arrive
on our battered and rocky shores

a new war to start all over again
in this scorched but steady landscape.

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

poem of the day 02.16.11

wish it were mine

the men at the wine store
on seventh avenue
have stacks of boxes everywhere

they are stocking new bottles of wine
like madmen

i look around the store
there is just one woman and i

what’s the rush? i think
as they slam bottles into round slots

i remember the years working
for a wine store in buffalo

stocking the shelves
cleaning up huge spills of the grape

helping lonely secretaries pick out
magnum bottles of yellow tail shiraz
in order to help them kill another
empty friday night

wearing a dirty green polo shirt
and stained kakis every day

mostly i remember working for men of small minds
and small ambitions

wondering how it was that i got
out of bed each day to face them

today two women talked my ear off
for six straight hours

i suppose it’s better now, i think
grabbing two bottles of cheap chianti

but better is a relative term
as i’ve learned over the years

one of the men from the wine store
shoves a last bottle in
then goes into the stockroom to grab a shovel

wait, wait, the other guy says when he comes back
he’s probably the boss
he look like a boss

where are you going?

to shovel that last bit of snow and ice

look, the boss tells the guy with the shovel
this is new york city
you got to be a little bit tougher than this

but that guy, the other one starts

fuck him, the boss says

he could’ve been decent
he clearly saw the we were getting a huge order here

so what if he has to park somewhere else
and step over a little bit of melting ice to get to the bank

shoveling that ice is the bank’s job
and you never should’ve offered to do it
on my time, the boss says
leaving his box of wine
and following me up to the register

tell him to get fucked, the boss tells
the employee with the shovel
who still goes outside
to clean up the ice and snow

then he turns to me

well, what kind of a day are you having, pal?

one like yours, i tell him
putting the wine bottles on the counter

the boss man shakes his head and smirks
well i still wish it were mine.

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

peom of the day 02.15.11

bartender from a past life

daryl is just sitting there staring at us

curly hair down to his shoulders
eyes sunken and small


he looks like an animal under the dim lights

looks trapped in a cage

daryl watches as we put the shots to our lips
the ones that he ordered us without provocation

the ones we didn’t want
but are sure to thank him for anyway

daryl who used to pour
drafts and shots in this joint for years
until his registers started turning up short
and he disappeared

our bartender from a past life

back from siberia or new jersey

unshaven for what looks like weeks

his years of appreciation for our patronage
swirling in our glasses

we take it down and toast him
with the empties

go back to talking about whatever
people talk about

as another round of free shots arrive
only to be dumped
on the warped wood floor
after daryl groans
and drops his head on the bar.

Monday, February 14, 2011

poem of the day 02.14.11

making love

your soft nakedness
when i am tired
still hits me like bliss.
this life
with all its quick and mundane
bullshit and demands
let’s us only come
at each other
when we can.
but each time that we do
i’m always so surprised
at how sweet
your flesh
to the taste of my
boozy mouth.


Friday, February 11, 2011

poem of the day 02.11.11


it must be a night off
for the new bartender
because she’s sitting
on the other side of the bar
a shot of jack, a pint of bud
her drink choices mirroring b.j.’s
who’s sitting right next to her again
an arm slung around her shoulder
they are both texting each other
giggling, laughing
as devin reads the paper and nurses a bottle
i don’t know her name yet
all i know is that she’s replaced benny
she’s sitting in mona’s old seat
b.j. stops laughing, texting,
turns to me and says, hey man
then turns back to her
i sit there and drink my draft
check my watch and wait for my wife
as b.j. and the bartender keep it up
but eventually the fun has to end
seven o’clock comes
b.j. downs the last of his draft
shakes his empty jack glass
slaps the bar
says time to get back to the wife and kid
puts his coat on and leaves
doesn’t even slap me on the shoulder
that’s when she gets up and runs into the bathroom
holding her cell phone
she slams the door
the echo of her laughter
seeps through the thin walls of this joint.
devin looks up from his paper and says
she does that every time he leaves now
ain’t new love grand, i say
devin laughs, sounding sad
it’s just one more goddamned mess in this place, he says
one more mess that we’ll all have to clean up
just like benny and mona
and we both know what he means
by this.

Thursday, February 10, 2011

poem of the day 02.10.11

zebra head

at this gay bar
on 6th street
they have this strange motif
that kind of melts
cold war communism
with hunting
and all around the front
of the joint
there are the heads
of animals on display
moose, elk, and others
and the bartender
who’s wearing a
coke is it t-shirt
is telling ally and dan
all of their names
while i sit and have
a heineken and wonder
what the fuck?
but then the bartender points
above the bar
to this zebra head coming
out of the wall
so big
so black and white
that his snout almost reaches
to the stools
and i feel maybe we’ve seen
something impressive tonight.
but just as soon as we get
there we leave
and head back down 6th
toward a vegan restaurant
that has great sangria
ally asks dan about the bartender
and he says the guy is an asshole.
i want to ask about the zebra
but i’m so hungry
i can’t think of anything
but getting to the restaurant
and stuffing my face with something
that i wish was raw, bloody meat.

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

poem of the day 02.09.11

jesus loves everyone

i was sitting there thinking how it’s
still twenty-six years until retirement
when i see that he has this small group of teens
backed against the wall

he’s been in here all day
reading the bible on his laptop

he’s shaking his finger at the teens
they are holding pamphlets
their eyes shifting back and forth
looking toward the exit

what’s going on over here? i ask

he turns to me
has reddish-blonde hair
a beard with no moustache

i don’t like him
but that’s par for the course
where me and humanity are concerned

if they can stand here all day
and talk about sex
i can talk to them about jesus, he says

i don’t think they were talking to you, i say

but i could hear them

i look at the teens
typical troublemakers in this place
they are still holding the pamphlets
and looking toward the exit

the pamphlets have illuminated crosses on them

look, this is a public building and i can’t
have jesus talk in here, i say

why not? he asks, when jesus is all around us

i look around, hoping that this isn’t true
as the teens start to laugh

jesus loves everyone, he says

good, i say
someone has to because i sure as hell don’t

the man gives me a look
he’s holding a pamphlet and his hand
begins to shake

shit, i think
if he hands me one of those
i’m going to knock him out and lose my job

i look at the teens

why don’t you guys keep the sex talk down
i tell them

and why don’t you go back over to your seat
and talk to yourself about jesus, i tell the man

we're all going to one place
in the end, he says

but he leaves us and sits down

i’m thankful that he doesn’t put
up more of a fight, try to save me

most religious fuckers
are some of the most belligerent people
out there

the teens drop their pamphlets
in the garbage can and sit down

i know there will be more sex talk
more god talk
because the two go hand in hand

but for now it is quiet

and i go back to where i was
thinking about retirement
twenty-six years
countless hours
and five minutes less than the last time
i thought about it.

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

poem of the day 02.08.11

there u go

there u go
sitting on that couch again
dreaming death
hating the neighbors
outside laughing at life
getting numb on cheap red
killing saturday

there u go
worrying about money
and the rash on your chest
killing the good will
slipping more inside yourself
the sad, fat, misunderstood kid

there u go
complaining on crooked cushions
giving away all the words
instead of putting them down
on paper
wasting everyone’s oxygen
with nonsense and naval gazing

there u go
so easy to sit there pontificating
so easy to lament the present
to muse clumsily
over the past
murdering bluebirds and dandelions
with your stupid smirk

there u go
so self-assured
but you don’t know anyone
you don’t have a soul to call
to come save you
and you’ve used up
all of the sympathy in this room

there u go
but don’t let it bother you
just pour another glass, shrug,
and chalk it up to you being you
so kind and considerate
within the glare of the
broken mirror

there u go
don’t change
the day, keeping killing it
kill all of the free ones
until you wake up on monday morning
hollow and hungover
a dumb slave for another week

there u go
swing your wine glass
like a great scholar
you stupid fuck
swing your wine glass and howl gas
swing your soul, you prick
until it’s buried in the rocks

there u go
then wake up and wise up
see the weak sun trying
to break through the gray sky
trace the shadow your casting
on the burnt wall
and for christ’s sake, shut your drunken mouth

and then
there u go
listening to the silence
until you and it become of one

Monday, February 7, 2011

poem of the day 02.07.11

glass bottle symphony

she keeps giving me
a glass bottle symphony
every wednesday night
right outside my bedroom window
a glass bottle symphony that
echoes into the brooklyn night
and i don’t think she’s ever
going to stop playing it
there’s too much money to be made
i think this is her career
one old shopping cart
a thousand blue bags
and cold symphonic ambition
i’ve asked her to stop a dozen times
i’ve begged her
i’ve lied
cut her bags with an old carving knife
as neighbors stood by in anger and awe
but all i get is
i’ve told the industrious bitch that
i have cancer
the shits
that there’s a baby asleep in the bedroom
a dying dog underneath the bed
she just smiles and waves me off
goes back to picking through the trash
looking for that amber like
woodwind and brass
conducting the glass bottle symphony
humming as she goes along
letting the stink of old beer and wine
fart out into the atmosphere
driving me mad on the bed
driving me mad in the living room
pouring a glass of wine from one of the
stack of sticky bottles
that’ll soon be an instrument of hers
whenever i get a chance to take
the recyclables out
then it’ll be
all night again
a glass bottle symphony in my dreams
next time maybe i’ll give up
give in
i’ll wave my arms better than bernstein
ever could
succumb to this glass bottle symphony of urban death
one for the ages
better than mahler or beethoven

Friday, February 4, 2011

poem of the day 02.04.11

dr. feelgood

dated a woman
in my mother’s office
she was almost my age
but attracted to money
and i had been a fat teen
too fat
sad, depressed and fat
i knew that she would
never see me in any other way
than as something blocking the exits
but then i lost the weight
around the time
she got engaged to dr. feelgood
i dropped seventy pounds
and some of the girls
began looking my way
i knew there was
no chance for her and i
but i liked some of the attention
toward me
when she was around
dr. feelgood did not
he grabbed me one time
at a party at my parent’s house
he grabbed me right in front of her
put his hands on my belly
and shook
he said
you might’ve lost weight
but you’re far from
my friend
she shrugged
rolled her eyes
playfully slapped his arm
but she couldn’t even look at me
then they left me
standing there
newly assured that
no matter how much
you tried to make
things better for yourself
most of the time
the world
was still a fine
and blazing

Thursday, February 3, 2011

poem of the day 02.03.11

hipster in the laundry room

there’s a hipster in the laundry room
i don’t know how he got there
but he’s putting some of his clothing
in the washer
some in the dryer
all of his little plaid shirts
and his tight blue jeans
he’s got his head down
pressing the buttons on his smart phone
multitasking like a motherfucker
on a sunday afternoon
while i’m shoving clothing of all types
into one washer
my hair greasy
blood and wine and come
caked into my t-shirt
there’s a hipster in the laundry room
i wonder if he’s lost
he’s staring at me through those
thick glasses of his, confused
looking at me like i’m the same old story
same old act
maybe he’s seen me around the building
i think he’s judging me
i want to put his head through the wall
but i’m tired
half hungover on wine
useless from working six days
worried that my old cat is going to die
there’s a hipster in the laundry room
i wonder if he’s the one who’s been
leaving all of those david foster wallace
and jonathan safran foer novels down here
the old seasons of mad men and the wire
there’s a warm outdated six-pack of pumpkin ale
in the garbage room
and i want to ask him if it’s his
there’s a hipster in my basement
is he trying to be ironic by living down here?
putting his empty containers of tofu
and vegan cheese slices
next to my packages of bloody rancid meat
and whole milk mozzarella
there’s a hipster in my laundry room
i don’t know how long he’s been in there
but i hear 1980s music coming out of his headphones
he’s suffocating me now
sneering into his little gadget of infinite jest
laughing at some private joke
as his vintage clothing do cartwheels
in the dryer machine
this fucking hipster
he’s only going to be in this laundry room
for a short while, i know it
then he’ll move on to bigger and better ones
he’ll find his breed
they always do
i’ll probably be here forever
eternally damned
folding yellowing whites
and socks with holes in them
reading threatening letters
from the building management
that are tacked up on an old corkboard
mistaking nickels for quarters
under the blinding fluorescent lights
huffing detergent and my own stagnation
prostrate on a plastic table
humming hall and oates songs
reading that used copy of everything is illuminated
and waiting for the spin cycle to end.

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

A reading first notice

the kind people at Earshot are allowing yours truly to read
some poems in Brooklyn, New York, on friday, February 11th.
here are the details just in case anyone lives in the area and wants to come.

The reading will be held at Rose Live Music, which is located at 345 Grand Street between Havemeyer and Marcy in Williamsburg. Please head to for directions, if you need them. Please note that the start time for the event is 7:30 PM. The guest host for the evening will be Gregory Crosby, who is CC'ed on this e-mail, should you need to contact him.

I'll be posting more information as i get it.


poem of the day 02.01.11

dead balls

mrs. fuccillo
kept her 5th grade classroom
hot in the winter

she had the door shut
and all of the heaters running

kids dropped like flies in her class

went to the nurse in droves
sick and dehydrated feeling

yet the school never did a thing about it

i used to get headaches in her class
headaches caused by the heaters
and the closed door

i used to look outside the sealed windows
at all of that cold and snow
and feel as though
i’d never get back to humanity

the best that i could hope for
was to fall asleep

no headache for me

no emily dickinson either

mrs. fuccillo never cared
if a kid fell asleep

she was always too cold to care
walking up and down the classroom
checking each window
making sure that it was sealed

if you were asleep she never even
tapped your head to wake you

this one time i fell asleep in her class

we must’ve been talking about
edgar allan poe

poe was always a good one
to put me to sleep

poe or the island of the blue dolphins

i must’ve been in the wrong position
sitting at the hard wood desk

when i opened my eyes to take in all
of the other mounds of dead flesh
it felt as if my groin were gone

i couldn’t feel a thing down there

so i hopped up
and began dancing around the classroom
trying to get a feeling

i have dead balls, i said to myself
as mrs. fuccillo droned on
about nouns and adjectives

dead balls in this heated hell of a classroom

i went up to the desk
with my hands down the front of my pants

i was nearly crying

mrs. fuccillo looked up at me
then took me out into the hall without a word

there was a sensible breeze in the hallway

it felt normal

suddenly my balls and cock came back to life

they began tingling
like a hand or a leg that had fallen asleep

shit, your balls can fall asleep too? i said to no one

watch your mouth, mrs. fuccillo said
then she asked me if i was all right

i nodded

she opened the door to the classroom
and the heat blast hit us like
it had come from an old pittsburgh steel mill

dozens of red and dead eyes
looked up at me
as mrs. fuccillo guided me back
into the classroom

rubbing her shoulders and slamming the door
behind us

to keep out the draft.