poem of the day 09.28.12

the devil is in designer clothes

the devil is in designer clothes

or maybe they’re knock-offs

she tells everyone on the subway

that she got the blouse in india

when she was there last summer

only three bucks, she says

i knocked him down from five

i think, well, at least there’s one person

coming out like roses in the global economy

i live in jersey, she says

for no reason

and when i get home i got a pitcher of margaritas

waiting for me

an old asian woman nods and smiles

keeps looking at the next train stop

you need margaritas

on a hot day like this, she says,

looking around

but people are engrossed in their gadgets

in each other

only i’m dumb enough

to be on this train with no other diversion

she looks me up and down

focuses on the bag at my feet

with a famous liquor store’s name

emblazoned on the front

what you got in there, sweetheart?

she says

as we come upon my stop

the rest of my afternoon, i tell her

as i rise and head out the doors

even as the train pulls away

i can hear her laughing and repeating

what  i just said

the rest of my afternoon, she cackles

did yeah hear him?

did yeah?

as the train disappears into black oblivion

and the quiet envelops me

like a set of warm, soft mother’s hands.

                                                            

Misfits' Miscellany

hello folks

i have a new poem magic kingdom over at Misfits' Miscellany.

poem of the day 09.27.12

the scene at cookie’s clubhouse

we were both tired of being white

tired of punk rock

tattooed white idiots screaming into microphones

tired of summer nights in pittsburgh

we wandered down penn avenue

down to the black bar

because the music emanating from the place

was something that we both loved

and inside it was packed with bodies

jostling to music or just standing around

there were no white faces in the joint

just purple neon and joy

and this pleased us

so we went inside with our petty little fears

only it wasn’t like the movies

the music didn’t screech to a halt

no one turned our way

there were no rows of angry, suspecting faces

mad at us for killing their buzz, their good time

as we made our way toward the bar

just people singing along to d’angelo

and then tony toni tone

not an ounce of flaccid punk rock bravado in the joint

tattooed jackoffs screaming into microphones

no import beer

just budweiser in cold cans

which we drank at the bar

as nervous as two white boys in a black bar could be

but there was really nothing to be nervous about

just music and dancing

and conversation about another wasted pirates season

talk of the end of summer

talk of football

and we stood there decidedly white

decidedly not punk

when these two girls and a guy took pity on us

had us play darts with them

as tony toni tone morphed into blackstreet

morphed into johnny gill

and we looked at each other with wide eyes

because some bar was finally playing all of the music

that we listened to

in our white heads on black nights in the city

and the guy kept calling me ace ventura

his girlfriend said that he thought that i looked like jim carrey

maybe i did

jim carrey was a fine thing to be on a summer night

playing darts and drinking beer in cookie’s clubhouse

jim carrey probably got a lot of pussy

without the perils of color and punk rock

and i remembered you turned to me and smiled

whispered how much you’d like to date the other girl

if only

if only what? i said back

forgetting what city we were in

what time and place

which is forever that time and place

in america.

                                  

poem of the day 09.26.12

bukowski t-shirt

sitting with the pittsburgh poets

at lou’s little corner tavern

i’ve got a stack of their books next to me

and cheap pitchers of yuengling crowding the table

i’m looking for inspiration

but all i’ve got is some yinzer barfly at my back

yapping about my bukowski t-shirt

before he came over

we’d been watching the giants/cowboys game

and talking shop

talking poetic gibberish

reconfiguring the past

treading awkward and carefully on the present

we’d been eating his cigarettes for about an hour

these little indian bidis

that blow purple smoke

and probably give one cancer upon impact

but he keeps tapping me on the shoulder

pointing at my shirt

saying, bukowski, man, bukowski

you just don’t see t-shirts like that in this place

of course that’s when i turn around to take in the joint

the teased hair of the bartender

the row of fleshy desperation lining up at the bar

the rat faced, emaciated whatevers

playing pool under white flood lights

and think that i’ve been coming into joints like this

for far too long

having too many conversations like these to kill the hours

and everything is beginning to look the same

whether or not i’m in pittsburgh, brooklyn,

or on the east end of madrid

i think i might be getting too old

still, he’s right

i’m the only one wearing a bukowski t-shirt

in this place

to tell the truth

i hardly ever wear the thing

because i’m worried that i’ll get a stain on it

or that some asshole

will say, hey, that’s a bukowski t-shirt

and i won’t know what to say

except, yes, yes it is

i tell him i got it in pasadena

at some bukowski exhibit

that i got to see buk’s typewriter

and his old, used wine glass as well

but he stares at me like i could’ve got the shirt

on mars for all he cares

so i tell him maybe bukowski would’ve

liked a place like lou’s

back in the old bar fight days

thinking that’ll end the conversation

but all he says is hot water music, man

hot water music

that’s my favorite book

then takes my hand in his like we’re old lovers

my red eyes staring into his red eyes

until the bartender tells him to go home and sleep it off

so that all of us poets can get back

to talking about everything

that poets talk about

all our books and our wardrobes

over beers

on a humid wednesday night

in good old pittsburgh, pa.                 

poem of the day 09.25.12

the nerd

we were about

thirteen or fourteen

sarah carried herself gangly

had a head of blonde hair

that shook on the top of her head

like a circus clown

big glasses that covered her pale face

carl glavin was the one

who decided that she was a nerd

so that’s what we called her

whenever sarah walked down the hallway at school

or whenever she spoke in class

nerd, carl glavin would say

in this sneering whine

as the rest of us boys laughed at him

the teachers would get angry and scold us

the girls in class would scowl

because we were making fun of one of their own

nerd, in the lunchroom

nerd, in gym class

if it bothered sarah you couldn’t tell

except maybe her face turned red

every once in a while

she seemed well-adjusted

had a lot of friends

and wasn’t really all that nerdy grade wise

i think carl just liked to pick on people

because his old man

was an oligarchical douche bag

and his mother drank away her suburban existence

there were days when carl turned on his own kind

and you were the nerd for the day

nerd, in science class

nerd, in math class

or nerd at recess when carl had packs of boys

chase you around the campus

but he always seemed to go back to sarah

he’d call her a nerd when she read a book report

a nerd everywhere she went on the eighth-grade trip

he called her a nerd

when we saw her at the mall on memorial day weekend

at graduation carl called sarah a nerd

when she went to get her diploma

but no one laughed

most of us were done with eighth grade

and everyone was done with carl

the other day i heard some boys

calling someone a nerd

i looked up thinking i’d see carl’s fat face

and his long burn-out hair

but i hadn’t seen him for almost twenty years

as for sarah

she’s on facebook of all things

she’s successful and married with three kids

she looks good for her age

we share a lot of the same friends

but haven’t reconnected

i thought about sending her an email

but i’m afraid she wouldn’t respond

time being relative and all.

                                                

poem of the day 09.24.12

talking poetry with the liquor store man

i ask the liquor store man if i can use his phone

but he just stares at me from behind his pulpit

the one that has all of  those scotch pints incased in glass

i tell the liquor store man that it’s important

the bus never showed

and my wife is waiting for me

i don’t own a cell phone, i tell the liquor store man

you got to find the humor in that in this day and age

but he just shuffles receipts and sighs

looks out the window at the rain that has drenched me

made me look like a lunatic

come on, man, i say, be decent

although i hate begging

i shouldn’t have to beg

because i’ve spent a lot of money in this store

since i started working in this neighborhood

the liquor store man and i both know that he’s been dressing better

since i came to town

he should be begging me to buy a liter of whiskey

but he doesn’t

he just rearranges the mini bottles

throws a few more in the plastic tub for good measure

as i look around the store, think about buying a bottle of wine

and walking home

i tell him that my wife will be worried

the liquor store man knows that there are wives all over the city

who are worried

he sells alcohol, after all

he sort of manufactures worry

you know me, i say

i’m a good guy, i tell the liquor store man

i’m a poet and you can look me up on all of the internets

that seems to work

the liquor store man grabs the store phone at first

but then he gives me his cell phone

thanks, i tell him

it’s a local call

he nods and grabs his laptop

watches me closely as i call my wife

i’d like to think he’s looking me up

that he’s proud to have a poet who buys liquor from his store

but he probably thinks that i’m just another drunkard

on a tuesday evening

another one who can’t get his shit right.

                                                                                   

poem of the day 09.21.12

maestro

i lay there

listen to beethoven’s

egmont overture

with the aches and pain

of everything

plus existence

the end result

of drinking every last bit of booze

in the place

save the drop of amaretto

left over from christmas

think

this is death

or a bad hangover maybe

a real dandy

coming on

for the first time in months

but at least this isn’t boredom

it’s more like making art

i guess

conducting my own orchestra

of the damned

the way men construct buildings

and ugly people in ugly cars

race toward

another fruitless day

a construct of their blind optimism

i lay there

all red eyes

and sloppy contentment

as beethoven ends

and the audience roars

then i rise like a maestro

to take a bow

my back knotted

my legs like jelly

only i head for

the bathroom to vomit

instead

of facing the adoring

crowd.

                                    

poem of the day 09.20.12

weights

     after jason baldinger’s the lady pittsburgh

i wake

to lift weights

that hurt my arms

and do nothing for my

unquenchable booze belly thirsts

to the weight of old cities on my back

i wake

to five in the morning cat cries

and fan hums

hangovers that are mild

but always there

to bland coffee

and lovely sleep-headed wife

to poems that i’m squandering line by line

i wake

and lift weights that hurt my flesh

to editors that i’m too washed up for

and journals that are done with me like cold ex-girlfriends

so i bark sonnets

to the shivering dog brigades

taking their morning craps

outside my bedroom window

as their owners huff

in sweatpants and sports team t-shirts

clasp their little illuminated worlds

to post a.m. facebook statuses of the damned

tweets from no man’s land

i wake

to this

to lift my weights

to lift my sagging gray skin in the mirror

where i make violent faces meant to prod

all of those lamentable years

into a cohesive conceptual

portrait of the artist as an aging and tired man

and i think the editors are right

and all of these cities that have beaten me down

with jobs and alcohol

they are right too

still i wake

to neighbors showering the dirt and gloom

off of their flabby bodies

to sleep fucks and wine breath

the periwinkle glare

just before the sun rises

with horns honking outside

and damnable brooklyn

hungry to try and murder me again

to sling words

and lift weights that tighten

my worn muscles

to carry cities on my crooked back

places i’ll never understand

though i’ve wandered them endlessly

places that’ll bury me some day

in warm graveyard dirt

on a hill

just below the horizon

goddamn it

i wake.

                                   

poem of the day 09.19.12

chewing the fat

i never count the calories

in a glass of wine

a six pack of beer

or scotch on the couch after work

but i probably should at my age

it’s the hamburger that i worry about

wednesday pizza binges

and hunks of cheddar cheese on saltine crackers

growing up a fat kid

i was taught that too much of one thing

was bad for you

while too much of the other

was just a way of life

my brother, bless his soul

blames our old man

for his prescription pill abuse

although dad never did anything harder

than beer on the fourth of july

when i get drunk

or gorge from the fridge

i sometimes think about my grandfather

and the way he used to wake up

smelling like day old bread

to eggs and bacon and home fries

with the coffee boiling on the stove

as my grandmother sipped whiskey

and figured out her numbers

how he silently put all of the food into one mound

eating it with salt, pepper and globs of ketchup

good health be damned

before heading outside

to kill the day drinking a case of beer

beaching himself like a whale

with a humongous tan belly

on the corner of a corroded

picnic bench

the sun beating down on him

as it moved across the sky

marking the hours

until dinner and the evening news

how i always wanted to try

a life like that

free of worry and cholesterol

only i was too sensitive and vain

i never had the guts

for that sort of thing.

poem of the day 09.18.12

washers and dryers

i see the poor old bastard

from my apartment building

he’s spending a lot of time at the laundry

smoking his cigarillos

staring into the void

i see the poor old bastard

and i know that technology has passed him by

because the geniuses that own my building

have replaced the old coin washers and dryers

with these debit cards

and the poor old bastard cannot use them

i suppose it’s a wave of things to come

something new every year

seems to drop a segment of us off the radar

smart phones and LCD televisions for some

and now washers and dryers for others

we learn to make due

we learn to cope with being left behind

i see the old bastard

from my apartment building

he’s smoking his cigarillos

counting out his quarters

and getting along the best way he can

i see him

and wonder what it’ll be that one day gets me

jet packs, e-paper, robot lovers

or a good old fashioned heart attack

in a warm bathtub full of synthetic water

and computerized soap.

                                               

poem of the day 09.17.12

a synergy

he’s better than most of them

in this place

better than the ones who scream in the hallway

let their kids run like wild dogs

smoke in the elevators

when you’re taking down the trash

or stand outside talking bullshit in the dawn

he’s better than the whore who used to live above me

the one who either fought or fucked

who moved out on christmas eve

and made me believe in the grace of miracles

but this new kid on the block

he and i are always up at the same time

i can hear his alarm go off with mine

hear him shuffling around the upstairs apartment

in a monday morning haze

banging shit

mumbling to himself

trying to navigate his way

through another unforgiving week

we seem to watch movies or television

on the same schedule

go to bed at the same time too

we always end up washing clothes together

the only difference is

i never hear him fucking

i don’t feel a sense of comradery with this man

a symbiosis either

instead i feel that we are both trapped

in the same dull cycle of life

i sort of hate him and his routine

the sound of his footsteps on my ceiling

the echo of his radio

the monotony of this man’s life

making mine that much more common and glaring

i wish he’d get a new job

or meet someone and spend nights at her place

start watching different tv shows

create a new laundry schedule

or just go mad one day

tear his place apart brick by brick

smash a few windows

shoot his tv elvis-style

throw his phone against the wall

as he yowled into the brooklyn night

declaring his independence from our madness

once and for all.

                                  

Twitter, etc.

hello all

i've been doing more "talking" on this blog than posting poems.
i plan on rectifying that starting next week.  will put up a poem-a-day
old school style.

also, i've joined Twitter.  I don't know why.  i'm not promoting anything
and the stuff i have i'm bad at promoting.  but i'm on there anyway.  let's find each other.
here's a link to me.  find me.  then i'll find you.

jg

Lizzy Speare and the Cursed Tomb

hello all

a week or so ago i posted  a link to an interview with Ally Malinenko
author of the middle grade fantasy book, Lizzy Speare and the Cursed Tomb.
Well....the book came out yesterday.  It's in ebook form and it's a very good read.
anyone interested in picking it up, can do so on Amazon.com

thanks

JG

poem of the day 09.12.12

9/11 years

eleven years

 you want to talk media perpetuation?

political manipulation?

then come to the good ol’ u.s. of a

click on any station

(except NBC)

and we’ll be crying our eyes out

and never forgetting

and all of that other happy horseshit

sometimes i’m too tired for 9/11 years

too tired for the pomp

the moments of silence

the where were you years?

new york’s bravest

new york’s finest

etc

etc

i want a little national dignity

a little self-respect

remember and move on

and not watch buildings fall every september

but you can’t do that in america

the land of the free

the home of the brave

on soil that never forgets a fucking thing

….at least that what’s been televised

i wonder if we’ll all be

9/11ing

twenty years from now

i hope the hell not

i hope the kids in school right now are learning

aren’t offering up a moment of silence

but are caterwauling the loud roar of progress

because eleven years

9/11 years

are too long to drag our asses through the fire

and at some point it’s all got to stop

we’ve got to face the rubble that we’ve been left with

the garbage collecting these 9 and 11 years

the war

the death

the division and debt

and somehow

more than somehow

this stumbling punch-drunk giant

has to move on

because tomorrow it’s september and twelve

sunny and eighty-one

in a world a whole lot bigger

than it was

9/11 years ago.