poem of the day 10.30.12

a portrait of our future leaders

as young men

we have a black president now

but i fear we’ll one day go back

to the good ole boys club

of gray-faced white men in charge

you can already kind of see them regrouping

with racist bumper stickers

and on the television talking about taking their country back

where it went i have no idea

they think they have more at stake than everyone else

because it’s hard being in power for so long

and then suddenly taking it on the chin

you forget how to share

like these asshole jocks

sitting in this fancy little bar, watching soccer

they’re as white as ghosts

and probably just as scared at losing their inheritance

they keep talking about their plan for america

and calling each other bro

while they high-five

and bet each other which of their fraternities

will look best on the old resume

one wants to be a lawyer

and the other wants to become my future congressmen

they are perfect and muscled and wealthy

but will probably succeed because of a lucky DNA strand

i’m sure one day i’ll turn on my television

and one or both of these privileged pricks

will be staring back at me, smiling

with one arm draped around his dull blonde wife

and the other draped around his dull blonde kids

this country safe and secure

for every lily-livered, untaxed white motherfucker

who thinks that they came over on a boat

and founded this societal abomination

this country cooked and goddamned

for everyone else

the progression of life thrust back into the stone age 

from toxic sea to shining toxic sea.

                                                            

poem of the day 10.29.12

hurricane

i was a hurricane of a man,

jerry tells me

shaking his cran and vodka

i used to pull a lot of women

back then

when i worked sanitation

but i never got over her

we dated five years

five years and all i did was

cheat on her

i never felt bad about it

until last weekend, though,

when i saw her

i was with my buddy

we were dropping his daughter

off at college

and there she was

she’s the dean

of the biology department now

she hardly looked any different

from when we were together

she looked good

when i got home i looked her up

on the internet

i paid some money and i got

her address and phone number

i have her email address too

the computer said she had two kids

i found out that she was divorced

i have five kids myself from three

different women

i have to say i never loved

any of them as much as i loved her

i’m thinking of getting in touch

but i don’t know what the proper way

to do it is

i wanted to write her a letter

but i’m no good at writing or emailing

i figure maybe i’ll just go up there

show up at the biology department

but i probably won’t get to see her

because things have gotten

so damned fucked up since 9/11

they think everyone is a criminal

or terrorist now

i don’t want to cause a scene

at the school, jerry says

my buddy’s daughter goes there, you know,

i think causing a scene would

send the wrong message

i think i’m just going to show up at her house

maybe i’ll buy some flowers

see if there’s any spark between us

after all of those years

i wish i never let her go

she was a good woman back then

the best

but i was a hurricane of a man in those days

i blew through love

i just didn’t think it would

get as bad as all of this.

                                    04.19.10

poem of the day 10.26.12

jesus shrugged

at the corner of 75^th

and fort hamilton parkway

there is a statue of jesus christ

holding the two world trade center towers

in the palm of each hand

and all i can ever think

when i pass it is

did the sculptor mean to be glaringly ironic

or did he just have

one sick and off-the-wall

sense of humor?

                                  

poem of the day 10.24.12

ads

i keep reading this ad

over and over again

it is for weight loss

the ad is telling anyone who will listen

that the key to losing weight is simply eating less

cut your portions the ad begs

stop supersizing your fast food

stay away from sugar if you can

there is an obese blonde in the ad

and she can barely make it up the stairss

at the bottom of the ad

is information on obtaining

a weight loss packet

i keep reading this ad

i keep saying weight loss packet to myself

i am sad that we’ve slipped this much

the powers that be

think that we need a packet

to stop ourselves from stuffing our faces

maybe we do

it’s not just weight loss

there are ads for happiness drugs

ads for pain medication

ads telling children to go outside and play

there are beauty product ads for the ugly

miracle drug ads for the sick

ads offering jobs

and ads offering to wipe away your acne

i feel for humanity reading these ads

wonder if we’ve given up decision making and autonomy

ads for how to make friends

ads on finding a partner for life

ads for divorce and remarriage

lawyer ads everywhere

offering to sue your neighbor

for so much as stepping outside his front door

reading all of these ads

you’d think that we couldn’t

get ourselves out of bed in the morning

ads for a better night’s sleep

ads for insomnia and snoring

there are ads all around me

offering cures for this and that

mysterious address at the bottom of each one

beckoning us to send away for the answer

but what are the answers to this madness?

where did it begin?

when did we lose the strength and the drive?

the tenacity and the gut?

ads for weight loss pills

ads for incontinence and gas

when did we lose the plot?

i look at my own beer filled gut

see my double chin and tired face

in the subway window

and see that i am a part of the problem

ads for caffeine and energy drinks

ads for the next day hangover cure

ads to combat alcoholism in the all-american home

there are more ads

then there are trees in the forest

ads for smoking cessation

ads for drug counseling

ads to end all anxiety and human fear

there are ads specifically designed

for whatever it is that you need in this world

plastered on public transportation

glossy in magazines or doused in black newspaper ink

ads rolling down the side scroll on your email

popping up all over the computer screen

flipping past you on the highway on the way home from work

ads for bankruptcy

ads on how to get rich quick

ads for religion and the daily lottery

ones for god and jesus and all the rest

colored streams of nothing embedded

in our worried and burdened minds

ads for books

and movies and television shows

to fill up all of those blank moments

in between

those generous ads

offering a better life

and those merciful ones

promising a gentler and more refined

kind of death

                                   

poem of the day 10.23.12

boy or girl

the little girl comes up to me

but she keeps backing away

she has one of those

coy looks on her face

that make it impossible for me to like children

but i smile at her anyway

as the child parks her ass

on the seat across from me

she has a coloring book

or some shit like that

something to keep her docile and occupied

while her mother tries to get through the life

that they’ve shackled each other to

the child stares at me

making me uncomfortable and mad

i think to throw something at her

but my co-worker is sitting next to me

making goo-goo eyes at the child

so i keep my cool

finally the little urchin speaks

boy or girl, she says

pointing at my long hair

neither, i tell the mouth breather

and she gives me

one of those incredulous looks

that only a precious crotch dropping can give

when trying to work something out

in its small, feeble mind

he’s a boy, my co-worker chimes in

but it’s too late for this confused little rag doll

she gets off of the chair

and races over to tug on the hem of her mother’s dress

staring back at me with her swollen eyes

i wink at the little brat

hoping maybe that’ll fix her confusion

for a few more years

when my co-worker turns to me

and says

you really don’t like anyone

but yourself

do you?                                   

poem of the day 10.22.12

erik satie

this guy at the end of the bar

wants to talk about erik satie

on new year’s day

doesn’t he understand

that we have to get through

another 365 of these?

366 this year

and i think the person

who invented the leap year

should’ve been hanged

but there’s probably

a statue to him somewhere in europe

still this guy at the end of the bar

is going on about satie

because someone played satie in this joint

just in case

you don’t know who erik satie is

well, he’s a musican

and he knew debussy and ravel

i’d read somewhere

that picasso banged one of his women

i like to put a little bit of satie on

on sunday night, when i’m drunk on red wine

and suicidal about the coming work week

and this guy is telling anyone who will listen

what a genius satie was

how the music satie made

people are still trying to figure out

this guy at the end of the bar

is a musician and a dj

(of course he is)

he probably loves a leap year

because it gives him one more day

to infect someone with his bullshit

and he says that when

he’s jamming with others

he’ll drop a little bit of satie on them

and just blow them away

he tells the bartender

that no other pop or rock musician has ever

caught on to the brilliance of erik satie

except steve hackett, i say

of genesis

this guy at the end of the bar

looks at me as if i just pissed in his beer

i forgot about him, he finally says

then we are all silent

as erik satie gives way

to a chuck berry song

and i think

that this might not be

such a long year

after all.

                        

poem of the day 10.19.12

i’d rather

     --in memory of amanda todd

i’d rather a painter over a poet

i’d rather feast over famine

i’d rather the cold and the gray

or the sunshine from inside a darkened bar

i’d rather a cat to a dog

and the winter over the summer

i’d rather your love forever over the years of wasted sperm

spent on pipe dreams

i’d rather nothing over omnipotence

rather batman over jesus to try and come be my savior

i’d rather a war of words over guns and blood and god

i’d rather kill a day instead of myself

i’d rather wait than react

but nobody is perfect

i’d rather a technological void of constant darkness than read about

another goddamned kid committing suicide

over facebook fallacies

i’d rather get through it and move on

i’d rather you were on this earth right now, amanda

to see the rain fall in the morning

i’d rather wine over beer

but scotch always

i’d rather my pizza plain

and my women come with extra toppings

in the brain rather than in the chest or ass

but i’d rather say mankind over humankind

because i’m creature of habit

i’d rather a democrat over a republican

but that’s mostly semantics these days

to be honest i’d rather not vote

i’d rather candles over lamps

and would rather be a jack to a king

because i’ve always played the fool much better

i’d rather ala carte than what’s on the menu

i’d rather van gogh over a bloody ear and wheat fields

i’d rather the white of peace

instead of the red, the white, and the blue

i’d rather not talk about it most of the time

i’d rather a job than unemployment

but just slightly

i’d rather london in the fall

paris in the spring

and madrid in the summer

over new york city shouting in my ear

i’d rather the reality instead of the myth

and paper over plastic

i’d rather cash or charge than use a code

i’d rather children be seen and not heard

i’d rather another opinion than my own

because i’m looking for something new to reject

i’d rather be three up on the world

than be the only sober guy in the room

i’d rather skip thanksgiving and christmas

i’d rather beethoven over bach

and coltrane over this infinite sadness

i’d rather the cd over vinyl

and the mp3 just go away

i’d rather the 20^th century

and i’d rather your cell phone up your ass

than attached to your mouth

i’d rather be left alone than join the crowd

i’d rather bleed the years in obscurity than sell my soul

and i’d rather drink alone, my love,

when it get like this inside

                                    

poem of the day 10.17.12

tradition

she says, you hate tradition, don’t you

i tell her that i hate it from auld lang syne

all the way down to silent night

she says, you’re nuts

you just don’t want to like what others like

i tell her that may be so, but i’ll be damned if i choke

on another thanksgiving turkey

or memorial day hot dog again

she says, you won’t have a choice

i tell her i know

i’m trapped in a situation perpetuated by fools

easter ham in april

and fireworks every fourth of july

she says, tradition makes people happy

that it gives them something to look forward to

i tell her that tradition makes people complacent and dull

she says, go hang on a string of christmas lights

and i say how about a cross instead

there’s something wrong with you, she says

i’m just like everyone else, i tell her

now give me a pint of green beer and a red heart full of chocolate

carve me into a pumpkin

and wake me when it’s election day

she says, there’s just no talking to you

i tell her that many have tried and failed

so i guess you won’t be coming to my next oscar party, she says

nor your labor day barbeque, i add

impossible, she says, getting up

and storming into the cafeteria

where they serve a mean fish fry

to the devout and hungry

every friday afternoon

during lent.

                                   

poems poems everywhere

hello all

i have poems at the following awesome zines/journals/mags right now
take a look, and stick around for some other fantastic writing on those sites:

Camel Saloon

Citizens for Decent Literature

Horror Sleaze Trash

thanks!

jg

poem of the day 10.16.12

warm watermelons

dear

i'm sorry

i was really frustrated this morning

because of how long

it took me to get out the apartment

this ocd bullshit kills

i was hungover for the first time in weeks

and this month is really gnawing at the bit

i'm really sorry, babe

maybe you should just go to work

and let me do this closing business alone

that way we don’t end up shouting

and yelling like we did

by the way

i didn't leave you on the street

you know i’m like general macarthur

i always come back

i went and got the watermelon for you

and the quarters for the laundry

but that bitch clerk at the grocery

took forever again 

and i missed you at the bagel shop

so i wandered the streets

in the heat and humidity

looking for you

i wanted to apologize back then

for all of the shouting and insanity

only you were gone

so i'm here at work now writing this email

with a container full of warm watermelon sitting next to me

feeling like shit

hoping you’ll write me back

when you get there

telling me that everything is all right

                                                                                   

poem of the day 10.15.12

the shark

they all called him shark

it had been his nickname since college

when he broke mike schmidt’s home run record

but he kept the nickname

into his career in retail management

he talked a lot about mike schmidt

but no one seemed to care

shark was an asshole

he liked to bully the women who worked at the store

and intimidate the teenage part-timers

when women were changing in the bathroom

shark would often try and break in

then pretend it was an accident

he always got to me whenever

a group of girls came in to browse

shark would stand next to me

he’d look me up and down

and start picking me apart

one day it would be the way i wore my belt

the next day it would be my shoes or my facial hair

shark made sure that people in the store

heard him giving me a dressing down

the groups of girls would roll their eyes at me and leave

never to come back

the sad irony was that shark had the worst mustache

it looked like a hairy cock on his face

i wanted to strap him down

and burn it off with a clothes streamer

while telling him what a shit manager he was

on nights that i had to work with shark

my stomach would turn on me

as i sat in the mall parking lot

and i’d want to call off sick from work

because i knew it would be another night

of getting tormented by some ex-jock

another night of getting called out for my wardrobe

embarrassed

humiliated

debauched for commerce

another night of staying later than scheduled

sweeping the floors over and over again

until shark examined every morsel of carpet

finally showing me mercy and allowing me to leave

i applied for other jobs

but no one tried to hire me

the only benefit to shark was that he had a hot wife

she was brunette with fine tits

and a nice, tight ass

when she came into the store

it was like christmas day

i had no clue how a prick like shark

could land such a woman

i figured they’d met in college

when he was breaking records and living like a king

and that it was too late for her

to meet someone else

she’d met him before the moustache

and the retail life

when shark took the wife on vacation

it was usually somewhere sun-soaked and exotic

he’d bring in pictures of her in a string bikini

for all of us teenage boys to stare at

at home

i’d jack-off thinking about fucking shark’s wife

on some sandy beach

imagining that i was getting back at him in some way

but then the next night shark would make me

steam t-shirts for hours

or spend the evening making fun of my haircut

and i knew who was really was in charge

                                                                       

poem of the day 10.12.12

fundamentals of

wine store management

he prided himself

on a glass room full of rare

and expensive wines

great burgundies

and that over-rated blend

done by mondavi and rothschild

that no one in the rust belt

could afford to buy

except for hockey players and canadian rock stars

only he could never rectify

the fact that his BMW was paid for

on the backs of unemployed men

buying scotch in plastic bottles

and lonely secretaries

in white socks and athletic shoes

pushing rickety carts through his store

stocking up on magnum bottles

of white wine

for another lonely weekend

of reruns

that they were too busy to watch

during the long and exhausting work week.

                                    

poem of the day 10.10.12

a pretty good life

i’ll admit

there are days that exist

just to get the drink

days where i wander around the city

checking my watch

waiting for the bars to open

movies that i half-watch

just to get to the wine

and conversations that i speed through

to get the next round of beer

coming

nights where i sit on the couch

and just drink and drink and drink

whisky

doing nothing else in the process

at times i’ll stop to consider this

wonder if i’m doing it all wrong

selling myself short

and not living my life to the fullest

but then i see people

walking down the street

stone sober and shouting into

their cell phones

or see these grim faced zombies

pushing a baby carriage

down the block

so helpless and sad

that i tell myself

don’t worry about it

because next to those people

you’re living

a pretty good life.

                                    

poem of the day 10.09.12

little demons

sitting in a pub

on 4^th street

watching three assholes

who are unable to handle

their jack and cokes

my wife looks at me

and smiles

she says, i had a great day with you

then pauses

so don’t go ruining it

we laugh and clink pint glasses

when she’s not looking

i check my watch to gauge the time

pray i can keep all of those

little demons of mine

at bay

for the rest of the night.

                                   

poem of the day 10.08.12

shit happens

i see the jazzman

at the corner of 4^th avenue

he’s doing a strange dance

slamming his boot into a puddle of water

then doing this kind of

bird walk back and forth

he’s wearing his postman’s outfit

so he’s probably not drunk yet

when i cross the street

the jazzman looks at me

without a trace of remembrance and says

man, i stepped in shit

i think how

i haven’t seen him since

they closed the bar down

and sent all of us flies searching

for another pile of shit

well

….at least the jazzman found his.

                                                            

poem of the day 10.05.12

celebrity city

byron has seen more celebrities

than anyone i’ve ever known

he lives the manhattan ideal

a celebrity on every corner to view

whenever i step into his bar

byron always has a story about a different actor

who he’d  just been on the subway with

or some soap star that he was at a party with

one summer byron ran into robin williams four times

on the same block of houston street

he’s been at restaurants with models

and in cafes with rock stars

actors from mike judge films drink in his bar all the time

they’re good tippers, byron says,

pouring us a vodka shot

maybe he’s not that different from anyone else who lives here

when my wife and i first moved to new york

everyone we met had a celebrity story

jennifer aniston cleaning dog shit

or uma thurman with her kids in central park

bruce springsteen in a midtown bar killing a wednesday afternoon

even though he doesn’t really drink

i know i’ve gotten some good mileage

out of seeing philip seymour hoffman

yelling at someone on his cell phone in the east village

and seeing that actor from american pie

on his cell phone outside of the bed, bath, and beyond

he kept saying, dude

and calling new york the big apple

all i know is that byron has double the stories

hands down he beats everyone

paul auster in hell’s kitchen

johnny depp smoking a cigarette outside of union square

a soap actor hitting on him

at an east village house party

maybe you aren’t a real new yorker

unless you have a celebrity story that you can pass on

like seeing john ritter in times square a month before he died

or nicole kidman on a street corner in soho

it’s a rite of passage here

a little something for the tourists and for each other

otherwise we’d get bored in this big city

looking at nothing but all of those tall buildings

or walking broadway aimlessly

where one time i saw tom hanks go strolling into a hotel

only without that sexy wife of his.

                                                          

Outsider Writers

lastly (i think)....my new article/essay No Dogs Allowed is available to read at Outsider Writers
until these kinds folks come to their senses and no longer allow me to write for them.

JG

poem of the day 10.03.12

jesus hats

jesus hats

wears a black hat

that says jesus is lord

i call her jesus hats

but have no clue

why i pluralize it

for dramatic effect

for my own amusement

but jesus hats and i

are on the bus together most days

the after work bus

the one where the russian women

shout into their cell phones

jesus hats plays sodoku

and sighs at the russians

while i read fred voss poems

wondering how he does it on each page

anticipate my first scotch of the night

and think about killing

all of the russian women on the bus

i never see jesus hats

read the bible on the bus

my guess is that the hat is enough advertisement

that way there’s no overkill

jesus hats wears her jesus is lord hat

like i wear my pittsburgh steelers hat

and to an extent

i can acknowledge that we have different gods

other than that she seems pretty normal

she works at staples

and wears green and black converse all-stars

that are pretty trendy in all honesty

but i can’t help being annoyed

at jesus hats sometimes

because she’s so quiet yet direct in her reverence

some evenings i want to saddle up next to her

i want to take that sodoku book

and toss it on the piss stained floor of the bus

look into her huge glasses and blue eyes

and say level with me, jesus hats

do you really believe in all of that ethereal bullshit

what with the recession

and the famine

domestic violence

global warming

and the wars that are raging?

don’t you see what i see?

but i know i won’t do that

people aren’t built to speak to each other that way

unless hidden behind a computer screen

the only thing i’ll do is keep taking this evening bus

for as long as the job will have me

and jesus hats will play her sodoku

with the dedication of a saint

and i’ll daydream going home to whisky and beer

she’ll have her god and i’ll have mine

and the russian women will continue to shout

into their phones

and we’ll all pray

for something as simple as a moment’s silence

                                                           

Dead Snakes

hello folks

I have three new poems (ok, maybe one you've seen before) over at Stephen Jarrell Williams'
wonderful Dead Snakes.

jg

poem of the day 10.02.12

bitch on the bus

she’s got a tattoo on her upper arm

a hip white domed granny

prison dyke silver fox

with a ten-dollar haircut

she’s sitting there yelling at the bus driver

for being a minute late

whenever anyone yells at the bus driver

a message plays on the bus

telling everyone that

it’s a federal offense to assault a driver

but she says, listen buddy

cut the public service announcement shit

i got places to go

like the rest of us are on this thing for the thrill of it

and not coming home from the doctors

the grocery

or our fucking merciless jobs

she tells the driver

you’re full of shit and you know it

and i can’t help but hate her

i’m usually on the other side of this argument

usually one of the ones cursing the bus driver

having that little message played for me

like my own goddamned ringtone

but there’s something about

this bitch on the bus

her scowl and self-righteousness

her bug-eyes glaring at the rest of us

as if we were pieces of shit

that kind of flips me

makes me feel a new repugnance for mankind

and has me rooting for the bad guys on this one

and although it’ll fuck up my evening a bit

scare the wife when she doesn’t see me

come slouching down the street on time

i hope this driver grows a set

pull this bus over to the side of the road

grabs his paper and lets it idle

plays that service announcement like a club loop

while this abomination

checks her cheap watch

and really gets ready

to blow her top.

poem of the day 10.01.12

little monster

the little monster

on the evening bus keeps screaming

the other tired bastards

keep moving away from him

up toward the front

making the bus top heavy

i sit there thinking that it might tip over

but the little monster

keeps screaming

his teen mother keeping saying “hush”

only she’s laughing

with her teen mother friends

provoking the little monster

i watch this pint-sized abomination as he screams

howling until his face turns red

as he stops, smiles, and looks around for encouragement

as more people flee the back of the bus

i think of taking him gently by the shoulder

telling the little fucker

all about the horrors of the work week

and what i’ll do to him

if he keeps up this screaming shit

only i don’t think it’ll go over too well

with his teenaged mother

her teen mom friends

or their assortment of tattooed boyfriends

drinking cans of beer out of paper bags

i don’t have the strength to take them all on tonight

so like everyone else

i move toward the crowded front of the bus

i put on mozart’s piano sonata number twelve

but i can still hear the little monster

as he screams and screams and screams

as his proud parents laugh and laugh and laugh

and another dreadful evening

gets recorded into the books.