poem of the day 03.29.13

poem to the poet who deleted me

as a facebook friend

well

as if the streets

weren’t enough of a terror

this game

life

sad sack

and defeated upon birth

a swirling shit river

where every move made

seems like some kind of cheat

or deception

still

there are those moments of hope

in between the slop

the taste of a strawberry candy

sex on a sunday afternoon

a kind phone call coming when you’re on

the brink of madness

oh

and the safe and blessed knowledge

that i’ll never

have to read

your terrible poem turds

again

unless i really want to

fuck myself

up

or

bring myself

down.

                                    

poem of the day 03.27.13

brigitte the drunk

brigitte

here you are again

standing outside of the pub

sucking on a cigarette

oh, how you make me hate the light

and brigitte

before you even get started

i want you to try and remember that we’ve met

at least half a dozen times

so, no, i don’t want to shake your hand again

go through the process of telling you that i’m not a tourist

that i live two blocks away from you

the same as i did three introductions ago

and i don’t want to hear about your dog

or how nursing has driven you to drink

how great this fucking bar is on a saturday night

because no bar is great on a saturday night

but here you come

right from your outside smoke over to my seat at the bar

smelling like menthol and cheap perfume

your smile smeared from these desperate hours

yes, brigitte, it’s really cute that my wife and i

both have flannel shirts on

only we didn’t plan it

but you can go on thinking what you want, my dear

go ahead and think we’re the cutest couple that you’ve ever met

whatever gets us through this cleanly

beside it seems like you got bigger fish to fry

i mean you look pale, brigitte,

somewhat sickly, like you’ve lost a little bit of weight

your handshake is a tad bit clammy, too

i hope you’re not drinking with a cold

because i always do that and they tend to linger on for weeks

i guess i’ll just have to stay away from you in the grocery store tomorrow

when we’re both bleary-eyed and looking for something solid

to quell the hangover

avoid making eye contact in the frozen food aisle

brigitte

is it me or my wife whom you do this little dance for?

i mean you always start with me but you tend to linger on her

you hold her hand for so long, it makes me jealous

because, brigitte, it’s so obvious that you’re smitten

too bad you’re not the type who’s intriguing or tantalizing

i mean we could all have a good night if you were

and then you wouldn’t have to keep introducing yourself

but instead you’ll make your way down  the bar

to talk about your new friends to that lipstick abomination

that you’re always tethered to in this place

the one you mercifully never introduce us to

you’ll look over at us and lift your pint glass

my wife and i will do the same

i’ll say, until next time, sweet princess

as we work our way toward becoming strangers again

and in a few moments the bartender will come over

with a couple of shot glasses

good for two free drinks

on you, of course, brigitte

like always

on you.                                                

poem of the day 03.26.13

like a ripe peach baking

in the summer sun

she says

you can eat me

to the other girl

but the other girl curls up her face

and says

you probably taste like shit

she laughs

honey, you got it all wrong

i taste sweet, she says

like sugar

like a ripe peach baking

in the summer sun.

                                    

poem of the day 03.25.13

an unexpected poem written

sixteen days before my thirty-ninth birthday

too many

people pass

the flesh of this life

standing at parades

passing one holiday

into the hands of another

smiling stupidly

at others smiling stupidly back

shielding their eyes

from the sun

while i watch

that one black cloud

swirling in a blue sky

creeping slowly

toward their joy

hoping that it rains on all of them

                                                           

poem of the day 03.22.13

girls in their late may legs

the girls in their late may legs

won’t get out of my way this morning

can’t they see that i’ve been fighting with my wife?

their legs are too tan too soon

these girls in their late may legs

they are ruining the illusions of the changing

of the seasons

their legs are probably tan year round

the little tramps

with their megastar sunglasses

typing away on their smart phones

as they saunter down another sun drenched street

the girls in their late may legs

i’ll bet they have no problems

no dying cat at home waiting for the injection

their assholes don’t itch on humid mornings

they don’t have student loans

or shiny, sore pimples budding on their noses

these golden goddesses of the american office space

their stomachs aren’t queasy from cheap drink

and they don’t have a gray hair on their head

the girls in their late my legs

are glasses of chardonnay on a yacht

and sea breezes at the beach

they are all auburn and jet black or golden

i don’t think they’re human

promenading past me with their faces wrinkled

like i’m a walking fart

they are all aliens sent here to belittle the masses

i’ll bet they’ve never packed a shitty brown bag lunch

they are all fruit salads and energy drinks

these ordained stick figures blocking my view

i’d like to round them up

get them out of my sight

because they are killing the melancholy

of another work morning

infecting the street with their clueless bliss

these girls in their late may legs

give me something to aspire to

as i stop for the free news weekly

blindly check the sex ads

as i watch them clip-clop in their high heels

down the subway steps

and into urban infinity.

                                                06.01.12

poemS of the day 03.20.13

some poems for spring...even though it's going to be 42 fucking degrees out in Brooklyn today:

spring

you can watch him going

back and forth

in and out the door

to answer his cell phone

or just sit there

and be thankful that it isn’t you

watch him get red-faced

pacing

looking at the coming schedule

scanning it for his name

hoping by some magic that

i’ll appear there

or you can grab a piece

of scrap paper and plan

tonight’s meal at home

this isn’t your fault

not even your decision

watch as the phone rings

maybe it’s his wife

the one who just beat cancer

or the lawyer calling

the one who thinks he might

have a case

or just ignore him

and the read the new york times online

the editorials and articles

confirming how fucked up

the world has gotten

as if you needed proof

as if the sweating, red-faced man

before you

the one telling everyone that he’s

going to end up in a shelter

if he looses this job

isn’t proof enough

read the newspapers

or stare dumbly into the face

of the reality

close out the computer screen

to say something reassuring to him

even though you never liked him

tell him a joke

tell him it’ll be all right

say some bullshit

like it’ll all work out in the end

people like to hear that

don’t look when he grabs at his heart

and goes on about his condition

you know he’s got a bad heart

he’s clocked in all of those sick days

going to a cardiac specialist

if you worry that he’ll have a heart attack

and you’ll miss your bus filling out

paperwork, that’s okay

you’re only human

and when his phone rings again

the cancer victim wife

the lawyer

try to tell him kindly to take

the conversation to the staff room

or outside

because he’s disturbing the customers

talking in here

the staff is complaining

and because we got no room for that

kind of sadness

floating around in here

on such a quiet friday afternoon

with the sun out

the doors and windows open

and spring finally in the air.

                                                03.20.10

spring

hard to think that it has

taken me so long to

recognize you but here

comes the budding trees,

the birds outside my open

window, and softened air.

has the city made me

so absentminded as to

forget such beauty?

ah, I’d rather lay on

the grass with wine in my

belly than watch your waning

sunsets blossom summer’s

amore.

                        04.26.04

late spring in buffalo

            -after shell silverstein and emily dickinson

as gloomy

            as winter

as gloomy

            as fall

it’s like being inside

            of something that’s dying

and that ain’t no fun

            at all.

                        06.12.06

poemS of the day 03.19.13

hello all....currently hard at work on a rough draft to a new novel, which'll hopefully be the sequel to
my novel, The Librarian, which could be coming out on Six Gallery Press at some point this year....so.....
that said...i offer you what is quickly becoming the bottom of the barrel of my poetry reserves:

simplicity

sometimes

all a man needs

in this world

is a cold beer

a day off from the job

and a toilet

strong enough

to flush down

the toughest

of turds.

winedrunk haiku

orange-red apartment wall

dusted yellow from

a fistful of my knuckles

                      

poem of the day 03.18.13

dry skin

dry skin

at three in the morning

wake up

find myself ripping up my flesh

with a toenail

can’t get back to sleep

clothing soaked with sweat

because you and i

had another knock out

drag out

fight

boxes packed

suitcases packed

words said

tears and yelling

neighbors pounding on walls

the end

the dreaded horrible end

of us

has finally come

i toss and turn

at a loss

at such a miserable loss

think suicidal

finally

reach across the vast sea of sheets

find your hand waiting

which you give to me

from a peaceful sleep

and i realize that it was only a dream

a motherfucking

kick-in-the-face of a dream

….and dry skin

at three o’clock

in the morning.

                                    

poem of the day 03.15.13

the longest ten minutes

he says

i’ll be about ten minutes

then he puts down the phone

and starts shuffling around in his seat

i can feel him looking at me

while i’m trying to read

his foot tapping like a junkie

sighs and stale nicotine breath emanating

two cellphones and a sidekick clogging his hands

as he starts bobbing his head to nothing

i look up and we make contact

he’s got red eyes and gray hair

and little else to his personality

picks up his phone again

(i don’t know which one) and dials

gets no one

sighs again into the almighty void

of slowly moving time

takes his sidekick and turns it sideways

slumps into his seat

like a fifteen year-old boy

starts playing a loud video game

slapping the controllers with his thumbs

making grunts as both of his phones go off

and he shouts, shit, shit, shit

doesn’t know what to pick up first

i look at him again

those red eyes strained

the hair somehow grayer

and i think this must be what my old man meant

by tech overload

doing anything to not be alone with your thoughts

as i watch this man try to answer both phones

as the video game plays on his sidekick

random blasts infecting the b4 bus back to bay ridge

as his stop comes up like gangbusters

and he fumbles around

dropping everything on the piss-scented floor

angry

slouched and angry at the whole stupid world

that won’t fit on his video screens

storming off into the pounding winter rain

the longest ten minutes

that any one fool has ever had

                                                            

poem of the day 03.13.13

juice bar

my wife and i

stand in line at a juice bar

we’ve decided not to drink on sundays

because we’re getting older

because sundays have always been

an alcohol free-for-all

arguments and sloppy sex

movies neither of us remember

and books we’ll have to reread the next day

this is sober sunday

so we’re in a juice bar line

with dozens of others

thin people who never wake up on monday morning

hot with sunday hangovers

really feeling the actuality of their death

and the juice bar is decked out in green and orange

and other earthy colors

there are pictures of hearts all over the place

to remind you that you are doing something

good for the body

i imagine regular bars decked out in bleak colors

blacks and grays and whites

and pictures of saturated livers hanging about

but this just makes me wish that  i was in a bar

instead of in a juice bar line

with dozens of young people texting

or bobbing their heads to the loud and terrible

disney pop playing overhead

covers of covers of old songs

with other aging assholes fooling themselves

on a sunday afternoon

and the juice bar workers are overly friendly

when someone walks in the door

one of the workers shouts, welcome to jammin’ juice

then it is like a chain, an echo of workers

whether busy or not

shouting

welcome to jammn’

welcome to jammin’

welcome to jammin’

the whole thing reeks of artifice

a corporate ideal of hospitality

complete with a shot of wheatgrass

to help keep you on this planet longer than you’d like to be

it’s like being in a foreign country actually

and each time you place an order

the juice bar worker takes your name

instead of giving you a number

you do not get a paper receipt

because we’re all saving the world in this juice bar

it’s not the workers fault that it is this way

they need to make a buck

chances are good most of these people

would be getting drunk with their sunday

or standing in a juice bar line somewhere else

when your healthy drink comes up

your smoothie

or your juice mixed with crushed ice

one of the juice bar workers shouts your name

like they’ve known you forever

and the young stop texting for a moment

to go up to the counter for their sixty-ounce blast

of pomegranate paradise

or peach passion

or strawberry swirl

sucking it half way down before they even leave the juice bar

while the rest of us stand there

listening to the disney music

the whirl of blenders

the door opening to a folksy bell

and another chorus of

welcome to jammin’

welcome to jammin’

welcome to jammin’

the blood pressure rising

a sense of propriety shot to shit

when each new drink that arrives is not our order

my wife and i

standing in this juice bar line

on a sober sunday afternoon

still somewhat convinced we’re doing something good

something healthy

instead of shoving down all of that poison

in the quiet of our own home

or sitting in a dead bar

with a cold beer

watching the warm sun shower the good earth

from behind smeared glass

just like the good lord

originally intended.

                                                

poem of the day 03.12.13

man outside the funeral home

the man

outside the funeral home

is slouched against graffiti

and bird-shit walls

trying to light a cigarette with shaking hands

tear-streaked

and bending at the knees

he is

inundated with family

and friends

and cups of water to calm his nerves

keeps shaking his head

no

no

no

while us gawkers on the street

are thankful

that his misery is not ours

for the moment

decide amongst our ignorant selves

to stop whining about

hangovers

and bills

and itchy assholes

our imperfect love

shut our mouths

drink our paper coffee

and

move on

                                  

poem of the day 03.11.13

winedrunk argument

i disregard calamity

but

sit here anyway in disgrace

of my younger peaceful self

an icepack

a bloody dishcloth

sown to the dirty dictionary

of my mouth

offended you

offended me

offended us

shake the wine bottle

hoping for a little more salvation

but find it gone

like my dignity

and the good hours

that were left

in this

night.

                                   

poem of the day 03.05.13

parallel parking

i can see her

i wish i had a sign that read

no talking to me during my walk to work

a sign like that would save me

so many of these moments

but i can see her waving me down

and tchaikovsky’s 6^th is ending on my

magical music machine

it’s fading into a dissonance

that was taking me with it until this

but she’s waving me down

running across a busy street

flailing her arms as if she were on fire

what? i say when she reaches me

corners me really

and i don’t turn the tchaikovsky down

until i get that last recognizable note

can you drive? she says

in a thick russian accent

she points over to a car that is half out into the street

motor running and some terrible music infesting the block

i don’t have a license

which is a lie

i simply won’t help people who can’t help themselves

but you can still drive? she says

which means she’s willing to break the law to get what she wants

no, i tell her, moving on

having lost tchaikovsky because of this business

but gaining dvorak to compensate

can anyone drive?  i hear her shouting

anyone?

anyone please?

then i turn the music up to drown her out

i’m sure she’ll find someone, i tell myself,

some good citizen to come and parallel park her car

but in a proper world

two teenagers would be joyriding brooklyn in that rumbling thing

while she gives a stolen property statement

to a couple of cops

two jolly flatfoots

laughing so goddamned hard

that they can barely write a sentence

in that little black pad of theirs.

                                                                        

poem of the day 03.04.13

jacques cousteau never did this

mitch says to artie

and everyone within earshot

hey, have you heard about larry yet?

he killed himself

turns out his old lady was screwing around on him

so larry goes out to the pier

with his pants full of rocks

and just jumps into the river like aquaman

they had three search crews out there looking for him

but they didn’t find shit

not even his body

good old larry is fish food now, mitch says

can you believe it?

artie and everyone within earshot

shake their heads

we say our goddamns

then go back to drinking our stale beer

but it’s harder now

thinking about poor larry the cuckold

doing a virginia woolf in the hudson

and all because of a philandering wife

if he had any balls at all

he would’ve let her go years ago

and started making the scene with other women

turn this life into a game of sex

bang everything from ages eighteen to sixty-five

every color of the rainbow

in the spectrum of female flesh

show that wife of his what she’s missing

by hopscotching on all of those other beds

keep a scorecard of his conquests

to compare and contrast on a slow saturday night

but larry was never that good looking

and what he lacked in looks he also lacked in imagination

some men don’t have the brains

that they are born with

they just float along until something finally pulls them under

and others of us only attain wisdom

while sitting on a barstool

three green beers into our philosophy

greedily combing the ruins

of another man’s life

for something to feel good about.

                                    

poem of the day 03.01.13

horse meat

there is all of this business lately

about horse meat

horse meat in the burgers

horse meat in the lasagna

and horse meat in the swedish meatballs

the good fat citizens of the world are complaining

about the horse meat

the news reporters are doing their job

getting to this bottom of this

and giving us the truth with a smile

before the evening game shows come on the tv

and the good fat corporations of the world

have been found out

they are pulling products

faster than a high school boy

getting off on prom night

but one wonders what’s the point?

what does it matter what you eat

once the animal has been stunned and decapitated

slaughtered and placed on the rack

its blood and fecal matter

slathering into a puddle on a cold factory floor

is it really of consequence

when you’ve got that hunger for flesh and sinew?

so everyone just calm down

let the corporations give us what we want

all the salt and fat that we can handle

let’s not stop the meat grinder of commerce over a trifle

let’s just close our eyes

open wide

and keep shoving it down

clogging the arteritis like good little consumers

because whether it be

horse

or pig

or cow

or dog

or cat

armadillo

ostrich and frog

or a brand newborn human baby boy

none of it really matters

and most of it just tastes like chicken anyway.