poem of the day 05.31.13

father sebastian

we all knew about father sebastian

could tell all there was about him

by the way he walked through the halls at school

his sing-song and joyful lisp during masses

and the way he waved his hands so carefree

some of us liked to go to him to confession

to see if father sebastian would try to look at us

over his shoulder

as we told him how many times we jerked off in a day

he always had a favorite amongst us

father sebastian ran the catholic youth organization

and loved being around the basketball team

he took a liking to my friend dave

paid dave money to clean the parish grounds and the gym

but dave got wise pretty quickly to father sebastian

he quit working and never said why although we all knew

especially when father sebastian started calling dave’s house

crying on the phone to his mother for almost an hour

so concerned about why dave no longer came around

eventually the diocese got wise to father sebastian too

they moved him from parish to parish

in typical catholic fashion

thinking that a change of scenery

would fix all that was hungering inside the man

but eventually even the moves couldn’t protect

those humble god fearers from father sebastian

and when the scandals become too public he drifted south

into florida and then into cuba

where he found some solace in the politics of the gay scene

his family’s money, and in the arms of a much younger man

a few years later when they found him dead in havana

strangled and pumped full of animal tranquilizers

everyone said  that they knew something like this would happen

and that they were happy someone else got him

before he got to their kids

some news reports said

that father sebastian was into male prostitution and porn

others called him a cuban revolutionary

but in all of the parishes on sunday morning

no one said anything about father sebastian

no one even offered a prayer

the virginal priests stood at their pulpits

and told everyone how to act in order to get to heaven

and they all prayed for the usual bullshit

in typical catholic fashion too.

                                                           

poem of the day 05.30.13

it’s all my fault

yes

it’s all my fault, sir

that it took you seventy-minutes to fill-out

a basic application for wal-mart

and that you lost all of your info and your pc shut off

it’s all my fault that you’ve been unemployed for five years

yes, i know how long ago 2008 was

and it’s probably my fault too

that your lavender shirt is unwashed

and that other people have complained about the stink

they came up to me and said

can’t you do something about this?

so it must be my fault since they’re asking

it’s my fault too that i have a “cushy” job

my fault that i went and got a graduate degree

after years of dead-end employment

and, as a result, will be in debt  until the age of sixty-three

no, i wasn’t joking when i stood up at my desk and said,

here, you can have my fucking job, prick

because dealing with people like you makes me

want to go back on the dole

i wasn’t joking about that, sir

i’d gladly take unemployment again

those days and nights of bologna sandwiches and natural light beer

over dealing with and talking to people like you

it’s all my fault

are you happy?

my fault that your wife left you

that your kids won’t speak to you anymore

that you lost your apartment and your car

it was just so random how i singled you out

for malice and to humor the darkness

that rests in the pit of me

my fault that it’s fifty-eight degrees and raining outside

and that tomorrow it’ll be ninety and sunny

because obviously i control the weather too

it’s my fault, sir, that you had to drag yourself

to the depths of brooklyn from the bronx

that we weren’t open at ten o’clock to serve you

and that you waited outside in the rain for three hours

because you didn’t have the money for a cup of coffee

it’s my fault

all of it

your failed application

the drones in pakistan

benghazi and the carnage in syria

the missiles sailing over north korea

the bombings in afghanistan

congressional sequestration

and lindsay lohan being in back rehab

what can i say?

i’m sorry i guess

i’m a small and petty man

plus i never realized sitting in this chair

for eight hours a day

how much power that i wielded over common lives

i probably should’ve

after all, you’re not the first person today

who has told me

that it’s all my fault.

                                   

poem of the day 05.29.13

horrible

rain soaked

feet wet from failed boots

conquered by the feeble minded

adrift infinite

my eyes still red and sore

with last night’s waltz of beer and wine

facing this death sentence existence

like a slouched gunslinger

with too much blood on his hands

telling myself

maybe tomorrow mantras

…..and then this kid comes over

to me and says:

you know

without your beard

you look horrible

and bitch-slapped

by this day anew

i have

no cause

to doubt

him.

                       

poem of the day 05.28.13

inverted raconteur

he has nothing better to do

on his last shot, his last draft

before he has to go home to the wife and kid

he has nothing better to do

this hot saturday afternoon

so he talks my ear off about books and movies

anecdotes from his life that only he finds funny

i look at him and nod

resign myself to it

he and i have been doing this for years

in different bars

under different angles of light

always some book that i have to read

some movie that i have to see

something that his kid discovered the other day

the two of us taking up precious oxygen

i wish that i could turn him inside out

to see if anything interesting exists on the other side

but i’m sure that i’d be disappointed

in between soliloquies

he asks me what i’ve been up to lately

it’s a cursory gesture, i know

so i mumble something about work

just to get him started talking about his job

which he can go on and on about

through his last shot and draft

the little splash of whiskey he begs

the dazed bartender to throw at him

before he gets on his way

waving outside, peering in the window

still taking to me through the glass and neon

so soundproof that it must’ve been made in heaven.                               05.28.12

poemS of the day 05.27.13

memorial day

i told her we should

go to the park and have

a picnic.

she told me i hated picnics,

which is true.

picnics and parades

and kids and dogs

and disney and

the 4^th of july and

football sundays

and people who talk to me

in bars when all i want is

a drink.

but it was worth a shot.

the summer was coming

already the cats were laying

on the linoleum in a heat-induced

coma.

it was getting harder to fuck,

burning and sweating until

we had to pour water on each

other’s assholes just to

settle down.

in a month the apartment

would be unbearable.

we had to get out and do something

now, i thought.

maybe we could just walk up

and down elmwood avenue,

going only into the air conditioned shops

but you hate people and shopping too, she said.

which was also correct.

so we opened up a couple of bottles

of cheap wine,

then the 12 pack of yuengling,

pulled down the shades,

and didn’t answer the phone.

we watched a couple of bad movies,

and fell asleep before the sun went down.

it was a good holiday

                        05.30.06

ballgame with my old man

i’m going to the ballgame with my old man

two arthritic knees

and our bad shoulders are coming along

i hope that our team jersey wins

i’m going to the ballgame with my old man

my allegiances stitched on hats and shirts

thwarting a stadium full of angry fans

we aren’t on our home turf

i’m going to the ballgame with my old man

we have our wives with us

and they don’t mind coming along

i’m going to the ballgame with my old man

it’s memorial day

in the united states

and i’m thinking that it’s

been a while since my old man and i

saw a ballgame together

we’re drinking cheap beer

in a ballpark steakhouse

taking photos as country songs are piped in

remembering what it was like

when he took my brother and i

to games when we were children

my brother and i

are hot dogs and cokes

in the memory of the humid pittsburgh sun

i’m going to the ballgame with my old man

we’ve already been

to the top of the empire state building

and all over manhattan

we went to katz’s for

corned beef sandwiches

i still have an okay job

but my old man paid

still i can buy him

beer and dinner

italian food in brooklyn

whenever i want

i can get him all of the hot dogs

and cokes that he needs

i don’t know if that matters

he won’t even take the lemonade

that comes in a souvenir cup

i’m going to the ballgame with my old man

we’re sitting in the nosebleed seats

like in the old days

checking out scoreboard america

and watching all of those expensive ants

shag fly balls out in center field

trying to figure out who’s who

with our aging eyes

as military bands play at home plate

and people file into their seats

with plastic cups of beer

and cheese covered nachos

everyone looks happy

and for a change, i don’t care

because i’m at the ballgame with my old man

and damn if i don’t feel

like a kid again.

                        06.06.11

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 tell 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.

                                    10.15.12

poem of the day 05.23.13

miss world

she’s at the bus stop

screaming on her cell phone

and then she’s on the bus

screaming to the friend sitting next to her

about some vulgar text message that she received

miss world

letting all of us dreary folks know how important she is

i told him nobody talks to me like that

nobody talk to me, she says

sending a warning throughout the b4 bus

miss world

with her eighteen year-old tits

and eighteen year-old ass

her eighteen year-old brain

i don’t remember eighteen year-old women

being this crass and stupid

when i was younger

but it’s a new dawn of narcissism in america

and hindsight is 20/20 anyway

and if i’m wrong in my nostalgia

then i just get to hate her anew

miss world

standing there clogging up the aisle

legs bowed like a cocky little angel

scrolling her phone

like a brooklyn high school princess who never farts

i told him to grow up, she says to her friend

grow the fuck up, she shouts

for emphasis

so badass in her catholic school plaid

she cackles her scorn

and shows her friend her cell phone

i mean look at all of these messages, she says

rows and rows

of pleasant vulgarities typed by idiot young men

who want to get inside her panties

i mean who do these boys think they are?

she says, laughing out loud

miss world

queen of the evening bus

everyone loves me too much

and that’s the problem, she says

her mouth so wide with wonder at herself

i’m willing to bet

that she’ll be sucking good administrative cock

by the time she gets

her fancy self-important ass

off to college.

                                    

poem of the day 05.22.13

fifty with earrings

i don’t want to be fifty with earrings

it never bothered me before

but looking at these guys in the airport

sitting there with coffee-stained teeth and nicotine fingers

a row of old men, fifty years-old at least

in earrings of different sized gauges

i think i need to get these dangling hoops out

before i reach that inevitable age

and someone feels the same way when they look at me

i don’t even know why i got

my earrings in the first place

or the tattoos that i have

none of it made me look or act any cooler

they certainly never got me more ass

than was already in the cards

at the time i think i was bored and wanted to look different

no one i knew had earrings

in my neighborhood you were a fag if you had earrings

my old man looked at my earrings and shook his head

went back to the evening paper and beer

but i was nineteen or twenty then

and i did everything within my limited social power

to look a little bit different from the yokels in my neighborhood

now i’m thirty-nine and i’m in bed most nights by ten

the guys in my neighborhood are all fat with loud kids

i worry about gray hair every day

and my tattoos have faded into a strange green

at random vain moments i’ll ask my wife, is this gray hair?

when i talk to younger people i always wonder

if they’re looking at the gray in my beard, my sides

and now thanks to these dudes in the airport

i’ll always wonder if they think

i’m some dumb old man wearing earrings

to try and look younger

i mean these geriatrics in this terminal

look like a bad german cover band from the 1980s

doomed to dress a certain way for the money

no one’s paying me shit to wear my earrings

and i have no clue how to be cool anymore

i probably never did

shit, if getting old isn’t hard

it comes with too much baggage

too much self-consciousness just walking out the door

but maybe it’s just me

i’m sure there are other men my age who love their earrings

bruce springsteen still has them and he’s what?

sixty-something?

but he wrote born to run

so….

and i’m sure there are men my age

who are out right now getting a new tattoo on their arms

and finding new music to listen to

while i’ve been listening to the same shit for twenty years

there’s some guy my age staring into a mirror

and nodding his head at how cool he is

because some twenty year-old chick told him

that she liked men with gray hair

but that shit hasn’t happened to me

all i have are these old goats waiting with me for a plane to berlin

their earrings making them look like clowns

like they didn’t know when to stop and just let age take its course

but that won’t be me

as soon as i get home

i’m taking these fucking earrings out of my ear

and i don’t care if that makes me shallow

i won’t be fifty with earrings

i won’t be thirty-nine

man, i just won’t.

                                    

poem of the day 05.21.13

open toed

my wife doesn’t understand my fixation

with the grocery store girls

when we’re out and i see one of them in public

i’ll point the poor girl out to her

just like we’ve just seen a celebrity

my wife will just shake her head and ask me why i care

she thinks that i flirt with the grocery store girls

but i don’t dream of it

they are the mistresses of my canned corn and frozen meats

and i just stare at them in awe without speaking

i doubt a single one of them would recognize me

out here on the street

but today in the store they were all gathered around me

like i was a pimp

only they had no clue that i was really there

they were comparing their shoes

because the store has some rule about open toed footwear

and it seems as though each and every clerk

was breaking the rule without realizing it

a dumb rule anyway

if you ask a guy like me

so there they were showing each other their toes

with their candy-colored nail polish

and one of the girls kept telling the others

how their shoes were all breaking the rules

like a group of anarchists had settled in to check out lettuce

and stock tomato sauce

each of the girls were bummed out and embarrassed

nervous about the situation

because no wants to be a rule breaker in america

it’s not conducive to financial stability

and i wished that my wife was in the store

to finally understand the drama that i see in this place

i mean this was a big fucking deal

more than oscar worthy in its presentation

and as i grabbed my bag of groceries

i got up the nerve and said to them all

good luck with the open toed thing, ladies

my grocery girls all turned red and burst out laughing

because they realized that i’d been listening

the customer fully realized

the big tension breaker that sent them all scurrying back

to their check-out machines

mr. comic relief

stroking his fifteen minutes of fame

amongst the stars

and maybe next time my wife and i are out on the street

and i see one of those young ladies walking by

free in sandals

they’ll point and wink and maybe say hi

but if they don’t

then that’s all right too.

                                                

poem of the day 05.20.13

my only parade

the people who stand there in the rain

seem like aliens to me

because they are the same ones

who will ordinarily run through a thunder storm

seeking shelter

to get out of this kind of weather

but there they are with umbrellas

and garbage bag clothing

taking pictures and smiling their sunday asses off

well-meaning fools looking to be entertained

while i drink beer and eat grilled cheese inside a bar

easily amused masses

watching water-logged majorettes and horses give them a show

clapping and bobbing as fleets of fireman and cops

walk down the saturated streets saluting

as city council people come crawling down avenues

waving miniature american flags like vote pledges

in slick muscle cars from fifty years ago

christ, it seems so idiotic to waste one’s time this way

i went to a parade years ago

my only parade

a st. patrick’s day parade in pittsburgh

and i got in the head with a green bagel

thrown by none other than ronald mcdonald

hell, bagels aren’t even on the menu at mcdonald’s

that about did it for me

i figure people walk

up and down the streets here every day

derelicts walk into traffic with their pants down all of the time

and the cops and the fireman

are always racing after one disaster or another

but no one stands and watches any of this shit

except for me

my own parade of the damned

any time that i want it

only i’ll give these people the majorettes and the horses

now that

that you just don’t see every day

unless you live in disneyland.

                                                

poem of the day 05.17.13

fights

i have witnessed many fights

amongst the different races

rather i should say i’ve seen more talk than fists

the whites like to get in each other’s face

call each other bitch or dude

they shout a lot but do little else

the blacks aren’t much different

maybe they move more

make dramatic gestures, act hard of hearing

in order to have someone repeat an insult

but it is still a lot of posturing instead of violence

almost everyone makes a threat

the whites tell each other how they’ll kick your ass

the blacks threaten to put each other in the dirt

i don’t know what the mexicans, puerto ricans,

asians, and indians do

maybe nothing

or a combination of this other bullshit

today i was standing outside a boxing club run by arabs

one arab guy shouting at a pack of dudes from the club

it was the same talk

the same posturing

but the one arab guy threatened the blow up the boxing club

the other arab dudes threatened to blow up his house

i know people, the lone arab said

we know people too, the other arabs answered

then there were more threats to blow shit up

cars, buses they ride on, homes, and someone’s hookah joint

and i thought, christ, don’t any of these arab guys watch the news?

this country is just looking to grab arab guys

who want to blow shit up

you could feel the good white citizens on the street

getting hard-ons listening to this shit

dialing 911, their thumbs pressed on send

maybe these arabs should take a cue from the blacks or whites

and not threaten to blow up a city block

especially in public

maybe just go inside and handle it

in the ring

i don’t know

eventually the one arab walked away

and the others stood outside for a bit

talking shit

before they were gone too

nothing got blown up

at least not yet

and i went home to get drunk

and read my new comic books

ready to make idle threats

at all the shadows creeping up the walls.

                                                           

poem of the day 05.15.13

there is no wine on airplanes

there is no wine on airplanes

that’s not altogether true

they come by once, maybe twice

on the long, transatlantic flights

give you just enough to wet the whistle and little else

not even enough to keep up the buzz

from the airport bar

let the video screens take care of the nerves for you

make you forget the virtual molestation that you received

back at the gate

keep you dumb with tv and movies mid-flight

so that you don’t shit yourself when the turbulence hits

just sit there watching reruns

of the big bang theory or mad men

playing solitaire or black jack

hoping to christ that you don’t explode over the ocean

ending yours and dozens of other mediocre, misspent lives

there is no wine on airplanes

not enough wine anyway

to stop someone from getting nuts

over being forty thousand feet in the air

and freaking everyone else out

so unnaturally high that it’s beyond comprehension

that little ocean down there laughing its ass off

the land over the horizon a shit streak of green and brown

there is no wine to quell this

or whisky

or enough half-warm beer cans in the world

to end the frenzy of five or six or seven hours of stale air and doom

just top 40 music and adam sandler films

in case the plane dips

something to listen to or laugh at

instead of ball and cry over your own mortality

these pricks keeping you sober and sane with the terror

in full capacity of your limbs and mind

so that when the plane nose dives

and hits the runway at 500 miles per hour

you don’t try and strangle these smiling jackoffs when it ends

as they usher your disheveled ass off the plane

with a goodbye

adios

adieu

arrivederci

or auf wiedersehen.                               

poem of the day 05.14.13

international man of mystery

i always want to be the better me

the guy who handles shit and get things done

but here i am in a hotel room in salzburg

flipping out because my bank card didn’t work

it was a minor glitch

the ticket officer told us back in vienna

happens all the time, he said with a smile

but there’s my wife calling america

to try and placate me

because i’m pacing and threatening

to not leave the hotel room

to go back to america come hell or high water

and even though she’s shown me the account on the ipad

at least four times

i never believe what i see

in my mind there’s always some international plot

to corrupt the bank account

to ruin our lives when we’re weak and away

this can also happen when i’m buying tickets

or paying for a meal with a debit card

when i’m standing in line at the grocery

or buying shit online

when i travel to europe and my card won’t swipe

or when i leave for work

and have to lock and relock

the living room windows fifteen times

do you think you’re some kind of

international man of mystery or something? my wife asks

but i don’t say anything

just continue pacing and rubbing my face

as if our whole operation were crashing down

because some ticket machine in vienna

was on the fritz

the walls in this room in salzburg closing in

my stomach growling

my wife’s stomach growling

because we haven’t eaten in almost ten hours

and while she continues to try and reach america by phone

i check outside the hotel window

america’s greatest spy

watching every shrouded face on richard mayr gasse

every car that idles

anyone who walks a tad bit funny

laughs the wrong way

or lingers around the star hotel a little too long.

                                    

poem of the day 05.13.13

our crowd

my wife and i hop the first train that we see

that’ll get us back to vienna

we don’t even look because we’re so tired

from the loud hotel that cost us three days of sleep

the train is nice, roomy, with leather seats

air conditioning and big windows to take in the austrian landscape

it’s nothing like the hot, stifling glass box

that we’d taken to salzburg

we have to be on the wrong train, i tell my wife

and then i get nervous

because i hold the belief that any screw up

is a blight on the soul

unless there’s alcohol involved

but this is morning

and i’m at least three hours from the first drink

and the conductor is coming down the aisle checking tickets

i give him ours and he sighs

you don’t speak german, do you?

not a lick, i say, in the queen’s english

you are on a private train, he tells us as best that he can

either pay a new fare of get off at the next stop

he moves along saying this to at least half a dozen more people

as impatient as we were to get somewhere

and at the next stop we all do a slouching perp walk off the train

me, my wife, some lunatic old austrian

who keeps checking his bag and his phone

this group of old ladies who won’t quit laughing at their folly

and a pack of chinese tourists

on their way to vienna to snap more photos

but not see a goddamned thing

see, we aren’t the only ones who did this, my wife says

as we freeze on a platform in an unknown town

as the austrian rain falls around us

i know, i tell her, looking around

at the confused austrian yelling into his phone

at the pack of ladies who are still laughing at nothing

at the chinese tourists taking photos of their mistake

stuck on this platform in the land of mozart, klimt, and beethoven

surrounded by so much genius

but not an ounce of it here

we’ve finally found our crowd, i tell her

then i suck down the rest of my coffee

and settle in to wait with the other scholars.

                                   

poem of the day 05.10.13

dirty book cover

jetlagged up to my eyeballs

for nearly three days now

i sit on this after work bus

hacking from some cold

and reading predro juan guitterez

good old pedro juan

is sitting on some balcony in switzerland

trying to seduce an uptight swiss miss

by stroking his cock out in the open

it’s a believable enough read

especially if you’ve ever had your cock out in the open

but i can’t really get into the story

because these three girls keep laughing

when i put the book down to give them one of my looks

i see that they are staring at me

at the cover of the novel really

which has a cuban woman on it

not a swiss miss

in her underwear

with smeared lipstick and a fuck-me glance

the girls laugh and point

due to intrigue and embarrassment

and i laugh back at the absurdity of american morals

because the group of us live in a country

that sells neon thongs to little girls

but makes them ashamed of their sexuality on a daily basis

of course, the mother sees what the girls are laughing at

and the bloated pervert laughing along with them

she shushes the group of us

makes the girls avert their eyes

and gives me the look

before going back to her magazine that promises

orgasm after sweet elongated orgasm

so i go back to reading about pedro juan

stroking his cock in switzerland

rather than talking to the local cops

about corruption of minors on a bus

and pedro juan has that cock of his worked up

to a good lather

but the swiss miss isn’t buying it

she tells him that she’s late for work

so he goes for a walk in the barren woods instead

all hot and bothered and nothing to do about it

like he’s dead center in the good ol’ US of A.

                                                            

poem of the day 05.08.13

there’s always tomorrow

the trick to these mornings is to lay still

tell yourself, well, i just won’t drink today

i’ll dry out and then take it from there

and when the headache and stomach pains subside

say, okay, maybe i’ll do one on the couch with a book

two or three with the ballgame or the radio

but, if in the end, you end up sitting there

smiling like a fool, swilling one after the other

remember that there’s always tomorrow for self-improvement

at least until tomorrow falls by the wayside too.

                                                

poem of the day 05.07.13

my pity party

high on three pints of beer and bourbon

a cadre of opened and unopened wine waiting in the wings

i read the rejection of my new poetry manuscript

then talk shit about how whatever those fuckers put out

won’t be half the book that mine was

have my pity party, promptly get drunker and then pass out

wake up the next morning, delete the press, the editor

from my goddamned facebook page and feel good for a moment

before taking up the yoke of another day

as the most underappreciated writer in america.

                                                           

poem of the day 05.06.13

domestic terrorism and the weather

piss poor days and hangover mornings

only a spit of scotch left in the bottle

trying to piece together the remnants of the night

between domestic terrorism and the weather

the lies and promises of youth too far in the distance

a face in the mirror unrecognizable through all the carnage

but oh these piss poor days and hangover mornings

even the tranny on the corner of 4^th avenue

dangling her cigarette out of her mouth like a pipe dream

looks angry, hungry for something better than this.