Hiatus

hello all

well, WineDrunk is taking a longer hiatus this end of the year.
burn OUT.  so taking a break from 12/21/2013-01/06/2014.

hope the holidays go well for all.

See you again on January 6th, 2014.

jg

poem of the day 12.20.13

white christmas

late october

still sweating in the ugly bowels

of the new york city subway system

choked on trains with everyone else,

we are pushed off at the atlantic avenue

station to the sounds

of steel drums and keyboards playing

white christmas,

and the pumpkins lining brooklyn windows

haven’t even been thrown out onto the sidewalk yet

to rot into the pavement like dog shit.

people are humming along

and coats are held tighter,

as if the music has put a temporary chill and magic

into the scorched air of chemicals

and petroleum residue.

jesus christ, i think.

you’d expect this bullshit happiness

being trumped out so early

on the television or in the windows

of chain stores.

but musicians on a subway platform?

well, then i realize this season has become too much

we need the fake joy shot into us with the frequency

of a junkie.

what good was halloween anyway

with the cacophony of city neighborhoods

and the religious still duking it out?

i actually like halloween better than christmas.

it seems less put-on.  real.

and i wish i could fall asleep november first

after a night drunk with the evening horror show

and wake up on january second

when the real horror show has ended.

maybe the cold weather will finally be here.

if nothing else, at least people will be

done with all of this good cheer and good will toward man,

and they’ll all be back inside with their bills and holiday regret,

fat and lazy like always.

and the musicians on the platform will get back

to playing something good, like coltrane or bach.

                                    10.30.07

poem of the day 12.19.13

the girl reading lolita

don’t bat those

thirteen year-old eyes at me

and say pretty please

because i won’t let you hang around here

until the last minute

but it’s cold outside you say

doing a marilyn monroe dip

tell you what

i’ll see your nabokov

and raise you my apathy

let’s be honest, sweetheart

if this were 1987

you and i on the same playing field

you wouldn’t look twice my way

trust me

i know

i’ve been there and back

so take your old man fetish elsewhere

stop with the cutesy act

while you’re waving that book around

because i think your comprehension skills are for shit

and yeah i know

thirteen year-old boys aren’t worth it to you

right now

but you’ll get no quarter here either

and if you don’t believe me

i could introduce you to

dozens of forty year-old women

who are just as unsatisfied as you

so stop asking me

if i like chess

or if i like lady gaga

or if i like my job

because the answer is no on all accounts, kid

and that pouty face you got going

as i try to usher you out into the bleak december night

save it for the fry cook at mcdonald’s

because you and i are done

with this song and dance

plus you got math homework tonight

i got a bottle of crown royal at home

little miss

and more years of regret to sift through

then you’ve barely clocked in

on this unforgiving planet.

                                               

poem of the day 12.18.13

cockroaches and house alarms

it’s so magical

watching this cockroach

doing a backstroke on the living room floor

he’s waiting to die

and there is a house alarm blaring out into the street

the neighbors are congregating

and shouting to shut it off

my wife is on the telephone arguing with the cops

to come and do something

anything to end this

it’s like being in gitmo, i tell her

as i look down at the roach

prodding him at times just to get him to move

sound torture, etc., i say

and this is why our families all told us

that we’re not having a real christmas, my wife says to me

while the cop has her on hold

as the house alarm continues its earsplitting intrusion

into this christmas eve

intruder!

intruder!

please move away immediately!

like a fucked haiku

at ten minute intervals for at least two hours at a time

and even with the windows closed you can still hear it threatening

still hear the neighbors screaming and shouting

cursing the people who have gone away

from this brooklyn hell for the holiday

only to set their house alarm wrong

imagine issa sounding out that loudly!

i think of all of the fun we’ll have with those neighbors

when they get back

flaming bags of shit on their doorstep

eggs lobbed at their windows at midnight

again, i poke this cockroach with my finger

to see if he’s still moving

i mean i don’t want to kill this bastard

but i’ve lost my conscience when it comes to bugs

in new york city apartments

and on the phone the cop

tells my wife that there is nothing she can do

crying, my wife holds the phone to the window

so the cop can hear the noise of the house alarm

intruder!

intruder!

please move away immediately!

like basho, buson, and all the rest

but the cop says sorry

and to have a merry christmas

then she hangs up

right when i put that cockroach out of its misery

with a paper towel

covered in austrian white wine

a light, dry riesling

bought to get us through this holiday

real or imagined

or anything else.

                                                12.27.12

poem of the day 12.17.13

youthful transgressions of our forefather’s spawn

they are roaming manhattan

sliding in the slush and snow in sloppy packs

frat boys in santa costumes

with piss stains on the crotch

their sorority girlfriends

in the requisite whore mrs. claus costume

complete with fishnets

and tits paid for by their parent’s hedge fund

lily white boys and girls from the suburbs

doing a pub crawl through cavernous streets

they claim it’s for charity

but the only charity most of the neighborhoods get

are puddles of vomit

a rise in sexual assault cases

and blood-soaked concrete from drunken donnybrooks

when the seize and carnage of these vile idiots is complete

i am standing outside a famous bookstore

that never has anything inside for me to buy

watching four of these red and white aliens

trying their best to remember which way is west from east

so that they can join their friends

for cheap drinks at another bar catering to this shit

it’s clear that they have no idea where they’re at

three o’clock in the afternoon in union square

and they are already stumbling blind

and reeking of green beer and bottom shelf rot gut

i hear them arguing with each other

their red-faced and bloated leader

with a bad-boy 5 o’clock shadow

staggering into the street to hail a cab

to 12^th street and 2^nd avenue

and almost getting hit by one that refuses to stop

while the other idiots check google maps

jesus christ this is what the holiday has come down to

another gratuitous display of heathenism

by our next generation of CEOs and lawmakers

it’s just as well

but then one of the mrs. claus spots me standing there

she’s a hot little blonde number in green tights

and little else

hours from now her mouth and asshole

will probably be swollen from another bad idea gone awry

but for now her focus is on me

she’s trying to get her man to get directions from me

to their next bar

i figure if he comes over i’ll send him to east new york

to see how well he does out there

dressed like some cheerful drunken asshole

her boyfriend looks at me through beady red eyes

he says, fuck that guy

he looks like a faggot who doesn’t drink

and then the four of them take off in the wrong direction

two of them falling in the gray slush

sullying their festive costumes

and when they come wobbling back ten minutes later

screaming at each other

in front of hundreds of holiday shoppers

their big ball in the city ruined

by their own gluttony

and blondie starts making eyes at me again

i think maybe i’ll go back into the famous bookstore

give it one more shot

kill an hour before my pub opens up at four o’clock

where last year the world’s coolest bartender made it a sport

to see how many of these jolly motherfuckers

he could throw out.

                                    

poem of the day 12.16.13

hello all

in case you missed the "big" announcement.  my first novel, The Librarian,
is available for purchase at Amazon.com and soon elsewhere.

Also there will be a book launch for The Librarian along with a book launch
for Scott Silsbe's newest poetry collection The River Underneath the City (Low Ghost Press).  Scott
is also author of the fantastic Unattended Fire.  The reading will be next monday, December 23rd, at
Modern Formations Gallery (4919 Penn Avenue, Pittsburgh, Pa).  Doors open at 8pm and there is
a $5 cover charge.

Copies of The Librarian should be available then, and i will be reading the first chapter
and maybe a poem or two if possible.

okay...on to business. I am poetically BURNT OUT.  i got nothing in the well.
So....am gonna close out the year with a "best of" of Christmas/New Years/Winter
poems in the style that you've all grown to tolerate over the years.  I should be bouncing
back with new stuff come January 6th.

Have a happy holiday.
JG

christmas tip

he shook my hand

and handed me an envelop

with a card and some cash stuffed inside

while i tried not to think

about how many times a week

i’d jacked-off to his hot wife

all of that sperm

splattered on my bedroom floor

and into paper towels

as i took her any way

my fifteen year-old mind could figure out

merry christmas, he said to me

then he shut the door

yeah, you too

i said to no one

before walking off to the next home

on the old afternoon newspaper route.

                                    10.06.12

SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT

hello all

I'm proud to announce that my first novel, The Librarian, is now available for
purchase here

JG

poem of the day 12.12.13

to catch a thief

who’s eighty years-old

and can barely see at this point

can be challenging

especially when he’s there first thing in the morning

to pilfer your paperback books and dvds

it means you can forget the saturday times

and the cup of coffee you so desperately wanted

the one that’s helping to quell the hangover

the sore feet that hurt from walking five miles

in shitty boots with holes on the bottom of each one

the freeze of the december air

that has you shivering right down to your bones

it means you can forgo dignity and pride

so that you can muscle up real close on the old man

while he’s scanning the goods

farting and wheezing when he bends

as you stand there like the long arm of the law

like a mall cop in a trinket store full of teenagers

protecting what isn’t even yours in the first place

a true centurion of american commerce

making like you are fixing rows of dvds

or selecting books for display

simply doing your job

all the while keeping an eye on this old man

as he takes dvd after dvd off the shelf

and puts them in tall piles like he’s building levees

this isn’t what you want to be doing on a saturday morning

this isn’t how the job was sold to you

you think you’d rather be in bed with the wife

post-coital from a morning quickie

with the newspaper spread over the sheets

and the whole day in front of you like a banquet

rather than hoping this old fart doesn’t steal

another bogart or paul newman film

and that you don’t have to tackle his ass and call 911

but life is what it is

some people have it much worse than you do

and you realize this

at the very least your holidays are paid for

which is why you stand there like a secret spy

trying to figure out what you want to eat for lunch

counting the stacked dvds over and over

wondering if the old man slipped one

in the back of his sweatpants

like he did last week

when you turned your back for a second

figuring a cool cup of coffee should be enough

to cancel out the headache

thinking that quick pull on donkey this morning

was kind of like making love

that there will still be a few hours left in the day

when this is all over

and that the new york times will still be there

after the old man takes what he wants and flees

because the world makes news every second of the day

and it’s always the same

nothing ever changes.

                                    

poem of the day 12.11.13

deodorant

she is putting on deodorant

which is typically a normalized act

but she’s doing it on the d-train to manhattan

right across from me

as i’m listening to mozart’s 39^th in my headphones

she’s putting on deodorant

not even from the neck to the armpit

but from under her shirt

the shirt half up

her single fat roll an exposed white blob over her belly

the bottom of her navy blue bra showing

a dead look in her eye as she watches me watching her

as she rolls the deodorant

giving her fragrance to the d-train

it’s musk, i think, or rain water or fresh linen

she’s been doing it for two stops now

as the train rumbles above and through brooklyn

smearing a sea of black sky and christmas lights below us

she must have a cake of deodorant slathered on her pits by now

i can almost see it flaking off of her

and resting in the side of the fat roll

i try going back to the mozart but i can’t

i’m fascinated by this

although no one else on the train seems to be looking

something as simple and common as putting on deodorant

has me in its grasp

like i’ve never seen someone do this before

me or my wife my old man or kids after gym class

the 39^th symphony will never be the same for me

new doors of perception have been opened

new freedoms that i’m anxious to explore

that i’ll equate it with summer scents on late autumn nights

with this woman’s flabby stomach and her blue bra

with the orange soda she swills

in whatever hand is not applying the deodorant

with her face an empty canvas

no joy no exhaustion no anger no fear no burden

and with the packaged sandwich resting half-open on her seat

to be eaten after this task is complete

that has me ready to shout aloud

what next america!

what next!

                                                            

poem of the day 12.10.13

the gilded fry cook

i swear

that somewhere in america

there is a gilded fry cook

making fifteen dollars an hour to flip burgers

with full bennies

and two weeks paid vacation

a full-fledged union worker whistling

zip-a-dee-doo-dah as the meat fries

and the fat bubbles of the grille

or maybe that’s a myth they tell us

still

my wife tells me

that soon they’ll be paying the homeless

to become wi-fi hubs

it’s a little something to keep them

honest and on the ball

because we don’t tolerate quitters

we don’t tolerate the lazy in this country

but i’m not sure what i think about that

it’ll make a cool facebook status

for someone though

homeless dude stinks

but you can’t beat the connection, bro-ha

i wonder what’s next

we’ve made it almost a month here

without someone flipping out

and killing a bunch of random strangers

i guess i’m getting bored and complacent

i’m in need of an angry fix

in need of something to pass these end of days

a new chapter in this horror story

to curl my toes and scare me shitless

a deranged loner

hanging outside a packed mall

preparing his own doorbuster

uncle sam haggard and fed up

living on life support

a priest giving him last rites

while his lawyers give interviews

to the 24/7 news feed

another sports legend

jacked up on PEDs and steroids

maybe he could lose his mind

and kidnap a bus full of suburban kids

going on a field trip to a church

half of them wearing his team colors

he could hold them up for ransom somewhere

have it paid in euros when football season ends

so he could get the hell out of america

return them all unharmed and smiling

with autographed glossies

plead for mercy

plead insanity

play highlight reels until the jury is numb

lock him up and give him the best

health care imaginable

the kind that everyone gets here now

from the president all the way down to the fry cook

to me and you

and the homeless dude

with the wireless router

embedded in his brain.

                                                

poem of the day 12.09.13

verses from the elizabethan era

he paces around the bus

as best as one can pace on a packed bus

finger erect like a conductor of a symphony

his head bowed toward the music of his phone

waiting for someone to pick up

then he says

listen

listen you fuck

if you go in that room

go in my stuff without me present

i swear

i swear on baby jesus christ

you’ll end this night in a body bag

before he hangs up

and pushes through the doors at his stop

an unlit marlboro in his mouth

leaving me to wonder

if he was quoting

shakespeare

marlowe

or perhaps someone else.

                                    

poem of the day 12.06.13

simon (reprise)

i won’t give up my seat on the bus

for simon

for his mom

i look like a dick but i don’t care

this old man keeps craning his head back at me

shaking it in disgust

while simon runs around the bus

while simon’s mom stands there holding

his carriage

her cell phone

a bag of milky way candy bars

simon’s knapsack

but let the old fucker look

i tried giving my seat up for him

i gave it to an old lady yesterday

and a pregnant one the other week

i’m well stocked in good deeds

for the rest of this year

and maybe next

plus i hate simon

i hate simon’s mom

his carriage that blocks the aisle

her cellphone that plays episodes of barney

which simon watches

while eating the bag of milky way candy bars

the knapsack he throws like a boulder

let her stand

let simon run around kicking people

and throwing a tantrum

i don’t give a shit

i’m a tax payer

i throw down eighty bucks a month

to ride this fucking bus home from work

with kids blasting rap

with assholes shouting on their cell phones

with people breathing down each other’s necks

with simon’s carriage tripping me

with his mother’s cell phone screaming

with milky way wrappers stuck to the bottom of my shoes

i deserve this seat

nah, i’ve fucking earned it

you can go to hell old man, who keeps looking at me

you can kiss my ass simon’s mom

next time use birth control

and simon

when you grow up

i hope whatever miserable job you get

involves a bus ride home every night

with some dumb

ugly, pig-ignorant fuck of a kid like you

kicking at your shins

when all you want to do is listen to lou reed

read some poetry or comic books

hunger for that first drink

or whatever it is you might be throwing together

for dinner.

that night.

                                    

poem of the day 12.05.13

santa claus is coming

santa claus is coming to town

only not for a few more weeks

but you wouldn’t know it

by the looks of this house that i pass

on my way home from work every night

it has more lights on it than a detroit freeway

there’s this fiberglass latticed santa

with a gift in one hand, waving with the other

while a reindeer of the same ilk

bends slowly, eating fake hay off a dogshit lawn

the place is truly an abomination of the spirit

but i think its worst offense

is the large loud green and red music box on the porch

it plays christmas music in that tinker-box tinny way

that makes the songs all the more tedious and annoying

you can hear the music half-way down the block

in both directions

the whole scene is enough to make you realize

that they put drug addicts and alcoholics in rehabs

tax evaders and government whistle-blowers in jails

but they let sick fucks like these sick fucks

sit in front of their television set

watching christmas film after christmas film

stuffing their faces with hot chocolate, candy canes

and their own good cheer

wishing every other face on the street

a merry christmas

NOT

a happy holiday

while holding a neighborhood captive

day after day and night after night

for twenty-some days a month

until santa finally sails his fat ass back to the north pole

and the regular avarice can begin again

it shakes a man’s faith in decency

to see a display such as this

i don’t even live in the neighborhood

but my heart goes out to the sad, blackened homes

that surround this monstrosity

that can never get a break

from this joyful and triumphant misery

i wish that i could do something for these people

to spread a little cheer

maybe decapitate the santa or topple the reindeer

string a couple of elves up in a noose

of multi-colored, twinkling lights

take a rusty mallet to that music box

and swing away like henry fucking aaron

until this beast of burden

smashes into a thousand green and red pieces

shout ho ho ho on the lawn, like a crazed killer

scaring some sense into that family of yuletide terrorists

until they call the cops to come take me away

finally giving everyone a silent night

peace on earth for sure.

                                                            

poem of the day 12.04.13

white and gray areas

the little boy

comes over to me

he says

we have to talk

about your beard

you need to shave your beard

he says

as i watch him morph into

half of the bosses that i’ve ever had

i tell him

that he needs to shave his beard too

which is

of course

ridiculous

but he feels his face anyway

then he spontaneously

reaches up and touches my chin

pulls at the white hairs

pulls at the gray areas

while i wince

while his mother watches us

from across the room

meeting my eyes

anxious.

                                    

poem of the day 12.03.12

what more?

i mistook her name as manna

like the fine frost of sustenance

that fed the biblical exodus

but her name was mara and she was sixteen

i was so damned bad with women

a nineteen year-old virgin

i could barely hold her hand as we strolled

to her neighbor’s farm to watch horses

i kept thinking how her old man

had pulled me aside and said,

remember that mara is only sixteen

like i could forget

and when she kissed me it was a soft miracle

but i had to let it go

because i was nineteen

and i knew there’d be moments

where i didn’t want to remember

that she was only sixteen years-old

months later, i met katie

we were the same age

but she had all the experience that i didn’t

only she liked me and she kissed me

and she let me do things to her

that i’d been dreaming and reading about for years

things i couldn’t do to a sixteen year-old

but i didn’t like the look in katie’s eyes

after she’d taken my virginity

there was a pride and self-satisfaction there

that i could never reconcile with my own ego

so when katie started mentioning her boyfriends

on nights after we’d have sex

or had just gone down on each other

i’d mention mara

and soft summer nights under pittsburgh skies

innocent kisses in fields with horses

i made her into more than she was

i made her into the great romance of my youth

instead of some sixteen year-old girl

whom i never gave a reason to and never called back

but it was enough to piss off katie

and whenever we’d fight

or i wasn’t being the good boyfriend in her eyes

she’d spit at me

why don’t you go back to your mara then?

go back to her if i’m not good enough for you

it was so silly but she was

the one small arsenal of assault that i had

against the deluge of katie’s history of sex

and on those lonely drives home

where i wanted to escape katie

and the rest of the people that i knew

i’d sometimes think about mara

and that innocence that i tossed aside

how it was probably

a fake innocence anyway

something that i just made up

to keep myself from happiness

that she was probably somewhere out there

another nineteen year-old with her

looking at horses and making out

wanting more

getting more

and it would be no big deal

between them.

                                                

"best of" poem of the day 11.29.13

strange

they have bright

and shining faces

unblemished skin

they wear coats and scarves

knit hats and boots

although it is too warm

they don’t sweat

they smile in the sun

and walk manicured dogs

down crowded streets

they don’t wake with madness

blurry confusion

staring into the void

at three o’clock in the morning

they don’t know what that feels like

because they are drinking pear cider

and talking on smart phones

holding hands

these well-adjusted pricks

how effortlessly they stroll through

the city’s farmer’s market

fondling apples and pumpkin pies

talking pleasant nothing

while i am on a partial three day drunk

my left eye twitching

brown spots on my skin

unshaven because of a clogged

bathroom sink

these aliens turn my stomach

so strange with their plastic faces

and plastic souls

with their wallets of good leather

and pints of beer that they sip on

taking pictures of neon street signs

these strange and demented

green-blooded lumps of flesh and bone

waiting on friday night

waiting on thanksgiving and christmas

new year’s eve and valentine’s day

these year-long masochists

so happy

so strange

so dumb

so perfectly blank.                               11.15.10

poem of the day 11.27.13

conspicuous consumption

my parents were always on me

about how i spent my money

is that what you’re using that money for?

my mother would ask

when i grabbed a box of baseball cards

from the top shelf of the thrift drug

seems a waste to me, the old man said

to the stacks of comic books and music mags

there was one time that i wanted a monkees boxed set

four cds of hits and extras and unreleased stuff

what can i say?  i was fourteen

and i loved the old reruns

you’re spending your hard-earned money on that?

my mother asked me outside a strip mall oasis records

if she only knew that i’d still be listening

to the set twenty-five years later

maybe she wouldn’t have given me such a hard time

i never understood why my folks

gave me such shit about the money i spent

it wasn’t their money

it was paper route money that i hustled at 5 a.m. for

part-time job money suffering at the goddamned mall

it was birthday money or christmas money

with the caveat that i spend it on whatever the hell i wanted

i figured it was because we didn’t come from anything

and every dollar that they ever got

had to go toward the essentials like food and shelter

tuition and car payments

they wanted me to keep the money away for a rainy day

save it for when i really needed it

as if the fifty-bucks i spent on the monkees

could’ve wiped away my student loan debt

or helped me purchase the house and car i never wanted

having a little bit of cash just makes some people nervous

i tried not to feel bad about my purchases back then

but there was always a shine that seemed to slip from the items

once bought and the critiques began

the magazines were never as good

the stacks of cards came with guilt

a new fitted baseball hat sitting on my bedroom floor

picked up and dusted off because

you spent twenty-five bucks on that hat

and you’re just leaving it on the ground?

the albums i’d consider a waste

if i didn’t play them constantly

i carry that feeling to this day

i can’t buy anything without considering the pros and con

i’ve gone back to stores two or three times

for movies and music

and still walked away empty handed

i feel a small shame whenever

last train to clarksville comes on my ipod

it drives my wife nuts, i know

this indecision

this waffling over the simplest of purchases

but i can’t help it

i never know if i’m going to need

the ten bucks i spent on a book for my lunch

the twenty i dropped on a dvd for laundry

the fifty dollars that i wanted to blow on baseball tickets

to use for gas for a trip home to see my parents

so my old man can show me his new ipad

and all of the cool things that it does.                 

poem of the day 11.26.13

taking stock

the kid with down syndrome

is pacing back and forth in front of my desk

he’s not a kid, really

although he’s small like one

i have him pegged at twenty tops

he keeps pacing then bouncing on one leg to lean in

going puh-puh-puh in lieu of conversation

before leaning back out and pacing again

i can’t tell if he has a question

or if he needs the key to the bathroom

or if there’s something wrong and i should get his keeper

if they’re even called keepers

i split the difference

and keeping reading the new york times

in lieu of doing my job

h-how long have y-you been here?

he finally leans in and asks

do you mean on this planet? i answer

blank stare

i’ve been here too long, i say

spreading a little sarcasm on the morning

i get another blank stare

before he starts pacing again, going puh-puh-puh

and i stop reading the times

thinking, great, now i’m the asshole

who’s giving a down syndrome kid a hard time

four years, i blurt out

he stops pacing

four years here

six years on the job

ten years in this city

twenty years of working with at least as many jobs

in three cities with two cars and two cats and one wife

who was once one of four girlfriends that i’ve had in this life

in fifteen apartments and homes

spread all over almost forty years on this planet

continuing on and on for an incalculable amount of time

until i’m dead and gone and carbon

and someone else is sitting here in this seat answering questions

how’s that?  i ask my new friend

he nods and says nothing

goes back to pacing and puh-puh-puh

while i go back to the times

and an ever-increasingly violent and dull world

where peace and empathy have gone the way of the dogs

and everyone seems to have a cold war nuclear hard-on again

until he leans in and asks me

w-what is y-your favorite color?

and i lean forward and tell him

you know, kid, color is a tricky thing

especially in this country

                                                

poem of the day 11.25.13

cupcakes

the workers at the adult group home

made cupcakes for the people at my job

chocolate cupcakes with yellow batter

but no one is eating them

everyone thinks the residents at the group home

made the cupcakes instead of the workers

maybe the guy who sits in here all day

and laughs at his own farts

or the one who screams for no reason

and throws books while slobbering on himself

they made the cupcakes

not the workers at the group home

there’s no fooling us on this one

so the cupcakes are going untouched

like the cupcakes from last year went untouched

until someone mercifully threw them away

it’s kind of sad, really

the workers at the group home made them for us

because of the pinhead who shits herself

because of the old man who won’t stop stroking his cock

it’s their way of saying thanks

for letting them come in here and read books

and kill an hour or two in the long day

thank you for putting up with them

and the glaring disparities of mankind

still, there are five chocolate cupcakes uneaten at my job

leprous confections in a realm where i once

watched someone lick a doughnut box dry

i got really upset thinking about the cupcakes

on my walk to work in the morning

i thought about how those residents

are somebody’s son or daughter

sister or brother or aunt or uncle

that they didn’t even make

the goddamned cupcakes anyway

i told myself that when i got to work

i was going to eat all of the cupcakes

every single one of them, all five

even though i don’t eat pastries

because they remind me of back when

i was young and fat and ridiculed

but when i got to work the cupcakes were gone

they were thrown away

the tin pan turned upside down in the garbage

with chocolate cupcakes scattered and smashed

our holiday tradition

so i went into my office and had an apple

like i do every morning

i told myself that next year

i was going to eat the cupcakes from the group  home

or whatever it is that they make us

if they make us anything

i told myself that i’d eat then all

until i was stuffed and satisfied

so full of myself

that i could hardly take another bite

                                   

poem of the day 11.22.13

shoes

i have these shoes that squeak when i walk

a pair of  black size 10 ½ nike sneakers

non-descript

non-threatening

a pair of shoes that should by rights

allow a man to slide by in this world under the radar

except they squeak when i walk

squeak

squeak

squeak

like i’m a grocery store clerk

people notice these shoes and kids laugh

my co-worker asked me if i needed

some wd-40 for them

this fucking pair of black size 10 ½ nike sneakers

the first pair of nike that i ever bought

the cheap sneakers i always bought

never squeaked like this

but these do

a week ago they made some lady squint on the bus

a two year-old copied their sound

until his mother dragged him away

it’s what i get for laying down money in america

squeak

squeak

squeak

as i walk to work

as i walk through record stores of the damned

looking through cds

they’re one more thing to draw attention

these aren’t the kind of shoes one can easily

slip through the cracks with

this motherfucking pair of black size 10 ½

big deal nike sneakers

with the stupid swoosh the same color as the shoes

so you can’t tell anyway

squeak

squeak

squeak

i should’ve bought a new watch instead of them

the final straw with the shoes came last night

when i was walking home from work

the crazy man from my street stopped me

he’s so crazy he stops everyone

so i didn’t think anything about this encounter at first

but then he said to me, jesus, pal

you need to get some oil for them shoes

they’re as bad as mine

i took a listen as we walked along in tandem

sure enough

squeak and squeak

and squeak and squeak

and squeak and squeak

like we were both in some kind of

fucked up club together

two morons in these ridiculous

motherfucking pairs of black size 10 ½

big deal nike sneakers

with the stupid swoosh the same color as the shoes

so you can’t tell anyway

walking along sounding like we were killing ducks

i told crazy man i’d see what i could do

before squeaking home as quickly as i could

where i took the shoes off

and threw them against the wall

vowing never to wear them again

i shouted, i’m going back to my boots

and i don’t care if they have holes

and soak my feet whenever it rains

i shouted until the upstairs neighbor pounded

on my ceiling

until my wife came home and told me

that i was being silly

she said, you’re a grown man

why in the hell are you worried about what people think

about your shoes or anything else?

my wife has a point, sort of

but she doesn’t really understand

because she has a pair of light gray chuck taylor

canvas shoes that don’t squeak at all when she walks

she doesn’t have two year olds mocking her

people offering to buy her some lube

the crazy man comparing notes on our choice of footwear

she can get by unnoticed

unlike me

squeaking deep into the night

like a sad shroud of gloom

doomed to wear this chain of commerce

this pair of black size 10 ½ nike sneakers

at least until the soles give out.

                                               

poem of the day 11.21.13

a midsummer night’s sex romp (1993)

just nineteen

i sat on a bench with her in the dark
of a closed park

while colby did whatever to her friend

far off in the bushes

she said, i’m fifteen and if you touch me…

i said, relax

she said, i’m not like her

and pointed off toward
the rustling and laughter

i checked my watch and said, oaky

i’ll scream, she said, while her friend moaned

so will i

that made her laugh

but i’m still not going to, you know…

i put my hands under my ass

and said, i’m not even asking you to so…

i just wanted you to know

thanks

we sat there and watched

the pink night sky of the city
while the bushes laughed
and rustled in ecstasy

what time was it anyway? she said

i took my right hand out from under my ass

and checked my watch again
twelve-thirty, i said

great, great, she said

then she shouted at the bushes
come on already! curfew!

while i slapped out a cigarette and lit it

eewww, you smoke, she said,

waving away the blue cancer trail

only when i’m nervous, i joked

she looked around the dark landscape

at the one car we had parked
by the cracked fence

and said

what in the hell do you have
to be nervous about tonight
lover boy?