Wednesday, February 27, 2013

poem of the day 02.27.13

inventing abstraction

she sits in the foyer
she says, you’re just the man
that i’ve been waiting for

i tell her that it feels like i’ve been dragged through glass

she hands me a twisted paperclip
says, take this

i tell her that i’m too old for acceptance

she leads me to a window that is open
with a gust of wind blowing in
and says, this has been driving me nuts

i tell her that the insane are closer to god in their way

she says, see if you can get that paper clip
to brace the window shut

and i tell her that there’s no saving us now

she says, a strong guy like you
should be able to jimmy rig that window

so i tell her that i’m just no good anymore
i’m almost a month away from thirty-nine
and i’ve never made a dollar that didn’t try to kill me
that i can’t even get the neighbor across the street
to fix his house alarm

she says, a nice man like you can probably do anything

i tell her that i’m going to get drunk again today
that all of those whiskey and wine bottles in the basement
are my cold sacrifices

but she says, if only you could get that paperclip in there
then things would be so much better

and i think that she probably
doesn’t read the newspapers

she says, there, like that
get that paperclip between those holes

and i try and i try and i try

i hand her back the twisted metal
and tell her that it’s no use
the world is full of broken windows

and broken people
with and without love

wind gusts and paperclips

some who understand what kandinsky was doing
when he had moscow by the balls

and the rest of us
who are just trying to get along
with a quieter kind of death.


Tuesday, February 26, 2013

poem of the day 02.26.13

garden of eden

most of them sit on the porch
drooling onto the pavement
staring into the void of stillwell avenue

the care workers give them flowers to hold
coloring books and blankets

something to attract their attention

or they march them down the street
in slow, shuffling groups

grabbing the ones who go nuts when a loud truck passes
breaking up fights
between the few who don’t get along

these are the sons and daughters of fine, upstanding citizens

this is only one idea of love
out of the many options that we always sully

they aren’t the forgotten ones

the ones who piss themselves
or have to have their asses wiped out in the open

but you hear things sometimes

like the one who ran into traffic
or the ones forced into giving head to a security guard
as he waited for his wife outside the local library

the one the teenagers tortured last month
the one who finally lost it all and set himself on fire

only no one knows where he got the matches

but most of them just sit on the porch in old lawn chairs
passing the hours drooling into the pavement

giving childlike smiles when people walk by
waving as if everyone were their best friend

they sit all day under a sign that reads
this is the garden of eden

residents of a paradise of sorts


unwitting participants in a cruel example of irony

if this is the kind of thing that passes for irony
these days.


Monday, February 25, 2013

poem of the day 02.25.13


tchaikovsky is dying on stage

the philharmonic is bleeding his sixth
but the woman in row g has her cell phone on

moving her fingers and texting away
like she’s on the train ride home from work

perhaps she’s blogging about the music at hand

but chances are good that she’s looking
for a bar nearby to shoot down a few drinks after the performance
or making plans for the next night

it’s just as well because she’s not the only one

the guy in row j is catching up on basketball scores
and checking his bank  account

the woman in row p has her ipad out
and is shaking the thing like an etch a sketch

the man in row r is watching a movie on his device
and the old woman next to me is looking up her medicare benefits

amongst these well-dressed dullards
exist pockets of electric blue screens
glowing like an ocean at noon

it comes in a wave as each of them shrug
give in
and join the crowd

there is no escape from this barrage of back-lit insanity
at either baseball games or here at lincoln center

people pissing money away on this brave new world

and tchaikovsky is dying on stage for this

pieces of our brains and our being have died
for this digital servitude

it’s almost sad
but it’s become so de rigueur that it almost doesn’t matter

we’ve let tchaikovsky die before
and we’ve missed so much in this zombie effort to attain it all

that when the performance ends
and the people rise up to slap out their thunderous applause

shouting bravo
at the orchestra

as they put their technological gods away
if for only a moment

you wonder if they even know
what in the hell it is that they’re cheering about.


Friday, February 22, 2013

poem of the day 02.22.13

clown prince of google

he comes over to me
i don’t like his looks from the start

he’s one of those blank ones
nothing in those eyes that are bugging out of his head
so that you can’t tell his intent

let me ask you somethin’, he says

yeah, i say
i don’t want to give him more than this

i don’t know much about computers
i don’t have no computer at home or nothin’, he says
i use my google here

okay, i say

i hate when people tell me
they don’t know much about computers

they think it gives them a pass
it says to me that i’ll be doing all of their work

if you don’t know anything about computers in 2013
i’m willing to bet that you’re not actually human

my cat knows about computers at this point

what about your google? i ask

does it shut off when you close? he asks


my google
someone said they sent me an email last night
but because you were closed i wasn’t here to get it
and when i checked my google just now it wasn’t there

that’s not how google works, i tell him

he looks at me like i’m the idiot here
sure it is, he says
you think my friend is a liar?

i think your friend never sent the message

bullshit, he says, getting belligerent
it’s because you were closed and i couldn’t access google

so i control google?

maybe, he says

why would i be working here if i controlled google?

deep cover

well, if you’re so sure of this
then why are you asking me about your email? i say

because, he says
because i wanted to see if you’d lie to my face

i’m not lying to you, sir

you stole my email and i want it back

from where? i say

i don’t know where
you know where, smart guy

so you just want me to go to the magical land of google
and find your email, i say

yeah, he says

and then there is nothing else

i’m now one-hundred percent convinced
that this thing standing before me cannot be human

well? he finally says
are you gonna help me or not?

i’m considering my options, i say
but there’s no honest way out of this for me

let me check on it, i tell him
you just go and sit right over there
and i’ll get back to you at my earliest inconvenience

see, now you’re making sense, he says to me
before going to take a seat across the room

it’s then that i open my google
to see that another batch of poems were rejected

making me wish that google would lose my emails too sometimes

then i get up
chock full of crazy for the day

as someone new comes over to me
yelling about schedule a tax forms
that they need for the past three years

and i decide to take an extra-long lunch hour.


Wednesday, February 20, 2013

poem of the day 02.20.13


he says he’s just kidding
but i wonder how hard i’d have to hit him
to get him off his stool

i mean would it take an effort on my part
or would one stiff blow to the cheek knock him out

but he claims he’s kidding

still, he keeps touching my shoulder
trying to turn me from side to side to check out my earrings

when all i’m trying to do is get a couple of beers at the bar
for me and my wife

he says, earrings

and i say, yeah, man, earrings

he looks at them like they’re some kind of foreign jewels
then he laughs at me

i’m trying to be peaceful here

saturday afternoon
the day after a blizzard

i understand the people have felt cooped up
and want to let off a little steam

even i’m out amongst the masses

but i don’t like this guy’s face for some reason
probably because he’s laughing at me and my earrings

i get a silly sense of rage when someone laughs at me
even at my age

or i just don’t like guys who can’t hold their drink

there’s little worse
than some loaded fool before five o’clock in the afternoon

and when i look back at my wife
she rolls her eyes

i wonder how much she likes drinking in this place
should i knock this guy on his ass

he catches me looking at her
turns toward my wife and smiles

says, earrings, and points to me as if she didn’t know

earrings, she says back to him

he flicks one of them and laughs again
as if this weren’t the twenty-first century

you some kinda pirate? he asks

and i say, yeah, looking at his fingers
figuring out the best way to break each one

but then our drafts come

and when i turn back toward the guy
he’s already on to someone else

some poor bastard who had the audacity to get a new haircut

then come walking into this bar
like he’s the mayor of new york city

or something.


Tuesday, February 19, 2013

poem of the day 02.19.13

bukowski guy

the bukowski guy is walking around
the strand bookstore

i have to get more of that bukowski guy
he keeps telling his woman

the bukowski guy is holding a copy of factotum
and his woman has a stack of cookbooks

she looks like she couldn’t care less about that bukowski guy

but he keeps going on about him with such verve
that it’s contagious

and i am bored with the stacks at the strand
as i usually am

because i’ve read all of that bukowski guy
amongst many others just like him

it feels like there’s nothing left to read
so i watch the bukowski guy for a while

watch him walk around the store
picking bukowski books off of the display tables

this bukowski guy in his little tweed coat and scarf
his tight burgundy pants and pointy shoes

gelled hair looking like it was sculpted by the kind folks
at le douche bag

i don’t think he looks like a bukowski guy

this bukowski guy has soft hands
and has probably never done manual labor

doesn’t get drunk on monday because
there’s nothing else to do

he looks more like he should be reading tao lin
instead of that bukowski guy

i’m being judgmental, i know
but i get pissy
when i can’t find anything in the strand

eighteen miles of books
only i almost always go home empty handed

and honestly
i couldn’t tell you the type of people who read tao lin
much less that bukowski guy these days

i mean i’ve read tao lin
so, you know….

but i’m always the lonely consumer at bookstores

money to burn on payday
that i ultimately spend on bills and cheap wine

i feel used up and old
like all those literary gods have sailed on by

and i’m more excited by cold cuts at the grocery store

think maybe i’m jealous of  this bukowski guy
and his jumping from table to table with the same honest exuberance
that i used to have

grabbing women and post office
some ham on rye

love is a dog from hell
and a bunch of other books

that i’ve ingested like a fine meal

prepping his own journey
into the world of booze, bitches, and crystal madness

all written
by that bukowski guy


Monday, February 18, 2013

poem of the day 02.18.13

righteous and the wicked

pious catholics
sitting in welsh pubs
with fish cake smiles and ale courage

with ashen crosses of obligation
smeared on their greasy heads

talking textbook theology

singing morrissey songs
and crying over the sick resigning pope

if only they cared as much
about this living world

if only.


Thursday, February 7, 2013


winedrunk sidewalk will be on hiatus from, Friday 02/08 to Monday 02/18.

poem of the day 02.07.13


give me a gun
just a little gun
something to impress the neighbors with
something to impress upon
a small gun safely concealed
or out in the open like a throbbing cock
then maybe i’ll be true blue
true red, white, and blue
give me a gun
something simple
with a bayonet mount
and a telescopic stock
a colt AR-15
a mac-11
something with a pistol grip
and a flash suppressor
something to put in the window at christmas time
or to bring out at parties
a conversation piece
a piece of steel
something to show the kids
loitering on my block
something with a fixed capacity of more than five rounds
a detachable magazine
with the second amendment engraved on the handle
give me a gun, oh, lord
oh, statue of liberty
oh, sacred, holy NRA
a beautiful TEC-9
a pleasant little baretta AR-70
something to show the boys after church
and i promise i’ll be a good little american
i won’t complain
or get above my raisin’
because i’ll be basking in the glory of liberty
juggling clips by the dozen
and government
singing the star-spangled banner
into the cold black abyss
letting freedom reign all over me
like a spray of bullets at a shopping mall.

Wednesday, February 6, 2013

poem of the day 02.06.13

junkies at the bus stop

late morning drunk
watching the junkies argue at the bus stop
across the street from a middle school

two whiskeys on an empty stomach
and i feel foolish and miserable for getting drunk so easily

swearing at the sun
sweating in a fifty degree morning heat
when it was twelve degrees three days ago

the junkies are in winter coats and snowcaps
stumbling all over the place

they don’t seem to be affected by the weather at all

they were laughing at first
but then they started pushing each other into an iron fence
where kids are playing basketball on recess
and eating their early lunches

the junkies are one man and one woman

the man seems to have the upper hand on this one
so he must be a republican

the woman keeps smiling at him
trying to bat him away

i think she thinks he’s still joking

but he keeps pushing her into the fence
blocking her out when she angles for some space

and there are cops riding by doing nothing about this
and cars honking at each other at yellow lights
and i am cursing myself for getting somewhat drunk before noon

two whiskeys on an empty stomach
proving to me that i’m not as solid iron as i used to be

the male junkie just won’t stop his harassment

he keeps pushing and pushing the woman
wiping the smile off of her face with a shove to the chin

i wish they’d kiss and make up
leave this scene to go and shoot up somewhere

have junkie sex and pass out to soap operas or talk shows

it’s got to be bad for the school kids
to see something like this

or maybe it’s common and i’m the prude today

my sensitivity heightened
from the whiskey and heat

and by the time the bus comes
i’m desperate to leave this behind me

to again look upon the good in humanity

but all i get are people on the bus
moaning and mortal
frowning and constipated by life

coughing and sneezing their disease

bitching at someone else
on a cell phone

ruining their day as well

as those junkies and my stupidity
have ruined mine.


Tuesday, February 5, 2013

poem of the day 02.05.13

allergy pills and diet beer

i am mucus
and blood in my nose

a throat as raw as uncooked meat

allergy pills and diet beer
on a saturday night

i am a sinus infection infecting this room
a splitting headache on the couch
before dawn

nothing by allergy pills and diet beer
in my system

i am weak legs and an upset stomach
itching, watery eyes and the shits

allergy pills and diet beer
moaning in the evening snow

i am flesh and flab and muted taste buds
clogged ears and a clogged mouth

allergy pills and diet beer
passing out into a sweating bed
with orange juice and organic tea chasers

i am dead weight and a sullied mind
promise diluted and  prostrate on the puke-stained floor

allergy pills and diet beer
mainlined in to my bloodstream

the television blaring my sadness
the radio humming my misery
the books unread and mocking

no hot water in the place to speak of

i am coughing fits
and pulled muscles

allergy pills and diet beer
on the menu ad infinitum

unshaved for days
in the same clothing for a week

a red and splotch half-man
waiting on death

waiting on sweat death
to come and lift me from this chemical bog

and into amazing grace.


Monday, February 4, 2013

poem of the day 02.04.13

poems about being a poet

do me a favor, please

stop writing poems about being a poet

those kinds of poems are just not interesting
and they’re as common as taking a morning shit
or farting in bed

it’s no hard business being a poet

try lifting windows and doors for twelve hours a day
or working the register
at a grocery store on a sunday afternoon
after all of the salivating sheep have finished with church

or if you have
write about that instead

but stop it with the poems about being a poet business

reading poems like that
are like brushing my teeth or putting on socks

they are common and every day

and there is no way to spruce it up
by calling yourself a revolutionary
or linking yourself to the poets of the past

mentioning ezra, jeffers, bukowski, or any of the others
add nothing to what is banal and simple-minded

writing about being a revolutionary poet in a capitalist state
is akin to pissing in the wind, my friends

go get a starbucks coffee and stream some television show instead

i mean if you’re going to put art into the world
at least make it of interest to something more than a common housefly

or write about a common housefly

there could be an immortal poem in you
about a common housefly

but i can almost guarantee there will be no immortality
writing poems about being a poet

there’s only redundancy and boredom
writing about things like that

so stop

stop for me
stop for you
stop for the good of mankind

check out a sunset and drop a verse about that
go and get laid and give us all of the salacious details

jack-off on the morning bus
and have the straights haul you away into the madhouse
then spin that shit for a page or two

but no more poems about being a poet

because if that’s all that you have in you
why not take up something soft

like knitting
or politics.


Friday, February 1, 2013

poem of the day 02.01.13

pink eye

as north korean rockets sail
as egypt burns

as guns of ignorance
strangle the drought of american landscapes

just as old ice melts into
the overwhelmed ocean
flooding other land

and it’s sixty degrees one day
and it’s twelve degrees on the next

he sits there
shouting into his cell phone
about how he has pink eye

how his wife his pink eye

how his daughter had pink eye

and how his son is sure to get pink eye

he sits there
disease riddled and out in the open

coughing all over us

eating a slice of pizza
picking his nose and scratching his balls

wiping his hands on everything

king of the world

king of his own little
fucking world.

ALSO:  I have three poems up at Stephen Jarrell Williams' fantastic Dead Snakes