"best of" poem of the day 01.31.14

the chinese kid next door

the chinese kid next door

is a real pain in the ass

he doesn’t even really live next door

it’s his grandmother’s place

it’s like a russian march when he’s there

i’m convinced the little fucker

is flinging himself off the walls

the way they shake and crumble

the way my pictures of europe hang crookedly because of him

i’ve got swollen elbows from trying to give it back

my knuckles are black and blue from boxing with the plaster

when i knock on the door to complain

no one answers

they just get silent

start up again when they think i’ve calmed down

then he starts with the running and pounding

with rolling something across the floor

that makes my radio go to static

i think he has a tank parked in the living room

i can’t read when he’s over

i just sit on the couch and drink whiskey and watch basketball

plot what i’d do to him and his grandmother

if i ever got the chance

daydream body checking the little bastard

to the cold, marble floor

the next time we’re in the lobby together

give him a few kicks in the ribs for good measure

box grandma into a corner with a few good threats

but some good neighbor would most likely call the cops

although i’m convinced no jury in america would convict me

if they knew the true horror of this child

but these thoughts of violence and revenge are small comforts

against the noise this little piece of shit makes

the way he holds me captive

until grandma puts his rambunctious ass to bed

then settles in for the evening

with her music or television

which is also loud enough for us both to share.

                                                                        02.01.13

poem of the day 01.30.14

on george rubio’s porch

calvin had this thing

about pissing on george rubio’s porch

we’d be at the bar or the strip club

and out of nowhere he’d turn to me and say

let’s go and take a piss on george rubio’s porch

it seemed a little nonsensical to me

especially when surrounded by beer and half-naked women

i wasn’t george rubio’s biggest fan

but i didn’t want to piss on his porch either

i didn’t know what it was for calvin

george rubio was his friend

i thought they were tight

but then there’d calvin go

some stripper’s ass in his face

his fifth or sixth bottle of beer half-finished

talking about pissing on george rubio’s porch

fuck george rubio he’d say

then he’d down his beer and shove another dollar

in the stripper’s g-string

she’d smile and shake her ass and walk away

and calvin would never know it

he was in the zone

maybe it was a macho thing

some way for calvin to get back at george

for always spiking his coffee with ketchup and salt

saturdays at the eat’n’park

man, if my girlfriend only knew what we were doing

the summer i turned twenty-one

she and i argued all of the time back then

she thought that i was cheating on her

i guess i was with beer and strippers

and dates to piss on george rubio’s porch

it was the kind of shit you did when you were drunk

and young and out of options

but there we’d go

neither of us in any shape to drive

crawling slowly up city streets

looking for george rubio’s house

calvin always had the bass in his car going too high

and i worried we’d get caught

but no one ever came out

soon enough there we’d be

standing on a dark porch long after midnight

on george rubio’s porch

filled with old bats and gloves

chairs that were used to save parking spots in the winter

a cooler george used for soda and beer when he went fishing

calvin would turn away from me

and i’d turn away from him

in no time came the hot hiss of urine on concrete

on all george’s stuff  and in the cooler too

then the quiet laughter of two idiots getting their last kicks

not worrying about jobs or money or girlfriends

or beer or strippers of the future

but handling the task at hand

pissing on george rubio’s porch

on a humid summer night in pittsburgh

when the age of twenty-one felt like it was going to last forever

and the rising sun was like a pause button

on all the new good times

we thought we were always going to have.

                                               

"best of" poem of the day 01.29.14

state of the union

you must wonder

who in the hell do i think

i am

laying here on the bed

shirtless

content

long, thin prick erect

a man who can

just turn

on a dime.

you tell me i’m crazy,

baby

and when i stop brooding

and come to my

senses

you say you were

only joking.

but it’s all right

if you weren’t.

it’s the times.

they’re making us

all go mad.

here, let me get you

a beer

and we’ll try to find

the sun

because my eyes

are getting bad

from the cheap red wine

and gallon scotch

and i’ve learned to

clockwatch at odd hours

because sleep has

become such blasphemy.

the usual shit

just ain’t doing it for me

anymore,

and the new stuff costs

twice as much and is less fun.

let’s get a little nuts, shall we?

because i can tell

the health is failing

along with the economy

and the goodwill of the country.

who knows how much time

will be left

before the beer is gone, too.

so, dear, let’s take this

standing prick

this aluminum can

and let’s ride them to the horizon

before i go nuts again

and we both end up

spoon feeding each other

cheap corn syrup

straight from the assembly line

the assembly line

still reeking of our flesh

the oil

and the blood.

                                    03.17.08

poem of the day 01.28.14

wine + cat = me in the bathtub

i could’ve fallen asleep in there

really

it was late and i landed in a pretty good position

curled up like a baby

but then i heard my wife scream

she was in the bathroom

before i had time to get comfy

and make a night out of it

of course, one shouldn’t spend their night

sleeping in the bathtub

even if the shower curtain made for a fine pillow

even if the broken shower rod positions you just right

it’s just not what people do

especially on two bottles of wine and scotch

one gets a reputation that way

or they start to accept things like falling into the bathtub

as the new norm

people are creatures of habit

and my habits got me into this situation

actually it wasn’t even my fault

it was the goddamned cat that did it

her litter box is in the bathroom and she was taking a shit

cohabitation in the bathroom with an animal

is one of those new york city things

along with pizza and sky high rent

this cat is fifteen years old and senile

i keep waiting for her to die

because she can’t see and she can barely hear

and who the hell wants to live like that other than a human being

she gets under foot a lot now because of this

and i just didn’t see her that late at night

but i saw that shower curtain, brother

coming at me full speed

i saw myself tangled in it

like my name was jerome “curly” howard

and then the shower rod falling like babylon

i saw the sun and moon and stars

and my own life flashing before my eyes

i saw light

and jesus standing there telling me

we don’t want what you’re selling

better luck downstairs, he said

with a smile

i opened my eyes

i saw that cat lick her ass

and stroll out of the bathroom like nothing happened

then my wife hovering over me

waving her hands like a referee

shouting what’s wrong?

what happened?

like i had an answer for her

at such a religious moment as this.

                                               

poem of the day 01.27.14

7-11 takes new york city by storm

and i keep wondering

when it happened

it happened right under my nose that’s when

i bought a water at a 7-11

where a used bookstore used to be

and i thought nothing of it at first

but then they started cropping up everywhere

why i counted ten in brooklyn just this month

in places that were once comic book shops

delis and music stores and mom and pop hardware shops

now the gotham sky is emblazoned with that sickly looking

orange and green and white

with ads for big gulps and slurpees

iced coffees to wash down the morning

maple sausage pancake roll

i keep wondering if this is a sign of the apocalypse

i remember wondering that ten years ago

when all of those dunkin donuts started showing up

replacing pizza parlors and hair salons and other used bookstores

i didn’t pull up stakes then

but i’m curious if i should maybe do it now

grab the wife, grab the cat

get ourselves a sack full of subway subs

leave all the possessions and just go

but to where?

somewhere safe with only starbucks and mcdonald’s

burger king and wendy’s to worry about

better the devil you know and all that jazz

i tried to be diplomatic about this

thinking well a job is a job is a job

and certainly someone is working in these 7-11 stores

the buffalo chicken rollers and the 7-select burritos

don’t just appear there under those hot lights

the very berry salad and the cilantro lime bread

aren’t just going to make themselves

or are they?

plus who want one of those jobs?

not to sound un-american

but i’d rather live off the government

than heat up big bites and go-go taquitos all day

or have another corn dog roller for lunch

but i can’t be diplomatic

because 7-11 is taking new york city by storm

and that 7-11 in union square

used to be my dvd store

the one on new utrecht avenue

once made the best black and white cookies

and that one they’re building down on 4^th avenue

well, i’m not a religious man

but let’s just say i hope those corporate honchos at 7-11

have made peace with their god.

                     

The Librarian week poem of the day 01.23.14

wallpaper

i’ve been in this bar

over three times this week

there must be something for me

in this place

but i can’t tell what it is

i just know that i’m

wearing out my welcome

no longer a novelty

they don’t seem as excited to see me

benny just pours my drink and nods

i sit there waiting

with my gut hanging over my belt

as jerry with the bad moustache

belts out eagles songs

forgetting that he once bared his soul to me

looking at a poster of irish writers

that hangs on the wall

it’s them and me and james joyce

we’re all in it until the end

none of us

new kids on the block in this place

we’re like statues of men and women

hopeless statues holding drinks

faded as the wallpaper has gotten

from too much sun coming in

through the dusty window

by the old front door

that one that sticks when it starts to get

humid outside.

The Librarian is available for purchase at Amazon.com right HERE

For my East Coast friends you can also purchase The Librarian at Caliban Books in Pittsburgh

and NOW on the West Coast, The Librarian is available at Gatsby Books in Long Beach

The Librarian week poem of the day 01.22.14

diodes

jack introduces himself to me again

we meet again and again

every time that i come in here

jack will interrupt a conversation

with some anecdote from his life

that has nothing to do with the topic at hand

then he’ll tell a story just as arbitrary

when he finishes he’ll look at me and ask

what’s your name?

and i’ll tell him, wishing that i could give him

a different name each time

but i’m known in here now

b.j. tells me that i’m a regular

i’ve been anointed and this is where i belong

today jack is talking about

herman hesse, siddhartha , the buddha

he tells us that jesus was a big fan of the buddha

only the bible won’t tell you that he is

i’m wondering what other kind of

inside information jack has on jesus christ

it keeps me from the realization

that these barflies are the only friends

that i’ve got in this world

but i’d rather b.j. and his whiskey and beer

jack with his pints of chardonnay and ice

than anything more intimate

because a man can still talk when he needs to

because in a few moments

ivan will start dancing to hot tuna

and bill the bartender

will drop his laptop on the floor because he’s drunk

jack will take a long pull on his chardonnay

and tell us that laptops are full of diodes

and diodes are what keep computers from getting viruses

b.j. will laugh and down the last of his pint

diodes, he’ll say, yeah, jack, it’s gotta be the diodes

keeping all of those viruses away

and jack will feel smart

he’ll tell me that this time he’s going to remember my name

then jeopardy will come on the television

and no one will have to think about anything else

friends or names

because one of the categories will be major league baseball

and we’re all intimate with that topic in this joint.

The Librarian is available for purchase HERE....should you accept the "challenge"

The Librarian week poem of the day 01.21.14

hours

hipster whores

with the ass cheeks

showing a couple of brand new tramp stamps

infest this bar

take seats at the front

and shout at jeopardy on the television

trying to arouse

something in our thin row of drunks

they shout like queens

after all they’ve discovered this place

they’ve discovered us

we are a part of some hipster ritual in here

that is happening more and more these days

at least once a week now

these whores

with their thick glasses and tight pants

these whores or others like them

thinking they’ve found heaven

in the bowels of old man madness

and flat drafts of budweiser

thinking they’ve found “it.”

i wish jazzy jeff were here

to stumble off of his stool

and sling an arm around both of them

as he’s done the others

buy them a beer

and watch those hipster girls suck them down

before making a quick exit

back to wherever they came from

but jeff has already drank too much

and gone home

so these hipster whores will be

sticking around for final jeopardy

they’ll shout out the answer

slapping each other five

showing more bony, sexless ass crack

as the bartender takes three more of my dollars

with no buyback in sight

and john, with his one good tooth,

will try again at his hamburger

and onion rings

as he waits for wheel of fortune to come on

as this hour passes into another

that we’ll have to get through too.

The Librarian is my first novel.  It is available for purchase HERE

The Librarian week poem of the day 01.20.14

this week i'm going to use the blog to post the poems that ended up inspiring my first novel,
the librarian....available here

scum

mona walks into the exit sign

instead of the door

then stumbles back to her seat

confused

benny sits a few away from her

smelling the limes that the bartender

is cutting up

they remind him of cabo he says

she starts crying

he gets up and goes down to her

pulls her off her stool

takes her out the backdoor for some privacy

but you can still hear them

mona crying and bitching

benny telling her to go the fuck home

and sleep it off

when he comes back he talks to

the guys about the mets

the jets draft picks

mona is back in her seat, bawling

sucking another johnnie walker black

she yells and calls him a son-of-a-bitch

a dumb drunk

tells benny that he’s scum

he tells her not tonight, baby

let’s not make a scene tonight

she gets up and makes it to the door

goes through it this time

letting in the fading light

the joint gets quiet for awhile

just some neil young playing faintly on the juke

it still smells of lime

benny shakes his head and says “women”

ivan leans in and tells him that it’ll be all right

ivan tells benny that he likes scum

they laugh

the bartender pours another round

mona’s johnnie walker sits half-finished

christ, how is she going to walk the whole

way home, i think

while on the television is a game show

wheel of fortune

but none of us are watching it

right now                                                         

"best of" poem of the day 01.17.14

bravado

we’ve run out of bravado

out of beer in plastic sacks at our feet

as we drive the city at night

we’ve run out of young women

to try and impress

and must settle for conversation

over lackluster meals

we must wrestle with our choices

with our old gray selves

i sort of like it

but i don’t know about you

i always thought that there was

something sinister in you

just beneath the smirk

something just waiting to break out

that just got buried

in the strip malls and fast food chains of suburbia

that got strangled in kids and wives and electric bills

if that’s what happened

then it happens to the best of us

i don’t know

i guess i just kept waiting for you

to show up at the door

one of the ones i closed a long time ago

i thought you’d pry it open

but instead you became crippled

bravado isn’t much to me anymore

i’ll take wine over a fistfight

but i don’t know how you chose god

the way that some poor fools

get addicted to drugs or gambling

that old fucker just takes and takes

and never gives it back

he’s another kind of crutch, my friend

the only difference is that people

can come back from the booze and drugs

they can stop themselves from placing a bet

they can resurrect better than any jesus every could

but once you get lost in god

you’re mostly gone forever

it takes guts to do it, i’m sure

i just don’t think i have the stomach for it

and i never thought

it would’ve happened to you                                         05.05.10

poem of the day 01.16.14

the tale of the homeless man

with the four foot penis

once upon a time

he got on an afternoon D train and declared

ladies and gentlemen, i am homeless

if you’ve got any spare change i’ll take it

if you need spare change i’ll give it

god bless america!

he seemed a very altruistic homeless man

but when the first man he approached

a white man playing on his smartphone

wouldn’t give him any money

the homeless man turned to the black girl

standing next to him and said

i don’t take money from no white motherfuckers anyway

which was good for me because i

also being of white motherfucker decent

could keep the two-dollars

that i was going to give this homeless man

and instead spend it on a can of beer

or some other sort of white motherfuckery thing

the black girl standing next to the homeless man

said, sir, i believe you’re being rude

to which the homeless man stopped short

and gave a thoughtful glance up and down the train

before telling the girl

fuck you, dyke

i’ve got a four foot penis and if you don’t watch it

i’m liable to ram that shit in you hard

to which the girl responded, yeah right, faggot

i don’t think anyone else on the D train

believed this man’s tall tale either

many others rolled their eyes

white and black motherfuckers snickered throughout the train

the man next to me texted his friend

4 ft penis my ass

an old woman gasped and shook her head at me

as if i’d said it

i wasn’t sure what to think

a four foot penis wasn’t really possible

but it wasn’t improbable

i was just coming from a meeting about the homeless

i had a lot of useful information on me

but none of it told me what to do if the homeless had

a four foot prick

but if this homeless man truly had a four foot penis

what was he doing being homeless?

riding on the D train in the middle of the afternoon?

why wasn’t he rich and famous from doing porn?

i was sure someone could’ve found him the woman

with the gaping vagina by now

or the man with a craterous asshole

with a four foot penis that homeless man could bat clean up

in any batting order in any league

he could catapult orange construction cones and small children

in a single bound

he could pogo through the streets of manhattan

take his talent on the road

become the next youtube sensation

settle global conflicts by whipping it out

but instead he was here with us

with the blacks and the yellows and the reds

and all of us white motherfuckers

glaring at the girl standing next to him

asking that eternal question

who you callin’ a faggot, bitch?                         

"best of" poem of the day 01.15.14

no one wins

john

the old timer

the one who used

to sit next to you

almost every night

watching jeopardy

and complaining about the jukebox

john

who raised the ire

of the staff of bartenders

for nursing one beer

and not tipping

whose collection

of nelson demille novels

lines the back wall

of this joint

has been holed up

in a vet’s hospital for two weeks

turns out

that he was homeless

his vendor license expired

and taken back by

this unforgiving city

john

didn’t sell anything

the other drunks said

when they told me

he just sat there

and collected a fee from

the foreign bootleggers

no one knows

if he’s doing well or not

no one cares

but jeopardy isn’t on the tv

and the jukebox is ripping tonight

jazzy jeff downs his beer

and announces to all gathered

that there are two types of women

in this world

bitches and whores

and the newspapers agree with him

today the times told me

that the tears of women

are a turn- off to men

i look at my wife

shrug

and wish that i could take her

somewhere better

to get drunk on a wednesday night

yet again

no one wins

still

it’s hard to sit here

thinking about john

the tears of women

and the world

letting my secret fear run wild

the one where these cretins get up

and lock the door to the bar

make my wife and i pay

for not being regulars here since birth

it’s hard to sit here

and think about all of the loss

that it takes

just to make up a single day

it’s better to turn your head

toward the television

tap a foot to the music

agree with jazzy jeff

and not think a single thought about

poor john

wait for someone to score

in the game that’s playing on mute

cheer along with everyone

when the winning team does it

safe with the knowledge

that even the best of the best

drop one-third of their games

a season.

                        01.12.11

poem of the day 01.14.14

bolero

tonight i am sick with wine

sick with family

my wife asks me what i want

i tell her devotion and adulation all the time

or nothing at all

or i want to cease, i say

i want to stop looking into the mirror

every morning

and have this fat, gray, unrecognizable

blob of a man stare back at me

i tell her that i want more wine instead

it’s then that bolero comes on the radio

its manic repetition building

until my wife and i are bobbing our heads

she tells me that she thinks

bolero should’ve been the song

they used at the end of battlestar galactica

the one that bound the cylons together

instead of the dylan song

when bolero comes on the radio

i always tell my wife about my favorite part

of that thomas bernhard novel

the part where all of the characters let go of their hate

to listen to bolero

as if something unexplainable and joyous

welled up inside all of them at once

but tonight i only tell her that

battlestar galactica was a really good show

instead of telling her about bernhard

or that i want that feeling of everlasting exuberance

or that she is still exciting

that existence is exciting when i let it be

and that this sadness

this sadness is only….

but then my wife asks me for more wine

and we sit there drinking in the silence between us

moving our heads to the music

until maurice ravel sees fit

to finally set us free.

                                    

poem of the day 01.13.14

almost shakespearian

he says there’s too much blood

always too much blood, he shouts

into the brutal january cold

is he talking to me? i wonder

but then he starts pacing at the bus stop

they had me, he screams, for years they had me

where? where? i wonder

where in the hell did they have you?

everyone else seems to have moved away

and i worry that it would seem untoward if i did too

so i stand there like it ain’t nothing

waiting for a bus that’ll be late as always

a knife

a knife, he shouts

holding both hands toward the sky

it’s almost shakespearian in a way

maybe he’s an actor

though he seems too crazy even for the acting set

he’s in floods and a canvas coat

has three strands of hair left across the top of his head

and they’re blowing in the wind

it’s his red carpet get-up

and then there’s so much blood

i start to take a step back

but the bus is in the distance

so i buckle down

and hope this guy’s got nothing more in him

than this soliloquy

maybe i hope he’s not taking my bus

and they had me

they had me, he screams again

when the bus arrives

had you where?  i want to shout

i get on the bus pretty quickly

and sure enough he’s right behind me

huffing and almost out of breath

i tell the bus driver, man, we’re in for it

you watch my back and i’ll watch yours

but he just looks at me like i’m dog shit

don’t say i didn’t warn you, pal

i tell my reflection in his mirrored shades

then i head toward the back

hoping shakespeare doesn’t follow

the bus is close to empty

there’s one other lunatic aggressively licking his lips

and making appetizers out of his boogers

he’s muttering to himself too

maybe it’s something from marlowe

my crazy takes a seat right across from this one

and i expect explosions in the sky

but instead they shake hands

and start talking about the weather

how the jets and giants both blew it this year

just like two normal dullards going home

from a normal dullard job

while i sit there and think to myself

how this conversation suddenly seems insane

moaning to myself

they got me, they finally got me

as the bus starts up stillwell avenue

carrying us crazies off to our own calvary                                

poem of the day 01.10.14

i’m going to the bar

i’m going to the bar

that’s what i told the eighteen year old clerk

when she asked me what i’m doing tonight

so now i have to go

for her

for you too

i’m going to the bar

to drink beer and eat pretzels and play

loud rock and roll music

at a volume i can’t play at home

i’m going to the bar

for led zeppelin and jim morrison and mick jaggar

so that the bartender can shake my hand

and wish me a happy new year

so that i can wish him one too

i’m going to drink pints of budweiser and love them

i might have a shot or two

i’m going to the bar

to forget about poetry and novels and books i haven’t read

to forget about work and late trains

to forget about bills and jobs

and cancer and death

at least for a little while

i’m going to the bar

to sit there and watch the evening news on mute

and not care what’s happening in syria or iraq or south sudan

and not care about whiney americans bitching about the winter cold

and not care about republicans versus democrats

and this celebrity state that we’ve been paralyzed in

since the dawn of the internet age

i’m going to the bar

to get a little drunk and have a good time

to answer jeopardy questions and not care if i’m right or wrong

i’m going to bitch to the bartender about baseball

about the super bowl about the nets and the knicks

about a-rod and mike piazza getting the shaft from the hall of fame

and then tip him big for lending me his ear

i’m going to let the racists tell me their racist jokes

and not say a word

i’m not correcting a goddamned soul tonight

i’m just going to order another beer

and let the dim lights and the warmth of this place envelope me

thank the stars that i’m alive for a change

and at the bar.                                                                                     

poem of the day 01.09.14

mad world

the old year unfolds for me

like a shit-stained rose

and on the elevated d train

i look into blue homes

at the debris  of humankind

at the playpens of screaming children

and television sets

the empty couches and soiled beds

the families huddled over dinner

over gadgets that offer them better than flesh

their only true hope to rise tomorrow

and once again say hello to the cancerous sun

i watch this

and i think of myself as a mad youth

in college student unions of my dirty memory

writing mad words

meant to take over this mad world

and failing

having it arrive too late

to truly save the gray man looking back at me

in the subway window

who once challenged himself

to be immortal

but will now have to settle

for being just like

everyone

else.

                       

poem of the day 01.08.14

my first checking account

i got my first checking account

a few weeks after i had to have my balls operated on

because the veins down their were trying

to strangle my testicles to death

and render me a late model eunuch

they got one but the doc managed to save the other

the stitches were starting to evaporate

i was itching all of the time

the only thing that quelled the prickling

was sitting in the bathtub, scratching

until the water went cold

my old man

out of work for the spring and summer

and maybe bored with doing laundry

decided that it was high time i got a checking account

he said, you’re starting college

you need your own checking account

it seemed reasonable

albeit an ill-timed revelation on his part

the old man said, get out of the bathtub, son

and become an adult

so i followed him, itchy balls and all

to the bank where there were lines of old people

with checking accounts and saving account and cds

they looked half-dead

but no one seemed to have itchy balls save me

i tried standing away from everyone to scratch

but my old man said, what’s the matter with you?

get over here

so i joined the queue and stood there

and thought about ripping off the one remaining testicle

and maybe finding myself a harem to run

soon i got called aside by a man

with a van dyke wearing a bolero

who told me that a first checking account

was an important thing

it wasn’t my place to argue with him

he looked down at the forms i’d hastily filled out

and started muttering my name

john john john john john

i thought maybe i’d have to call the old man over

so we could handle this guy

but then he looked up and said

don’t mind me, i make it a point to memorize

all our clients names

which was his thing

like itchy balls were becoming my thing

and going to college and becoming an adult

when van dyke bolero handed me

a stack of blank checks

to be honest, the whole thing was anti-climatic

they didn’t even have my name or address on them yet

i didn’t even have money to buy anything with a check

van dyke bolero shook my hand

like i was entering into some secret club

full of checking accounts and savings accounts and cds

lines full of the walking dead

a newly minted adult

i wanted to scratch my balls right there as a celebration

but i held out the whole ride home

until i got back to that bathroom

where running the hot water steamed up everything

and i got lost in youthful revelry

scratching and scratching and scratching like an addict

watching my one red testicle bobbing in the water

as the stiches sizzled and floated away like little blue worms                              

poem of the day 01.07.14

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poem of the day 01.06.14

hello all

well a new year is upon us and i'm back at the machine.  2013 really burnt me.

i'm going to try and keep this blog going with new stuff, but an original poem a day

is getting harder and harder with age.....so there may be instances were i throw an

oldie but a "goodie" at you.

jg

but let's start the new year off with something new today......

rockabilly fag hag

the rockabilly fag hag takes the seat

two down from me at the bar

she lets her buddy (who isn’t rockabilly)

saddle up in a stool next to mine

she has tattoos of a deck of cards

a skeleton elvis, a spider web and a flaming set of dice

she’s real rockabilly

she says, this bar doesn’t look anything

like it says in the article on dive bars

and it hits me that i drink in a dive bar featured

in an article on dive bars

it’s kind of like realizing you drink in disneyland

then she says, this is a total sausage party in here

even though you can count at least

seven or eight women putting back pints

her buddy says, totally

and because he’s the queen of the ball

maybe they’re on to something this saturday night

they start giving my favorite bartender, seth, a hard time

asking him for drinks that he doesn’t make

drinks that the article on dive bars says they make here

they ask him if this is a gay bar

and seth says only if your gay…or happy

then he does a flamming strut to the other end of the bar

just to let rockabilly fag hag know

what an insufferable bitch she’s being

as her buddy checks  his cell phone

looking for a better opportunity than this one

they both order spiked apple cider

call seth a dick when he walks away

without taking their order

before mocking everyone they lay eyes on

i think about pulling a 1989 era

michael keaton batman on the guy

elbowing him in the stomach

and then getting him right in the face

with the back of my fist

i don’t know what i’d do to rockabilly fag hag

maybe try to slice off her bettie page tattoo

with an ice chipper

or take the black and pink rose out of her hair

and shove it down her throat

that seems like a harsh thing to do

but i’ve been in a bad mood all week

instead i wonder if there’s really

an article on dive bars that i can read

because if assholes like these two

keep coming into this joint

seth or no seth

i’m going to need

to start scouting out a new location

soon.

ALSO.....my first novel, The Librarian, is available for purchase at Amazon.com