poem of the day 02.28.14

beautiful thump

she made a beautiful thump

off of the back of my car

i was young

i thought, oh, how poetic

then i thought about jail

when i got out of my car

she was already trying to get up

she must’ve been eighty years old

and to make a beautiful thump like that

her daughter looked at me

she said, you hit my mother

i said, but look she’s getting up

the daughter implored her mother

to stay on the ground

because the old woman kept bitching about her knee

my knee

my knee, she said

like it was some kind of goddamned mantra

people came out of their homes

business owners came out of their shops

carrying cordless telephones

someone shouted, i called the ambulance

and sure enough you could hear the sirens

i wondered how i’d get along in prison

i thought how she made such a beautiful thump

but the ambulance came

and the cops came

the ambulance took the old woman and her daughter

away

the cops asked me if i was on drugs

how fast i was going

i told them the old woman was crossing behind me

when i was trying to back up

i didn’t tell them how beautiful she sounded

when she thumped

the cops made me come to the hospital

the docs already had the old woman in the bed

she was sitting up and shaking her knee

the one that had hurt so bad before

the cops made me apologize

which i meant…at first

but then the woman started calling me a menace

she wanted my license taken away

she wanted me to have a record

she told me that she was going to sue me for everything

for loss of enjoyment of her life

i thought about all of the people that i could sue for that reason

bosses

parents

siblings

priests

my friends

the girl i was dating at the time

i told the woman that i was sorry a second time

although by then i didn’t mean it

she said, sorry isn’t good enough young man

i’ll see you in court

then i left and went and sat in my car

i thought telling my parents about this

about the girlfriend who would bitch me out

because i’d be too hours late

getting to her house

i thought about the beautiful sounds that people made

even when they didn’t want to

then i lit a cigarette

and thought the whole world could go to

hell.

                                   

poem of the day 02.27.14

porphyria

the doctor told my girlfriend

that she had porphyria

i don’t remember which doctor

because there were so many of those quacks involved

checking her blood and her urine

digging through her bloody stool sample

the same one she’d made me view that morning

while she writhed around in pain on her bed

i’d never heard of porphyria

i was worried that it meant pregnant in greek

i was just twenty-one and i was going to bars with my friends

i knew what alabama slammers were

i knew who sold watered down drinks

i knew that a club full of women gyrating to tainted love

was the closest that i was ever coming to heaven

my girlfriend was still twenty

this porphyria outbreak seemed to coincide with my birthday

it kept me from going to more bars and clubs

it kept me in her bedroom on friday and saturday nights

listening to her horrible music

as she and her mother read medical brochures to each other

like they were reciting wordsworth

porphyria caused my girlfriend to quit her mall job

so i was back to paying for mexican dinners and shitty movies

porphyria never seemed to affect her appetite or bad taste

to me the disease meant selfish bitch

at least in english

i wanted to get the hell away from her

but i felt like such a heel leaving in her time of need

so i stuck around

as did porphyria

the sickness lasted all spring and summer

then it seemed to magically disappear that fall

right around my girlfriend’s twenty-first birthday

on a night she met me at the door

full of color and glowing like she hadn’t in months

to announce that she was cured

and would soon be able to come to the same bars and clubs

with me

the porphyria is gone, she said

yes, yes, i answered, hating her anew

and soon baby, soon so will i.

poem of the day 02.26.14

this is a "best of" poem...sort of.  wrote it in 2010 and then forgot it.  totally re-worked it.
hope you enjoy

everything in the coffee

we were immature

had nowhere to go in the city

we had nothing to do but drive around in cars

waiting on the night to end

driving around killing american hours

which was sometimes all there was to do

we went to a diner along mcknight road

in the northern suburbs

it was where everyone went

we drank coffee

and hoped that the high school girls

at the tables surrounding us were taking notice

notice of what?

we were immature and we knew it

we took it out on calvin

calvin liked his coffee more than anyone

he liked to sit in the diner drinking his coffee

looking at high school girls

the rest of us would put things in calvin’s coffee

when he left the table to take a piss

we would put salt in his coffee

pepper, ketchup, those little packets of jelly

whatever we could get our hands on

we mixed it up very well

then we waited on calvin to come back and take a sip

it was the same show every week

calvin would come back to the table

he’d take his coffee cup and take a good pull on it

his face would contort

he’d swirl the stuff around in his mouth

the coffee, the salt, pepper, ketchup, and jelly

then he would spit it back out and look

at the table of us in disgust

of course we’d laugh

it was funny to us because we had nothing else

calvin would curse and make a big deal

the girls at the tables around us would look and laugh too

because they had nothing else to amuse them

on a saturday night in america

the waitress would come over and give calvin

another cup of coffee

she would pray for us to leave a decent tip

she would pray for none of us to hit on her

she would pray that we left soon enough

good old calvin would guard his new cup of coffee with his life

he’d sit there hunched over the drink

as if guarding a rare jewel

we’d laugh at this too

calvin would laugh because he knew he was putting

on a show for all of us

he was putting on the greatest show

one where he was the star

the night wasn’t so lonesome and drawn out

we had something to talk about and it sustained us

at least for a little while.

                                                06.10.10/02.26.14

My first novel The Librarian is available for purchase HERE

A review of The Librarian is now in the March issue of Pittsburgh Magazine 

poem of the day 02.25.14

heat

there is no heat in this building

fourteen degrees and three winter storms later

and there is no heat in here

the cat is crying

she’s lifting her paws off the wood floor

like she’s been stepping on hot coals

i’m wearing two pairs of socks

and it’s still not good enough to help me feel my toes

i know that millions have it worse

but in moments like these you wonder

what you’re paying for

living in new york city

where most days it costs an arm and a leg

just to step outside your door

but there is no heat in this building

no hiss coming from the radiator

no brain cell killing smell of oil from the basement

and there is no hot water

we are boiling water to wash dishes

forgoing showers and sex

embarrassed by our own filth

my wife and i are drinking scotch and wine medicinally

instead of for a laugh

the booze is a false warmth but a warmth all the same

the weather people on tv keep saying it’s cold out

brrrrr, they say

stay the hell indoors

but they are still dressed in short sleeves and sundresses

it’s a balmy seventy-five in the studio, one of the assholes says

and i think of murder as a cheap compromise

because there’s no heat in this building

the cat is still crying

i wish i could give her a shot of whiskey

to warm her or to shut her up

boil some more water and dunk her ass in it until she purrs

but i can’t because i can’t feel my fucking fingers

i’m thinking of putting on a hat and gloves

going outside to warm up in the ice and wind and snow

jog around the block until i find a mailbox

send the rent check out

with a little note to the landlord

who’s vacationing in miami this winter

just to ask him

how’s the heat?                                    

poem of the day 02.24.14

portrait of the artist

as a bloated borderline alcoholic

i always think

that i look better than i do in pictures

younger and healthier

my hair is always looking decent

on the street when women look at me

i like to think, yeah, they’re onto something good

but then someone takes a picture of me

my wife or a family member or someone else

and the evidence to the contrary is overwhelming

the quasimodo hunchback

the face bloated from alcohol

the stomach like a barrel from beer and too much pizza

the hair flat and ugly blonde

the beard gone gray and white and wiry

when i see photos like these i think

christ, is this really what the rest of the world sees

when they look in my direction

i think this walking abomination can’t be me

but he is

i start making those terrible plans

kick the booze and kick the pizza

start up jogging again or log more miles on the walk to work

avoid sugar salts and fats

the problem is my memory is short

it must be all of the lost brain cells

and some days are just too long and hard

to forgo a stiff drink or three

sometimes pizza is my sole joy of the week

and i always thought that jogging was for assholes

i forgive and forget myself

allow for that vain amnesia to settle in again

i start to think

hey, i’m young and i’m healthy

i’ll bet my hair is looking pretty good too

i think i’m a golden god lost on the streets of brooklyn

and when i pass a woman in the street

when she stares a little bit too long in my direction

i think to myself

take a picture baby because it’ll last longer

just don’t send it my way, sweetheart

because my ego can drop like flies

at the blast of the flash

at the click of the shutter and snap.                                           

poem of the day 02.21.14

morons

i often wonder why

there have to be so many of them

so many of us at times

idle people

full of idle chatter

filling up the hours until death

with pointless and mundane

unrewarding tasks

morons are we

are they

stalwart and shameless in their ignorance

reveling in our stupidity

a lot of them seem to go out of their way

to know as little to nothing at all

i’ve often thought of leaving america behind

and getting away from this sort

from myself

that isn’t to say

that imbecility is an american disease

although it sure seems like one

i’m sure there are morons

in spain

in germany

swimming in their foolishness in la belle france

yes, thousands of parisian natives

talking the kind of idiot talk

that passes one day into the next

only i don’t know their language

but sadly they sure as hell

know mine.                                                       

poem of the day 02.20.14

viviane smith played football

viviane smith played football

with us neighborhood boys in her backyard

it was a compromise we made

viviane’s family had the biggest backyard

in the neighborhood

it was the only one you could play football in

wide enough for slant patterns or to go long

all the soft grass made it easy for us

to play tackle instead of tag

like we had to do out there on the street

there were no cars in viviane smith’s backyard

to stop playing for

of course, her old man didn’t want her to play

he’d sit in the backyard with a beer

he’d yell at us boys to be careful for christ’s sake

she’s a girl, he kept reminding us

as if we didn’t know it

as if none of us had discussions about the tits

that grew over night

the braces that came off that september

the curves that had developed out of mortal flesh

and the new haircut that viviane got

that made her more of an anomaly

doing button hooks or hiking the ball

we did our best to keep her safe

we put viviane in for the soft plays

the kick-offs and punts

the running plays where she only had to block

we tried not to tackle her

but if some wise guy had her go long on third and ten

sometimes we had no choice

then it was a battle of the sexes

male pride in bloom

viviane smith running for her life downfield

with one, two, three of us in hot pursuit

forgetting about those tits

forgetting that haircut

or the fact that when she sunbathed that past summer

we made it more of a point to come around

and sit in the backyard with her

sipping ice tea or cherry coke

imagining less than football glory in those moments

and much more than we were sure to get

from this strange new creature

who’d just bloomed right in front of us

without our knowledge or consent.

                                                           

poem of the day 02.19.14

the new hitler

the young girl comes over to me

with the newspaper

she looks concerned

she puts the paper down so that i can see it

and says, what does this mean?

it’s an article with a picture

of the fat, baby-faced leader of north korea

under the heading the new hitler

usually this heading is coupled with a picture

of someone of middle eastern decent

or russian or african or a liberal politician

it’s nice to see the press branching out

in their declarations

still they like to anoint a new hitler

in the way the music folks liked to call someone

the new dylan

i’m sure this north korean kid has done his worst

since rising to power

killing his uncle

informing on his mother and brother

starving millions

committing tons of other deplorable acts

while his fat ass downs drink and food

and laughs with has-been basketball heroes

but to call someone a hitler….

it probably means he’s a bad artist, i tell her

the young girl looks at me

like she doesn’t understand

my guess is she doesn’t know

as many bad artists as i do

then we look back down at the paper

at the new hitler

looking over his feeble regime

a self-satisfied smirk on his face

lost in his own bubble

the world by the balls

the big, bad wolf of our day

until the next great villain comes along.

                                               

poemS of the day 02.18.14

hello all

instead of posting here i'm sending you all over
to Stephan Jarrell Williams' awesome online journal
DEAD SNAKES to view two of my new ones.

just click this LINK

thanks
jg

poem of the day 02.17.14

chain smoking cigarettes at dee’s café

the air looks purple and hazy

the weather man on the big screen tv

keeps telling me it’s going to snow again and again

a book on the beatles open

reading like ancient history

on brand new tables that don’t wobble

the way that they used to

four pints of bud in my stomach

another in front of me on the bar

the memories of this place

a tidal wave of long lost nights

pool sticks and puking vodka on porches

lemon drops licked off the thumbs

of available young women

pitchers of beer poured over heads

the nicotine hair

the nicotine clothes

my nicotine hands enveloping her nicotine fingers

they say the older you get the more things change

the more they stay the same

and the places that you used to go

clean themselves up or they go to shit

they rot

they fade to black

they become indifferent new strangers

any way

they no longer belong to you

and i realize this

as i sit there contemplating this new draft

rolling years off of my tongue

like brittle yellow parchment

a stranger in a strange land

that i used to call home

one of the oldest men in this joint tonight

waiting for my wife

while these kids keep sitting here

talking over the ghost of me

chain smoking cigarettes

at dee’s café

                                               

Hiatus Time Again

hello all

so soon?  but yes
taking a break from the blog this week
to do some fiction work (and hopefully get some
new poems going)
and will resume WineDrunk SideWalk on monday
Feb 17th.

jg

"best of" poem of the day 02.06.14

boxing match

fragile babies

work deadlines

five short stories

and dozens of poems rejected

fights with the wife

fights with strangers on busses and trains

bad bowel movements

dying cats

broken cable boxes

cockroach infestation

dead computer router

loud neighbor fuck-a-thons

rusted air conditioner

cancer diagnosis decade

city to city life

bad novels

bloody feet of jogging doom

pimple forehead

micromanaging idiots

blabbing their holy terror

heart palpitations

and fungi chest

undercooked chicken and burnt toast

student loans and electric bills

traffic sprawl

night sweats and stomach pain

bum cock and dirty asshole
endless wars

co-workers of conversational rage

holiday season blues

tax season on the horizon

beethoven is still dead

life like a boxing match

that you just can’t win

throwing punches in a nightmare

against an opponent

who just shrugs them off and laughs

who keeps coming at you

relentless

daily

the worst kind of flesh sludge

you’ve ever stared down

in this long

unsatisfying life.                                     10.12.11

poem of the day 02.05.14

poem in which i’m mad at the world

i’m mad

because it’s five o’clock in the morning

and i’m sitting here trying to make art

with the rest of brooklyn asleep

when i’m not even sure that i believe in art anymore

i’m mad at myself for feeling like that

and for drinking yesterday

when i said i wasn’t going to

but there was shit with the bank

shit with my parents

shit with my wife’s parents

shit with the refrigerator that i punched

there’s always shit that makes me mad

so i drank the poison on another sunday

and it felt great

so i’m mad at that

and this brutal winter

slipping in the snow and cracking a rib

falling in the shower and bruising my ass

catching a cold and staying up all night coughing

moaning over my ribs and ass

this winter needs to go the fuck away

like this government needs to go the fuck away

packs of privileged, splintered, whining rich diplomats

who’s forgotten the plight of the common man

i don’t even have enough room in this poem

to talk about how mad they make me

let’s just say i’m mad at america

for tossing people away like garbage

for bootstrap bullshit and runny egg dreams

i’m mad because i’m losing my mind

for eight hours a day five days a week

stuck doing nothing but counting

the months, the years, the decades until this ends

i wish i’d learned a trade instead

but what good what it do me in post-industrial america?

i’m mad because without this job

i’d be asking some asshole

do you want fries with that?

like millions of others have been forced to

i’m mad because here i’m considered

one of the lucky ones

i’m mad because i’m almost 40 years old

mad when i fall asleep at 9:30 on the couch

mad when friday night feels like a wake instead of a party

i’m mad because i’ve always hated parties

something about sitting at tables with more than four people

that always makes me feel like christ at the last supper

i’m mad that a 40^th birthday

is something worth celebrating to begin with

you’re on your way down at 40

no matter what the self-help books and celebrities say

no matter how you think and feel

because all the good shit has come and gone

and the small pleasures you have now

have probably taken too long to arrive

if it were up to me they’d take us out

and shoot us once we hit the big 4-0

i know i’m ready are you?

but no one listens to me

when i tell them this

they think i’m being foolish

they say dumb shit like lighten up

which, of course, just makes me mad                           

poem of the day 02.04.14

the girl in the parking lot

i still think about her

from time to time

that chance

that “what if” girl

who pulled up right next to me

in that strip mall parking lot

while i was waiting for my girlfriend

to finish work at the dollar store

so that she could come out smelling like potpourri

so that my car could smell like potpourri

so that we could go back to her parents

and fight or secretly fuck in her bedroom

the scent of potpourri still choking me hours later

on the ride home

i still think about the girl in the parking lot

twenty years removed

sometimes she’s brunette

sometimes she’s a fiery redhead

oh, the way she just pulled right into that spot

cigarette in her mouth and another behind her ear

hair tussled like she’d just woken up

while i sat there on the hood of my car

my parent’s car, really

waiting for the dollar store lights to dim

dreading the scent of potpourri

there’s something about the way she leaned

out of her window that i’ll never forget

the way she said, gotta light?

and i had one if i never had anything else in this life

then watching her smoke just sitting there

the two of us in some unreal suburban strip mall

on a warm july night

with the dollar store lights still on

and my girlfriend running around fixing shelves

how she said, so, what do you do around here for fun?

how instead of showing her i shrugged and said, don’t know

because i had a girlfriend

because of july nights and the choking scent of potpourri

because i didn’t know what i wanted in this life

because i no longer had any conception of fun

i shrugged and said, don’t know

like a goddamned fool

continued to sit there on the hood of my car

my parent’s car

while she smoked her cigarette to a nub

before lighting the new one off of it

saying, that’s cool

before she started up her engine

saying, you take care now

as if she’d just said, get in

forget the girlfriend

forget the scent of potpourri

forget trying to find the fun in a humid night

and just come along

that girl in the parking lot

in the confusing summer of 1994

how i watched her taillights slide away from me

out onto  route 19 and then moving further and further

like the best thing in my life was going for a ride

and then the scent of potpourri and cigarette in the thick air

as i turned around to see my girlfriend

standing by the passenger side door

who smirked and said to me

you better not be smoking again.                                               

poem of the day 02.03.14

television sets in bars

friday afternoon

and we’re surrounded by cancer

yet this bar is no respite

there’s a television at one end of the bar

another directly across the room

they are playing this medical show

with some floppy haired doctor

telling everyone in earshot and beyond

that caramel coloring could give you cancer

i can’t even enjoy a beer because of this guy

because of the way the televisions echo in the bar

like we’re in a club full of old degenerates

i can’t even hear myself think, i tell my wife

then i start my shit where i just close off and sit there

i don’t know what i wanted

a quiet friday afternoon for me and the mrs.

to get drunk on beer and talk movies and books

forget cancer and this unforgiving winter

if only for a few hours

but now i got this doctor blaring in my ear

about carcinogenic gases from soda and from frying potatoes

maybe next he’ll talk about how the air

can give you cancer

i down my first pint

i have to get the out of here, i tell my wife

it’s these television sets in bars

they weren’t so bad when they were small and tubular

and hung off into the distance

now every joint has some sixty-inch monster

that we’re stuck with

that permeates every nuance of the moment

i feel like i’m in an electronics store instead of a pub

it’s background noise, my wife says

these people are used to it

it’s giving me an aneurysm,  i complain

while the floppy haired doctor tells us

how cleaning supplies can give you cancer too

he’s a smiling angel of death

he’s raising my ire

and this echo off the dueling televisions is raising my heart rate

i’m playing music, my wife says

because she’s better at salvaging things than i am

i grow too content with the rot and the decline

she gets up from the bar to slide dollars in the juke

she asks the bartender to turn the televisions down

and he acquiesces with glee

because maybe he was looking for an escape from this malaise

life is really that simple at moments, i think

even with it being cancer all the time

then it’s the opening of street fighting man

and another round of beer

old men are doing their best mick jagger

talking about the old times

it’s like we all woke up

on the television, the floppy haired doctor

is holding up an apple

that’s probably going to give us all cancer too

but we wouldn’t know it

because we can’t hear him

and ignorance like this

is finally bliss.