Hiatus TIme

hello all,

going on a longish hiatus.  starting today and lasting until April 14th.
going off into the wilderness to turn 40 and learn how to be human again.

take care
and as always
thank you

jg

poem of the day 03.26.14

gun #3

there is clarity in being drunk

and then there is casing the pittsburgh night

too many beers

too many vodka and sodas

with just a touch of lemon in them

me and colby and calvin and steve

freezing and bitter from being ignored by women

who only wanted too many beers

too many vodkas

and to be left alone by the likes of us

i don’t know who was worse

me or colby or calvin or steve

drunk and staggering the oakland section of the city

praying for release under statues of shakespeare and galileo

begging for warmth

drunk and aggressive and rejected

too young to know any better

we spied someone in a craig street phone booth

shouting into the night

causing his own hooligan ruckus

there is clarity in being drunk

oh, but there is safety in numbers

as we made toward the commotion

too many beers

too many vodka and sodas

with just a touch of lemon in them

me and colby and calvin and steve

pounding on the phone booth at all sides

scaring that motherdfucker out of his wits

silencing him

when he opened the door we thought

we had the upper hand

to do what?

until he unzipped his coat

lifted his shirt

showed us the butt of something that glowed

black and metal

then asked in that same, loud, lunatic voice

would you all like to be shot tonight?

as we scattered into an urban abyss

me then colby then calvin then steve

too many beers

too many vodka and sodas

to just know well enough to leave a man alone.                          

poem of the day 03.25.14

the ignorance in common men

there is a palpable downtick in joy

when he gets into the long post office line

hello sal

hello judy

he taps the guy in front of me

hello richie

richie is carrying too many packages

his whole life looks soured confronted with this guy

hello eddie, he says

then richie tries to turn back around

but eddie…

you see i don’t got my cast no more, huh richie

richie nods

i’m still supposed to have it but i took it off

why’d you do that, eddie?

because of god, he says

i prayed to god and he told me it was time

to take the cast off

richie nods like he knows the mysteries of god

the doc told me, when i put a cast on you

i put it on there for a reason

that so, eddie?

yeah, but i told him my god told me to take it off

so i did

eddie says, the doctor couldn’t find nothing wrong with the leg

but you’re still limping, richie says

eddie shakes his head and says,

all these ignorant people

these non-believers and these atheists

what are they gonna do in the end?

i don’t know, eddie, richie says

i’m a confident man, eddie says

i’m secure in my faith and i’m not no heathen

i know that god is real and can’t no one tell me different

eddie starts to sing

make me a channel of your peace

where there is hatred let me bring your love

hello sarah

hello joey

as more people come in the post office

they don’t say anything to eddie

because they’ve been indoctrinated in his faith before

and richie has already turned back around

involved in packages to granddaughters and siblings

these people, eddie says to aloud and to himself

such ignorance

they just don’t know

they just don’t realize

that god could stop their heart at any minute

if he wants me to have a limp for the rest of my life

let it be his will

eddie goes back to singing

where there is injury, your pardon lord

and where there is doubt, true faith in you

it’s a revival that none of us can escape

then eddie taps me on the shoulder and says,

i know i’m going to heaven brother

what about you?

sure, i tell him

right to heaven in a hand basket

if i ever survive this post office line.                               

poem of the day 03.24.14

hangover sunrise

you lay there in bed

you’re killing some of sunday

it’s your only day off this week

but you can’t help it

the pain in the head is too much

the stomach is doing cartwheels

you’re almost forty, you think

and you’re still pulling this shit

like you’re twenty-two years old

you wonder about your health

feel the heart and check the pulse

fast but that might be because of the stomach

you hope you don’t have to pray

to the porcelain gods this morning

because you have a streak without vomiting

three years

not since madrid and the urinal at the reina sofia museum

after ten straight hours of beer

with ally and oscar and aida and gemma

this is a streak you’d like to keep

but the stomach is churning away

and the head is hurting no matter how you move it

the sun is coming through the window

it hurts your eyes and looks like a hangover too

you think it’s only a matter of time now

and to all of the lost sundays

that you’ve spent this way

you apologize

and wait for your time to shine.

                                                                       

poem of the day 03.21.14

the sun causes cancer

the sun causes cancer

but the idiots outside keep smiling into it

only the polar bears have not yet learned to swim

the sun causes cancer

the flood waters keep rising

but that bitch on 4^th avenue

won’t get off of her phone

she’s standing the middle of the sidewalk

letting the sun beat on her head

as she squawks about nothing

she doesn’t care that sun causes cancer

that the flowers are blooming too early

she is erosion

she is the essence of mankind

as droughts suck at the coughing dirt

one half of this world is an incurable allergen

the other half always gets it wrong

yet the people eat lunch outside in the parks

they cook themselves in scented oils

letting the sun give them cancer

someone needs to contact the president about this

have him call the u.n.

tell everyone to go back inside

pull down the shades and lock their doors

tell everyone to stop huffing ozone

get with the program

but politicians practice the religion of denial

and the sun causes cancer

as our ecology and determination seem to wane

and the dream fades from crystal to black.                                             

poem of the day 03.20.14

ready to take on the world

he says look at them

so i do

three homeless gathered around a computer

two men and one women

they haul junk in the neighborhood for money

he says

i just don’t understand people like that

how can they spend all day every day in their own filth?

the homeless are taking turns on facebook

looking at pictures of their families

he says

why don’t they find somewhere to take a shower

a good shower would do wonders for them

the homeless woman is looking

at a picture of a girl blowing out candles

she says

isn’t she adorable?

she is i think

then he says

they make the air in here acrid

which is true

but it’s no worse than following him

into the bathroom

he says

yeah, a good shower would fix those three

hose them down against a wall and toss them some soap

i know a good shower makes me feel alive

it gets me ready to take on the world

he says

now don’t you agree?                                                   

poem of the day 03.19.14

gun #2

it was one of those catholic holidays

where we were the only kids off in the neighborhood

it was a gray and moody and hopeless day

it was raining out

it felt catholic

mitchell had the idea

we’d go and visit sammy vaughn’s house

he lived with his old man up on highland drive

the place was all glossy wood and rustic

it looked more like a cabin than a house

none of us knew what happened to sammy’s mom

kids said she died of cancer

parents said she took off because of the old man

we played pool in the basement

there were guns strung up on the walls

deer and other animal heads were mounted as well

his old man had the biggest television

and there was a liquor stand made of crystal

that glowed like diamonds

schnapps, sammy said

when he handed mitchell and i two tumblers

the liquor tasted like a peppermint stick

and i was hooked

sammy poured us more as we played pool

he put on the big television and let the sports channel blare

he may have been drinking before we got there

because he was acting weird

playing air guitar to no music

trying to bounce pool balls off of his floor

jumping on the couch like it was a trampoline

he was usually such a quiet kid

check this out, sammy said

before we knew it he had one of those guns off the wall

and was waving it around the room

holy shit, mitchell  said

he ducked and started crawling around the pool table

i stood there with my tumbler of schnapps

and watched sammy do his best elmer fudd

stalking around the room after bugs bunny

he broke a lamp with the butt of the gun

when it hit the floor

the lightbulb popped and sparked and shattered

sammy tossed the gun on the couch like it was a toy

then bent down to pick up the glass shards with his bare hands

that’s when mitchell got up and ran for the stairs

i put down the schnapps and followed

you could hear the din of television from the street

we waited for the gunshot that never came

then we hauled ass back down the block

as swift and graceful as altar boys

working a busy sunday mass.

                                                

poem of the day 03.18.14

tourist towns can be a drag

especially when you learn that a record store

that you love is closed down

and you don’t even have time to give a eulogy

outside its soaped up and boxed up windows

because there’s a parade of tourists invading bleecker street

who all think that they’ve seen someone famous

is that such and such? you hear them say

who all want to pose in front of famous new york restaurants

holding new york city slices of pizza or new york sized bagels

while you’re standing there in front of the dead record store

wondering what in the fuck happened to it

telling yourself that you’re not going to buy

these albums on itunes out of solidarity and spite

in fact, the neighborhood looks really different now

you’ve only been living in this city for ten years

but even you can recognize the change

it’s all chain restaurants and specialty shops

places for the tourists to buy authentic new york this and that

to take back to middle america or middle earth

or whatever podunk town these invading, multiplying cretins came from

and you hate these fuckers so much

you start talking out loud like a madman

shouting about how much you’d like to send these people

back to their america in one of the knock-off gucci bags they bought

they look at you like you’re all part of the experience

so you settle for your own slice of pizza instead

inside a pizza shop that you didn’t know was famous

because it’s always been around

but it must be famous

because such and such ate there and has his picture on the wall

right there underneath a horde of teenagers from ohio

in matching coats and hats

singing this insipid pop song at the top of their lungs

the one that will be stuck in your head  for the rest of the day

these clueless millennial, verruca salt pricks who killed your record store

with their cell phones and digital downloads

because they have to have it NOW

the ones who invaded your city

on what was supposed to be a peaceful winter sunday afternoon

these aliens who won’t’ stop singing and taking pictures

laughing out loud and shouting

about what a bunch of dumb tourists they are.

                                                          

Mastering the Montone: Live Readings by Steve Henn (a WineDrunk review)

I became aware of the poetry of Steve Henn not by accident.  In October 2013 we were both asked to participate in the 3^rd Annual Long Beach Poetry Festival.  Being the investigative prick that I am I went through the list of readers for the event and tried to find their poems online to get a good sense of what they’d be putting me through that day.  I already knew what I’d be putting people through that day.  There were quite a few poets on the list that struck me.  For sure Steve Henn was one of them.  There was a biting wit to the sample poems that I read and in the book that I bought, And God Said: Let There Be Evolution!.  A willingness to take on everyone from big government to his home state of Indiana down to the people Henn shared a roof with.  To say that Steve’s poems are funny simply undersells them.  They are riotous at times.  Never hurtful or mean but direct and to the point.  Poignant too.  You know the subject Matter that Henn is going after and revel in how he weaves the words to get down to it.  Take this poem from Henn’s 2011 book Unacknowledged Legislations:

Have You Ever Been to Walmart?

Oh, man! Have you ever

been to Walmart and really looked around

at all those people? Simians everywhere.

Cro-Magnons.  Half-men half-monkeys.

Cave women with no light in their eyes.

I can’t figure out if people go to Walmart

because they’re stupid, or if they become

stupid because they go to Walmart.  I’m in there

½ hour ago picking up toe nail clippers,

a garden hose, the latest Rascal Flats CD,

an XL T-shirt with a Bugs Bunny University logo,

and a wheel of Sam’s Choice liverwurst—you know,

regular Walmart stuff—and I’m waiting

to check out, and it’s like I have this cosmic

brain reaction to where I can see everybody’s IQ

shimmering above their heads like tongues of flame,

and most of ‘em are like 72, 74, 63…

and then I have this total paranoid hallucination

that since I came in the sliding doors the Rapture

had begun, only Jesus is this complete intellectual elitist

with meaningless PhDs in Transubstantiation

and Creationist Evolution and Middle Eastern Surrealist Literature,

and all the intelligent people have—poof! you know, gone

above, and somehow I got Left Behind ™

with some presidential Antichrist poised to lead an army

of nimrods into genocide of the remaining intelligentsia

so I’ve got this total intellectual inferiority complex

compounded by the fact that some perverted form of Christianity

is making the Universe go ‘round, and then I realize

that I let my medication lapse over a week ago

so I beeline to the pharmacy, begging God

all the while to make my heart stop beating

before downing in a sea of idiots

like the antihero of a ‘70s sci-fi movie

starring Charlton Heston as Satan’s right hand man.

See what I mean?  Now if you don’t feel like that every time you step inside a Walmart you need to have a deep conversation with yourself.

Half of the joy in the poetry of Steve Henn is seeing him perform it.  I got that pleasure at the Long Beach Poetry Festival, and thanks to the release of Mastering The Monotone: Live Readings by Steve Henn, you too can have the pleasure of seeing and hearing Mr. Henn read his poems to an audience.  Clocking in at just under an hour this DVD is a primer for the clever, bold, dare I say, acerbic genius, of Steve Henn.  Through 20 jam packed poems done in a neon-drenched club atmosphere us viewers are taken along with Henn as he hilariously goes after everyone from the religious, to big pharmacy conglomerates, to the government, to Bob Dylan and his good buddy Nate White.  Not to sound redundant but Steve Henn is funny.  And funny works for me with poetry.  There isn't enough humor in poetry.  It’s sort of my bread and butter.  And it works for Steve Henn too.  

But above the humor and above the audience’s laughter there exists a melancholy, existential, self-flagellating vibe.  A sadness if you will.  That yin-yang of conflicting emotions adds to the depth and overall point that Steve Henn is trying to make with his poetry.  And what is that?  Well, its poetry and poetry is subjective.  For me reading Steve Henn, and now being able to view him read his poems in this great DVD, is that of being stuck in America, in the heartland, in jobs and marriages and relationships that take such a delicate balance of self one can go mad.  But instead of doing that why not have a laugh, and try to get through life without it becoming such a heavy weight.

Everything on Mastering The Montone is great.  It’s essential Steve Henn  For me the stand out poems as read are: I’m From Indiana, The Truth About Gun Violence, I am a Poet (Henn’s admitted favorite poem), What I’d Hope I’d Say to Any of My Wife’s Friends Who Offered to Do Me, Letter to a Student,  When I Peed Myself at the Bob Dylan Show, and Royal Rumble: Gay Pride Parade and Klan Demonstration.

For more Steve Henn:

http://www.therealstevehenn.com/ (you can order the DVD by clicking The Live Experience link here)

poem of the day 03.14.14

gun #1

bobby craven was an idiot

he wasn’t the neighborhood idiot

…but he was close

craven liked to talk about guns

he said his old man had a whole basement full of guns

but none of us believed him

steven flushing called bobby an idiot

and then went back to killing his tadpoles with old nails

and building a fortress out of thorn bushes

while the rest of us kids stood there

with our thumbs up our asses

maybe we were all neighborhood idiots

but craven still rose closer to the top

he insisted his old man had semi-automatics and a colt .45

he had a classic springfield model from the civil war

you’re full of shit, craven. i told him

because i wanted to get steve flushing going again

something to take his mind off of killing amphibians

and making that thorn bush that he promised

to throw us all into when it was finished

i was new in the neighborhood

and i wanted to be more than just another fool

who stood around waiting on pain

i’ll show you, craven said

i’ll bring them all down here

my ass, steve said

and we all laughed

keeping one eye on that thorn bush

that was slowly taking shape

steve said, bobby the only thing your old man has

is a beer belly and his unemployment checks

when craven left nobody thought about it or him

we were glad that he was gone

we were glad that steve had stopped building

his thorn bush dungeon to go inside for dinner

the rest of us geniuses took our thumbs

out of our asses and went home too

i wasn’t home but ten minutes before someone

was outside calling my name

grochalski!

grochalski!

into the summer evening air

when i went to the door

sure as shit there was bobby craven

standing at the top of my driveway

tear streaked eyes and with a rifle in his hands

he looked like he was going hunting

so i ducked

grochalski!

grochalski!

i thought that i was going to piss myself

i felt so sick

a thorn bush dungeon seemed like a blessing

compared to that gun

i waited until the sound of my name faded away

when i rose craven was gone

he’d either stalked off to steve’s or went home

i couldn’t breath

so i went outside for air

and watched one bird

attack another bird for a morsel

a little something he could call his own.

                                                                                   

poem of the day 03.13.14

technological advancements

my mother calls

she tells me that she got an iphone

your father wants me

to take a class on how to use it, she says

we’ve reached the pinnacle of the outrageous

here in the land of the free

the home of the brave

there is no cure for cancer

there is no cure for AIDS

and millions are starving on the street

to a rich government melody

of who gives a fuck?

but there are classes on using the telephone now

it’s so neat, my mom says to me

and i’ll bet it is

otherwise everyone wouldn’t have their heads

buried in the things

instead of watching where they’re walking on the street

when you call me your picture comes up

with its own theme music

this makes sense, i think

to be frozen into a pose on a phone

like a stock character in a bad sitcom

the drunken luddite son

eschewing all technological advances

the grump the crank

smiling it all away

in a world that has become

such a fucking joke.

poem of the day 03.12.14

bodybuilders

the two bodybuilders

are on the afternoon train

watching a mexican girl

twirl her hair in the drooping sunlight

and while i can’t fault them for that

guys like these get my back up

maybe it’s the plastic machismo

of these jerk-offs dressed in cut military khakis

flexing their muscles so the other can feel them

talking about their reps and sets

punctuating every sentence with the words

dude and fuck

staking claim on a woman

they’ve yet to talk to

christ, it’s the 21^st century

you’d think there’d be some way

to eradicate guys like these

make more mexican girls playing with their hair

in the soft winter sunlight

an APP or some kind of malware

some other technical doodad to syphon them out

the few remaining geniuses in america

should come up with something like that

for these muscle heads and every other asshole

get real sci-fi

do so and i’ll ride the tide

of your technological bandwagon all the way

at least until i’ve run out of bandwidth again.

                                               

poem of the day 03.11.14

the couch

we were living on the second floor

of a converted home on claremont avenue in buffalo

in a college neighborhood

that didn’t shut up from september to may

the kids played beer pong on the lawn

and would one day be our elected leaders

but we couldn’t get the couch up the steps

the delivery men shrugged and left it there

it was my problem, they said

handing me the receipt

everything was my problem in buffalo

the car that didn’t work

the shitty job in the wine store

where i got yelled at every day by some

lilliputian assistant manager

with failed rock and roll dreams

the graduate classes that i needed

so i could put a tourniquet

on the decade working bad jobs for small men

all my problems

i was fed up, tired, throwing up a lot

and bleeding out of the ass when i shit

i called my wife at work and cried and told her

that i couldn’t take it anymore

i said, the couch is stuck there on the steps

and i plan on leaving it there forever

we had to pay someone to get it

through a door that we had on a balcony

i quit the wine store job on the day we got it in

when we drank our wine that night

i felt renewed and invigorated

i spilled some red on the cushion

it could’ve been another problem but it wasn’t

and eventually i got another job to hate

and i graduated but the tourniquet didn’t take

and we moved that couch back to brooklyn

where we beat the thing to hell for another seven years

wine and lust and love and hate

until we threw it out last night

and brought in the new couch to replace it

all brand spanking new and just waiting for the years

to defile us and it

over and over again

like we were the gentle whores of time.                        

"best" of poem of the day 03.10.14

hello all
wanted to have something new on here
but i've been so bogged down in fiction writing that my head hurts
and i just can't come up with the new.  so this may turn into a "best of" week.
sorry

jg

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.

                                                            02.26.13

Special poemS of the day 03.08.14

today one of my oldest and dearest friends (and a great poet/editor to boot) Kristofer Collins is turning the unfathomable age of 40.  I've known Kris since i was a wee lad of 16 years old (maybe 17 but i'm getting up there today).  So to celebrate i'm taking a backseat here on WineDrunk SideWalk today and am presenting to you all a few poems by the great Kristofer Collins (without his permission of course):

Weird Kid Wondering Which Way Home

All day walking these old
Cold streets
Honey where am I going

Do  you think we could find
A single sweet nothing line
To fill the empty spaces inside

Could a simple rose given by your lover
Ever hope to cover the deep black places
We've no intention of mentioning to each other

Honey where am I going

The air is stained & the streets
Won't talk to me
I stare at the ground while I walk
& sometimes I think the way I feel is right

But honey
Tonight
Everything I see tells me I'm wrong

Honey where am I going


The Poem in Which Pittsburgh & I Talk about
Ally Malinenko

Twenty degrees and the sun
Stops by

I have piles of paper
Covering the table

A roach sniffing my shoe

& I'm waiting for a good song
To come on the radio

I will be waiting a long time

Drinking the first of many coffees
I"m thinking about Ally Malinenko

A fine poet

Pittsburgh, you are poorer
For her having left

We lose so much in this town

Cannot keep them
Who make you worthy

Pittsburgh you put poison in the blood
It pulses to the tongue

You push everyone away

(almost)

We're stuck together you & I
'Til we're both gone from maps

& that is the one true thing
I put in all my poems

My old love

Today let's think of Ally
How we miss her

Ally

Buffalo, please keep her safe


Poem for Anna

It iss 11:40am, Saturday & sweet puffs,
Scatterings

Of dust, risible on car vapors

Splash dryly, explode
In the beaks of birds

Are scraps we've torn

Out, telephones are ringing
All up & down Craig Street

The ghost of last night's beer
Goes with me

Up museum steps
The paste white cloud,

Blue Crepe de chine



If you dig what you've just read Kristofer books are available HERE

poem of the day 03.07.14

that’s what i want

there’s never enough money

in my wallet

never enough money

in the bank account

once when i was younger

my mother broke my piggybank

to buy us milk and bread

she cried when she told me

she’d pay it back

and all those years later i’m still so scared

that there’s never enough money

hiding underneath the soiled couch cushions

never enough money

in this little old world

for me.

                        

poem of the day 03.06.14

hit something

my wife thinks that

i should hit something

join a gym, she says
and hit one of those heavy bags

you have too much old aggression in you
you’re like a wounded fifteen year-old boy sometimes

they did a number on me back then, i say

but i don’t want to join a gym
i want to find them and hit them

you can’t, she says
you’ll get beat up or arrested

yes, the law even protects assholes

my wife touches my hair
you’re almost forty and you’re still taking on
high school bullies

i should’ve gone to my reunion to kick ass, i say
strangled a few of those bastards
as thanks for all the old years

what would that have solved?

a lot

you’d still come back here talking
about being the fat kid

i am what i am

maybe you should talk to someone professional

like a boxing trainer?

or a therapist, she says
you need to talk to someone and get it out

i have you, i tell her
and writing
and a vivid imagination

maybe it’s not enough, she says

maybe i need to track some of those guys down
and go toe to toe

or join a gym and take it out on a heavy bag

we’ve come full circle, i tell her
it’ll never be good enough with a heavy bag
i need flesh on flesh on blood and saliva

you need to talk to someone, she says

get it out
hit something inanimate

just not a person? i say

really, honey,
i think in your case it’s  for the best.

 

                                                           

Screaming With Brevity

a very good poet named Matthew J. Hall made mention of me and the great journal, Dead Flowers,
that we are both currently in together. HERE'S a link to Matthew's blog, Screaming with Brevity.  he's definitely worth checking out. 

poem of the day 03.05.14

to the young romantic in me

i was such a young romantic back then

my notebooks and journals were filled

with ruminations on the great american highway

the ol’ american highway as i called it

musing jazz music i hardly knew

anointing every truck driver a saint

downing gallons of coffee and beer like precious manna

writing about how reading ginsberg’s kaddish

was like connecting to a god

even though i couldn’t make it through the thing

and still can’t

i was so sensitive

too sensitive for all of the girls in pittsburgh

yet i walk around having crush after crush after crush

my poor girlfriend at the time

we had to break up  because i wasn’t the one for her

i wasn’t stable enough with my wild kerouacian dreams

of roaming the american landscape

when the only landscape i roamed

was a south side bar on a friday night

i was such a romantic and such a sensitive asshole

with my goatee and ever-present notebooks of gloom

writing “blues” poems full of gobbledygook

the first brave soul to ever put words to paper

having deep, profound, literary moments just brushing my teeth

or taking the morning bus to college

everything was art and art was everything

if i ran into young romantic self now

i’d have to hold myself back from beating my own ass

i’d grab my romantic self by the collar and tell him

to quit whining in those old journals and get a fucking job

get out of your parents’ house and get a clue

find a woman and let her destroy you

then try to be profound and romantic

when the rent comes due

and the money from all of those student loans you took

show up with the electric bill

try being romantic on the loud bus after work

when all you want is to go home and have a drink

or in the grocery store, asshole

when they’re out of coffee and cat food

and some bitch hits you with her cart

then tells you that it’s your fault

for daydreaming.                                              

poem of the day 03.04.14

heroin chic

i lost seventy pounds

between my junior and senior year of high school

i did it through diet and exercise

only i told everyone that i could

that i was on heroin but that i’d kicked it

the bullies and the jocks

the pretty girls on the bus

who’d laughed at me and my fat boy crushes

heroin, i said

really? they said

like they couldn’t believe it

you don’t seem the type, dude

but i am, dude

they always asked why

it was probably because they never

had anything to worry about

being bullies and jocks and pretty girls on the bus

i wanted to say it was because of them

that i’d turned to drugs

but i didn’t know anything about heroin

i only drank beer

so i always said, depression, man

and they didn’t even understand that

but depression seemed like a reason for doing heroin

the rumor didn’t get around too much

but the guidance counselor caught on

he was an all right guy

albeit a little too concerned

he pulled me out of class a lot

so that we could talk in the hallways

about how i was feeling

he always wanted to talk about heroin

this place is a trap

it stifles individuality, i said

it’s a factory for the self-righteous and dull

but the heroin, he said

i can’t wait to leave here and never come back, i said

i’d burn this place if i could get away with it

if you don’t tell me about the heroin

i’m calling your parents, he said

there was no heroin, i said

you’re lying, he said

i lost weight through diet and exercise

let me see your arms, he said

can’t you see this place is killing me? i said

and on and on and on

until i rolled up my sleeves and showed him my arms

why’d you tell everyone it was heroin? he asked

boredom, i said

after that he stopped coming to get me out of class

and it got around that i’d just lost weight

the bullies and the jocks and the pretty girls on the bus

weren’t intrigued by that

i went back to being ignored again

back with other outcasts like big pink and fat elephants

hiding in the corner of the room

at their homecoming dances

and their mother fucking prom

Oscar Varona!!

straight out of Samuel Beckett/William S. Burroughs land....i give the great Oscar Varona in Ascent Aspirations Magazine 

poem of the day 03.03.14

the loneliest man on the morning bus

no one sits next to me on the bus

not ever

this isn’t a complaint but a fact

the bus could be crowded

yet the seat next to me is left unoccupied

with people standing and getting knocked around

by potholes on the street

even the elderly won’t give me a shot

i don’t know what it is about me

i used to think maybe it was that i was fat

and took up too much room

or that i was ugly or smelled bad

but there is much worse on the bus than i

the only conclusion that i can come up with

is that i simply do not exude

the dopey charisma and go getter vibe

that it takes to make it on weekday mornings in america

and that these people who sneer at me

and chose to stand

rather than sit in relative comfort

can plainly see the failure

and lack of ambition that must flow from me

like a niagara falls of catastrophe

as we all ride this trap

toward our work-a-day fate

…or maybe i’m wrong

and i really do smell