poem of the day 06.30.14

the royal couple

the royal couple

get on the bus at fort hamilton

she’s a good looking girl

got those doe eyes that drive boys wild

i don’t see his face

but he’s got a punisher t-shirt on

so he’s probably an asshole

she sits behind us and he follows

they start right away

he tries grabbing her notebook

and she says, get off of me asshole

then she slaps at his face

he says, why you hittin’?

all the while blocking more of her blows

he says, you started it anyway, bitch

goin’ out with some dude last night that i don’t know

she says, leave me a lone

i have to do my shit

she’s the studious sort

he says, well, what about that?

she says, what about the girl at the party last night?

so it’s my fault that some girl

sent me naked photos of herself? he says

it’s a twenty-first century love story, i think

everyone on the bus is watching this fairytale courtship

we’re a hustling, moving camelot

he reaches for her notebook again

she hits at him, kicks

he’s moving around like a boxer trying to block her

the two of them are smacking at the back of our seats

i turn to my wife

i’m going to have to turn around and punch this guy

aren’t i?

she shrugs

she’s got other things on her mind this humid morning

but she says, he’s pretty big

i try getting a look at him

out of the corner of my eye

as he’s bobbing and weaving from the slaps

all i see is that punisher t-shirt

the doe-eyed girl seems to be doing enough damage to him

so there’s really no need for me to be the hero

she finally gets one in

a nice crack that resounds up and down the bus

and prince charming stops his shit

he sits stone still rubbing his face and sniffling

as our chariot rumbles slowly down 86^th street

picking up the other distinguished members

of their royal court.

                                                

poem of the day 06.27.14

through a tube

she says, remember my husband’s cancer?

i don’t want to have this conversation

but i don't have anywhere to go

because this is my job

maybe she has no one to talk to

yes, i tell her

well they got it out. 

fifteen hours of surgery

skin cancer that got trapped in the jaw

can you believe it? she says

i don’t say anything

i catch myself rubbing my chin and stop

that’s why i didn’t pick

these books up on time, she says

because i was at the hospital with him

it’s all right, i say

he wanted to read them so badly

but he couldn’t do much of anything

for a month

he’s staying with his parent’s now

and my son is helping me out at home

that’s a good kid, i tell her

my husband is on chemo, she says

it’s not too bad

but he’s sick a lot of the time

he’s lost so much weight, she says

i nod

the co-worker next to me sighs

all of this sickness is interfering with

his video games and rabid animal videos

the weight isn’t the worst part, she says

what is? i ask

it’s that he can’t eat anything

it’s all liquid, she says

that’s the worst part seeing him like that

taking his food through a tube

she smiles and picks up the stack of books

looks me dead in the eye

my goodness, she says

the way that man used to love a good meal.

                                  

poem of the day 06.25.14

nineteen

i just wanted to go back to bed

all of the time

smoke cigarettes

smoke pussy….if i could get it

drink my old man’s beer when he wasn’t around

i wanted to leave where i was for greener pastures

that were most likely another mirage

oh, how i enjoyed my depression

the ones now are like little businessmen

they barely have a dull moment carved into their lives

or when they do they’re bored

they call themselves writers and artists freely

have grand business schemes worked out

are best friends with their parents

don’t drink

don’t smoke

let their peer group live their examined lives for them

as they enjoy the monotony of the work day a little too well

and they’re always smiling too

maybe it’s the corn syrup and internet access

the fear of an unwinding climate in the back of their heads

but back then i was unmotivated and happily so

you couldn’t tell me anything and you still can’t

i could kill days staring at walls

and doing little else

i hated going to a job

almost as much as i do now

man, i excelled at being indolent

to me, these kids today are aliens

they’re excitable corporate larvae

dancing in front of security cameras omnipotent

letting the whole world know where they are

all of the time

completely without the knowledge of how to get lost

how to disappear completely

on any random afternoon.                                

poem of the day 06.24.14

so this is what death feels like

the sound of the doctor’s voice

telling the nurse to wake me up

slap him if you have to, he says

so she does

but not hard

open his eyes

and then there are fingers clamping my lids

opening my eyes

everything around me is blurry and yellow

until the lids drop again

and then it is black

the doctor, the nurse,

someone lifts my arm

i try to keep it up but the limb drops

back on the bed

he’s trying, the nurse says to the doctor

so this is what death feels like, i’m thinking

a struggle just like life

i try moving in the bed

but nothing is really working

lift his leg, the doctor says

someone does

i’m able to keep it up for a few seconds

before it falls back as well

someone slaps me again

i’m starting to feel like larry fine

they lift the eyes a second time

i manage two or three seconds

blurry

yellow

faces coming at me with stale breath

then it all goes black again

while in my mind i’m running as fast as i can

away from this

toward a green ocean

when the doctor says, slap him again

and i wait patiently

for the impact.

                                    

poem of the day 06.23.14

washington square park

in the early birth of the summer

americans love the sun so much

yet none of them are sitting in it

we try to find something in the shade but it is hard

with all of the other sun gods and goddesses

fanning themselves off beneath the thick trees

and there is music, of course

swing dancing and someone playing gershwin on piano

the young are tanning themselves

all healthy bodies and miserable downturned faces

i feel just like henry james

and you dear, you can be edith wharton

we’ll sit here escaping slivers of sun

eating halal food and drinking water

as two girls in short shorts crowd our space

to try on high heels, plucking their ukuleles

mabybe we can find out what it is

the people love so much about these ninety days

we’ll watch three legged dogs shit in flower beds

and little brats on scooters take down senior citizens

while their parents laugh and take photos of the arch

we’ll take the propaganda fliers

from the two ladies in rainbow-colored umbrella hats

if they offer them

shake our heads at the ubiquitous joggers

sweating away their souls in this heat\

break the rules and toss falafel and rice to the pigeons

because what do rules mean

in the early birth of the summer?

as the ice cream and coca-cola people stroll by

in american colors and baseball caps

with their dumbs smiles and confidence

patriots making the most of their weekend

letting us all feel like winners

once again this year.

                                    

poem of the day 06.20.14

if you see something say something

there are signs posted all over

the new york city subway system

if you see something, say something

like an empty handbag or briefcase or knapsack

some suspicious person wandering around

guys in turbans with long beards, perhaps

if you see something, say something

with a handy telephone number at the ready

a email address, a way to text away the terror

if you see something…

but not some tired-ass mother on the after work train

coming from one job and going to the next

because the rents are too high to live any kind of life

trying to feed her kids a fast food meal for sustenance

or the homeless dude camped out on the N train

stinking and rotting, continuing to be a public nuisance

because he’s failed to die

if you see something, say something

don’t be afraid

don’t be shy

tan-skinned people congregating in secret groups

prayers groups not praying to your god

a man of science reading one of those books

if you see something…

like hordes of teenage assholes terrorizing stiffs

blasting music and slapping each other with wet beach towels

calling each other names

failing at life

getting high on street corners in the morning

before the goddamned school day has even begun

and sexually harassing young women who are only

trying to go the hell home

while fucking, smirking, douche bag cops hang back

checking the shopping bags of tourists

like the good heroes that they are

if you see something, say something

it’s that easy in new york city to become a rat

it’s the american way

because we’re all scared here

afraid of being blown up again and again and again

if you see something….

like swirling puddles of piss

and human excrement smeared on subway steps

puddles of white foam lining the streets

and dead birds by the dozen along each scorching block

garbage men flinging garbage onto the concrete

bits of carrion and blood-soaked napkins

swirling potato chips bags shining in the sunlight

if you see something…

say something…for christ’s sake

even though there are cameras on every block

even though everyone has got one

and your neighbors are now world class spies

there is still a chance for you to become one of us

because this whole place as gone mad with heat

and murder and fear and violence and dunderheaded audacity

it is another cesspool summer here

waiting for the flood waters to rise again

and drown this hulking beast for sure

take us down to the depths of the ocean

for a cleansing

but if you see something, say something

tell it to the politician shaking hands

tell it to the fireman getting drunk as we blaze

tell it to your friendly neighborhood celebrity

whisper it into our ears

or shout it from the top of the empire state building

the top of the rock

if you see something, say something

because we want to know

because we’re always listening.

                                                

poem of the day 06.19.14

well....i've reached the bottom of the poetic barrel once again.
it happens.  such is the hazard of doing an almost daily poem blog.
hey....at least it isn't a "best of" poem today.

steve jobs

reading richard hugo poems

i’m not really reading richard hugo poems

i’m listening to some woman cackle

she’s bent over an iphone

head to head with her cackling friend

the two of them are laughing at a video

it is an ubiquitous experience these days

albeit still a bit jarring at the volume of their braying jollity

all the same it makes me wonder

what the world would be like now

if we didn’t have these little gadgets to amuse us so

if that bald, black turtleneck wearing

white sneaker sporting nerd

hadn’t forever punctuated the silence

with his magical and entertaining gadgets

oh, it would probably be someone else in the hot seat

i put down the richard hugo

there is no point in even trying with the noise

emanating from these two broads

i watch my fellow passengers

each person bent into a device

curled into it on a hard seat as if communing with a lover

and i think of the strife

the mass murderers, the dictators, the disease

the famine, the planet warming at an uncontrollable rate

i think of the virtual slave labor that it takes

to make just one iphone out of the millions

and i wonder anew at what the world would have been like

if a guy like steve jobs had put his money and his mind

into people and the planet

instead of all of these technological toys

how he could’ve maybe reached the same end

that he was searching for all along

progress.

                                                

poem of the day 06.18.14

salsa dancing

she thinks she’s bad

she thinks she’s the shit

salsa dancing under the new utrecht subway sign

in her tight turquois pants

and a white blouse that can no longer hold her tits

she thinks she’s the sexiest thing here

one hand on her belly

the other raised like she’s pledging allegiance

moving at the hips

bending at the knees

swaying her ass against the cold brick

looking around behind big sunglasses to make sure

that everyone is watching

she’s not even young

this woman is hitting fifty with a bullet

so it was either do this for attention

or start shouting at someone on her phone

she thinks she’s so bad ass

with her big gold earrings bouncing off her sunken cheeks

with her croaking mini-mouse voice belting out

ghostly celia cruz crap that’s enough to wake the dead

she thinks she’s the superstar on this platform

if only her moves could make the train come quicker

i can’t stop looking at her

she’s like a highway wreck

she catches me and when i look away

she thinks i’m being coy

because when i turn back she’s facing me

doing her dance to the hilt

getting as low as her old body will let her

she smiles at me through hot pink lipstick

all yellow teeth and gaps

when she starts singing again

i start to get a good ball of phlegm going in my mouth

i let it shoot just as she hits another high note

green and thick and shot her way

it doesn’t go the distance but i’ve made my point

she frowns and stops shaking it for a moment

she thinks i’m the biggest asshole here

and she may be correct

but then she turns and salsa dances away from me

down the platform toward someone else

someone who she hopes will be

a bigger patron of her art.

                                               

poem of the day 06.17.14

morning talk shows

sitting in waiting rooms anywhere

they are always on the tv

these smiling chipper beasts of the morning

with the cup of coffee that they never touch

acting like they’re hooked on speed

these white teethed and tanned monsters

laughing and shouting and telling the most mundane of stories

in between screeching jingle music

and giving away trips to island destinations

that no one but themselves can afford

i look around to see if anyone is watching this horror show

but no one is

the people are waiting to find out about cancer

or their loved ones illness or their car

or their pet or their passport or something else

other than finding out which party these televised creeps

attended last night

or whether or not they take shits in airplanes

or something that their pampered little offspring did

i don’t know why these service places torture us with such pap

is it to drown out our very insignificance?

or do they actually like this stuff?

fitness gurus hiding their liposuction scars

emaciated chefs frying up the cheese and lard

vain doctors giving us tips on elective surgery

shitty pop stars and actors in interviews

giving anecdotes on how they’re just like everyone else

i wonder what would happen

if i just got up and shut it off

removed those sparkling botox devils from this waiting room

so that we could all sit in silence for a change

get on with the business of living and dying

worry about the things that truly need to be done

instead of sitting here suffering this

these morning talk shows

constipating us on their cheer

making us deaf, dumb and blind on their sunshine

their tidbits about movies and concerts and jewelry

this season’s must have fashions

and the hottest reads to take with you

when your tired ass settles in for that one week of solace

at the overcrowded, stinking beach.                                                                             

poem of the day 06.16.14

bridge and tunnel to nowhere

she’s the loudest one in here

she keeps shouting to seth

seth! oh seth, do you know me?

do you remember?

seth serves booze to a hundred people a night

five or six days a week

twelve hour shifts on the weekend

he shrugs, okay i guess i know you

she says, i want my regular

seth pours her the first bottle he grabs

something sweet and full of alcohol

which she, her girlfriend

and their two dullard husbands chug

after toasting to life

then they shout away and order a round of beers

before going off to infest the rest of the bar

jersey, seth says to me, bridge and tunnel people

as if that should explain it all away

it only gets worse with them

she attacks the jukebox with her husband

they find the worst stuff on it

1980s top-40 pop

the music of their glory years

then they sing over music

that should already be dead and gone

seth! she shouts

seth, pour us another round!

and shots! the other dullard husband says

which causes them all to whoop and scream again

they gather around my wife and i

to consume to second round

to talk such inanities as kids

and mortgages, jobs, and time square trinket shops

her husband is proud of his bubba gump hooded sweatshirt

he’s showing it to all of them

and they decide to toast shitty movies from the 90s too

i tell seth, this is horrible

if i wanted to be tortured today

i would’ve gone to work

i’ve seen worse, he says.  much worse

and i’m sure he has

when the bad 1980s pop music stops

i get up to go and play a few tunes

before they get any brilliant ideas

i think to play whatever will get these people

back on their bridge and tunnel to nowhere

some buzzcocks, some kinks, or maybe beethoven

but while i’m standing at the jukebox

this fat apparition appears behind me in the warped glass

it’s the husband

in his red shirt wearing his red hat

from a red college in a red state

you playing anything good? he asks

which is so fucking ironic that i want to spit

tell me what you hate in here, and i’ll play it, i tell him

there’s a pregnant pause

but then he laughs out loud

and slaps me on the back

like i went to rockefeller center with him that day

before going back to give them all a story

that really isn’t a story

but maybe something that they can toast to

should they still be standing

by the next round.                                             

poem of the day 06.13.14

twins

hungover on 3^rd avenue

just standing there

when he gets right up in my face

he points to my goatee

and then his own

do you, do you think i could get my goatee

that long one day?

i’d once watched him eat an entire hero sandwich

off of his barrel chest on the B4 bus

anything is possible, i tell him

look, look, he says, excitedly

we both got salt and pepper in our hair

yes, we’re both old

we’re like twins

almost, i say

i check my watch

wonder what is taking my wife so long

in the goddamned bagel store

i’m forty-four, he tells me

forty-four and wearing american flag suspenders

i’m forty, i answer

because…why in the fuck not?

ah, we’re both generation x

still stuck in the melancholy

and infinite sadness, i tell him

we had the best music, he says

the beatles, the stones, the who

the doors, the monkees, and the dead

that was our parents music, i say

we had cobain, 2pac, and a bunch of other crap

he frowns

i keep thinking of that sandwich on his chest

the way he picked away at the lettuce

and mayonnaise covered meat

until he had nothing but stains left on his t-shirt

it was the closest i’d ever seen

to anyone being truly free in public

the beatles were our music, too, he says

if you say so, pal, i answer

twins, he says one more time

then he waddles on down the block

to the music of a couple of teenagers

pointing and laughing behind his back

and it’s really just one more thing in this world

that he and i have in common.

                                               

Anniversary "best of" poem of the day 06.12.14

pittsburgh like a postcard

full of wine and thai food

i ask you in november, 1997

what you’d like to do next

and you told me, whatever,

as long as it doesn’t involve you going one way

and me going the other

the instant when i knew loving you

would be a simple game of genius

played out in the first fall snow

that framed pittsburgh like a postcard.

                                                            04.01.13

poem of the day 06.11.14

starry night

the crowds

are gathered around starry night

as if it were the only painting in the world

what sad irony, huh vincent?

none of them seem to be looking at it

just taking pictures of the work and walking away

to find the next masterpiece

maybe there is nothing to look at anymore

but the idea of standing in front of something

that once held beauty and meaning

one guy is leaning into the painting so closely

with his tongue out frat boy style

as if he’s trying to lick those van gogh clouds

jostling for space

with hordes of sticky kids

who are touching the golden frame

as their parents laugh

and snap away more digital memories

nodding blindly at the guard

who keeps yelling about the sanctity of art

and how no one is supposed

to use flash photography

in this museum.

                                    

poem of the day 06.10.14

d train: hell is thy name

after work

there is mahler’s 10^th waiting for me

but there is also this guy

at the 25^th avenue stop

shouting into his little device

he’s running at it full throttle

whomever is on the other end is not

getting a word in edgewise

as if he weren’t bad enough

there are a pack of teenagers

throwing tennis balls up and down the train car

blasting rap beats out of cell phones

and flinging fast food pickles

against the scratched windows

and there is mahler’s 10^th waiting for me

only some kid starts crying

and his mom threatens to beat the shit out of him

which is nice

it’s a small courtesy

even though he doesn’t stop

but can she get the guy on the cell phone too?

the teenagers with their pickles and tennis balls?

maybe just the bitch whose sitting next to me

eating god knows what

that stinks like a dirty asshole baking in the sun

yet there is mahler’s 10^th waiting for me

and a train delay at 79^th street

so that new york’s finest can do a sweep of the d train

looking for international terrorists or another wallet thief

or to just harass an old woman by searching her bag

still

there is mahler’s 10^th

and the hope that some plague will strike this train

and infect this miserable city

one small, harmless genocide

or a meteorite will hit

wiping out a good four million of us in one blast

the guy on the phone and the teenagers

with the pickles and tennis balls

half of that dirty asshole baking in the sun

the wailing child

the cops and the thief

the old lady

a few of my neighbors

a plethora of barking dogs

that customer who is always telling me to smile

me

you

us

whatever it takes for christ’s sake

to let mahler’s 10^th play

as if it were the only unabated sound.

                                                           

poem of the day 06.09.14

fast food

she is handing them chicken

from an orange fast food box

a greasy drumstick for one

and a breast for the other

the youngest can’t hold his

so she’s hand feeding him

letting him take a bite

and then process it while she waits

i catch her sniffing the chicken leg

but she doesn’t have one for herself

she gets the biscuit that comes with the meal

the whole train car smells

of bread and grease, flesh and salt

people are shifting uncomfortably around them

for she has brought the hunger to all of us

her kids look so worn out

dirty and tousled from the day

the sun is still glaring in the ugly blue sky

but the middle child has his eyes closed

while he chews on the chicken leg

the older one doesn’t know what to do with the breast

he holds it

he picks at it while it rests on his jeans

eventually he lets it go

until his mother slaps at him to pick it back up

she hands him a napkin

and then gives the baby another go at his food

the whole small family

having their dinner on the d train home

tired and overworked and under-schooled

munching on the best deals in town

tonight it is chicken

tomorrow it may be burgers

or submarine sandwiches

the fruit of life

whose bright wax paper

and colorful cardboard

end up swirling like ribbons in the street

clogging our arteries

and our rusting drains.

                                               

poem of the day 06.06.14

desertion

sometimes

it takes the stronger man

to put down his gun

and walk away

then to stick around

stock still and dumb

like the rest of them

those good sheep

who are always poised

and at the ready

for the mindless fight

ahead.

                                   

poemS of the day 06.05.14

hello all

sorry for the unannounced hiatus.  was in Pittsburgh doing a reading and i've been trying
my best to not use technology when away or on the weekend (save when I'm working)
and i forgot to announce the break before i left.  that said, for the one or two of you who care
here is the "set list" from said reading.  New poems will return tomorrow.

thanks
jg

starting with the last name, grochalski

starting with the last name

grochalski

i could trace my lineage

down the bar

at sufak’s round corner

on saturday afternoons in pittsburgh

planting roots in the linoleum floor

with grandfathers and uncles and a stray cousin or two

starting with their last names

at the other end

working my way back down the bar

toward beer and shots

gambling pools and stray packs of smokes

tracing the lineage of everything

that emptied generations of family fortune

into the rusty till

of blue collar weekend genocide.

                                                            04.05.13

looking like an artist

i like those earrings you have

she tells me

you look very cool like that

and the long hair and beard

i keep trying to get my son

to grow his hair out

you look like some kind

of an artist, she says

a painter or poet

if only, i say to her

thinking about how

all of the poetry zines have rejected me lately

and the novel

just got sent back with

a letter from some assistant in chicago

who couldn’t even get

the title of the book

or my characters’ names right

i think about the paint dried up in the closet

and the stack of poetry books

that i can’t even give away

yet she stands there and smiles at me

while i’m nursing another

thursday morning wine and beer hangover

maybe the bloodshot eyes

and pale vomitous complexion

are doing something for her as well

to think it was so easy all along

if you can’t be

a decent artist

at least you can look like one.                         07.23.10

nothing about the world and love

i wanted so much love

from everyone

that my feelings always turned

to jealousy and hate

i mean why except the affections of the few anyway

when the whole world waited at my doorstep?

these are the kind of things

that i used to think

alone

inventing and reinventing myself

in that boyhood bedroom

first a painter and then an actor

a musician

finally a writer

who understood nothing about the world and love

or that to get anywhere

with just one person

it would have to be

endless lies

and naked confession

all of the time.

                                                                        04.09.13/04.10.13

bastille day

then he said

in all seriousness

how do you impress a french girl?

to which i said

a lot of  wine

some edith piaf

some serge gainsbourg

a little proust on the couch

and if that doesn’t work

show her your cock

while whistling yankee doodle dandy

reach for the butter

and tell her to bend over

mon cheri

because it’s bastille day

all day

just for her.

                        07.30.13

my niece in her thanksgiving dress

looking at the picture of

my niece in her thanksgiving dress

fifteen months old

and smiling without a care

i think she looks

just like my soon-to-be

ex-sister-in-law

which somehow

softens the blow of not seeing my niece

in over a year

but really

only just a little bit

                                                11.26.12

thursday afternoon

there are five of them

waiting on the platform at 20^th avenue

two girls and three boys

when they get on the train, loud and vicious

they split up

the girls go toward one end

the boys sit next to me

they give the girls a chance to sit down

and then smallest one

(isn’t it always the smallest one)

starts

he cups his mouth

he shouts, ya’ll a bunch a pussies

ya’ll cunts

lydia….cunt

you too, maria

ya’ll a bunch a pussies, he repeats

so that only the deaf and the dead haven’t heard him

no one responds to the kid

not even the girls

maybe we’ve all grown too accustomed to this shit

or we just want to get the hell home

christ, he’s not even that old

leaning more toward thirteen than a young man

up with fellas

down with ugly bitches, he shouts

and it echoes through the train like a cannon shot

then the boys slap each other five and laugh

they are all dressed the same

in clothing telling them to OBEY

well, i guess they’re off to a great start in this country

i look down toward the girls

they are laughing and playing music

if the boys have gotten to them you’d never know

but girls have to learn early here

they have to learn to scrape indignity off with a smile

bitch whore cunt pussies

at 61^st street the little boy rises with me to leave

but not before getting in one more shot

ya’ll is ugly pussy bitch, he shouts

then he gets off the train laughing

but it doesn’t last too long

his face turns into a permanent smirk

i look at him

i wonder what it would take to grab him in the station

right here

right now

put the fear of god in the little punk

tell him if i ever catch you talking to women like that again….

this strutting piece of american privilege

on a thursday afternoon

he wouldn’t listen to me anyway

i’d be another pussy

so i let him go toward his connecting train

and i go off toward mine

doing my part to let the misogyny perpetuate

wondering what in the world  i’ll say about this

to my wife

our mothers

your sisters

to everyone’s niece.

new colossus

she says, i feel like i live in china now

how’s that? i ask

by way of explanation

she waves her arms around the room

there are chinese people reading books

chinese talking on cell phones

chinese playing on the computer

or engaged in some other activity

somewhere down the block

a chinese family is buying some old italian’s home

it is true

we are the only two white people in the room

i knew i felt good for a reason, i say

i always feel good when whitey isn’t around

she gives me the same dirty look she always gives me

when i tell her i don’t celebrate the fourth of july

yeah, well, it’s the wave of future, she says

bring it on, i say. give me your tired, your poor…

she rolls her eyes

she looks poised to go into one of those rants

about the good old days of america

but she settles for, this ain’t my country no more

then she glares around the room

goes back to video games on facebook

the three cell phones she keeps that beep and chortle

and make the most inane robotic noises

nods at a meme that says

america love it or leave it

as the battle hymn of the republic plays

on and on and on and on.                                              05.14.14

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 prescription pills and divorce

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.                                                                                      01.09.14