poem of the day 09.30.14

6:05

well

i don’t believe in writer’s block

but here i am

6:05 in the morning

and i can’t think of a thing

maybe my life is just not interesting enough

maybe there’s too much shit going on

it’s late september and hot as hell

here in babylon

it was a cool summer

but they are giving it to us in the end

everything seems flipped

on its head these days or gone backward

beheadings, drones, war, and racists in the heartland

there is more to digest

but it all ends up causing stomach pains

i can’t even get drunk right

and the philistine upstairs is blasting his tv again

maybe he’s doing it the correct way

he’s certainly not sitting here at 6:05

suffering over bad poems

sweating with music and the bad news of the world

trying to come in through radio static

he has cheery morning anchors on

i can hear their exuberance through the thin walls

there is nothing worse than cherry morning anchors

except maybe

hemorrhoids or herpes 

only in millions of cases

both of those are completely curable.                                        

poem of the day 09.29.14

the ghost of bugs bunny

he had two rabbit teeth

carried a tattered suitcase

and hung around the reading room

in the library with the other bums

we saw each other on my smoke breaks

occasionally i’d let him bum one

one afternoon i was outside playing at writer

with all of these poems scattered on the pavement

putting together a manuscript that no one

but one friend and my girlfriend would ever read

when he said, is that your life’s work?

sorta, i said

bugs bunny tapped his tattered suitcase

this is my life’s work, he said

poems, novels, short stories

thirty-six years of hard work

shit, i thought

there’s my future if i keep

at this grand larceny of my life and time

i started gathering the poems up off of the ground

i wondered if the banks were hiring

he said, never give up

never give up is my motto

okay, i said

because quit and quit hard was mine

i put all of the poems in my bag

i planned on the ritual burning at midnight

you gotta have a dream, he said

he tapped his suitcase again

and i thought about

the thousands upon thousands

of unread words farted

on all of that yellow paper

i gave him a smoke

without his even asking

then i went back inside the library

intent on finding something else to kill the hours with

but i never did

and i never saw

that old word slinger again.

                                                            

Hiatus

Winedrunk Sidewalk will be on hiatus until Monday, September 29th.

poem of the day 09.18.14

the good times are killing me

we wait for seth to say

time for vodka shots?

as if that’s the question of the hour

three beers deep

a bottle or so of wine at home to be consumed

forty years old and for some reason

i keep hanging on to all of this

when i want so hard to stop and let go

the good times are killing me

and seth and you and everyone who’s always in here

the stomach burns and the sides hurt

only what the doctors don’t know won’t hurt ‘em

cheers, seth says

he’s not trying to be ironic but…

we take the shots down and he says,

man, all i want is my girl back

even though she cracked his face a few times

and left him knee deep in family misery

but abandonment makes the heart grow fonder

or so i’ve been told

and when seth picks up our pints

for round four on the house

there’s no point in stopping him

because we know where the real joy comes from

so i slouch off the stool

to put two more greenbacks in the juke

hear seth talking to you

the same sad story over and over again

his redundancy as brilliant as ours

the american dream in full bloom here

this lonely afternoon.                                                    

poem of the day 09.17.14

ode to the strip joints

twenty-one in pittsburgh

i guess there wasn’t much for guys like us to do

if we didn’t want to go to the bars or clubs

we went to strip joints some nights

for calvin and steve

it was a chance to see half-naked women

for me it was a chance

to get away from the only one

that i was currently seeing naked

the joints were never as bad

as people made them out to be

yes, they were smoky and soaked in neon

and the beer was over-priced

the bouncers could be assholes too

but the strip joints were a refuge of a sort

a place to hang your loneliness there with everyone else

plus there were the half-naked girls dancing

to r&b and heavy metal music

most of the women and their names

time has forgotten for me

but we liked this one, majesty

she was a buxom redhead with big tits and a nice ass

that she always loved to shove in your face

before you handed her over a dollar

she could’ve been twenty-five or forty back then

she could still be stripping now

majesty always paid attention to us guys

maybe because we looked gullible

or because we were the youngest ones in the joint

lord knows she made her money off of us

calvin and steve always fought over which one of them

was going to take her home

the strip joints were also places of magnificent fantasy

until one night majesty planted a kiss

right on steve’s glasses

fogging them with hot pink lipstick

that he could never get completely off

well, that pissed him good

so instead of hitting the strip joints

we spent some nights casing downtown pittsburgh

looking for whores

which calvin and steve thought

was kind of like doing the same thing

but from my drunken position in the backseat

looking at all of the closed-up shops

in the desolate city of my birth

listening to them argue about which one was going first

as i imagined majesty twirling and hustling

sticking that gorgeous ass in some other guy’s face

i felt that it was something different

almost sinister

like cheating indeed.

                                    

poem of the day 09.16.14

pictures of jesus

my grandma

had a picture of jesus

hanging on her bedroom wall

it was the one where jesus’ eyes were shut

but if you watched the picture it seemed

as if they were following you around the room

it was a creepy optical illusion

like watching a politician pass a vital law

my aunt had a picture

of jesus on his cross

looking down upon the earth from heaven

i think

and every time i saw the thing

all i could think was

shit, that’s a big piece of wood

the other day

i took a picture of a statue of jesus

holding the two world trade centers in his hands

i was going to put it on my facebook page

with the caption: the day jesus said oops

but i didn’t feel like

being an asshole that day

so i deleted the photo from my camera

and walked along

until i came to an intersection

with the bright sun bleeding onto the urban stage

of people scratching their asses

and waiting to cross the street

thinking this is as close

to god or jesus that i’ll ever get

so i started snapping away.        

You can read this wonderful review of my new poem book Starting with the Last Name Grochalski 

right HERE.  Thank you Ada Fetters from Commonline Journal!

                                              

poem of the day 09.15.14

juvenilia we

though i have a few hanging in my closet

that i never wear

i still find it strange to see grown men

walking around in t-shirts and jerseys

with another man’s surname stitched across the back

the virile american male

hoisting a pint and screaming in front

of sixteen widescreen televisions on a sunday afternoon

dressed like a kept woman in her boyfriend’s clothes

or maybe it’s just that the american male

dresses like a child to compensate for something else

like this guy on the train shouting at his woman

he must be pushing fifty

but he’s got his ball cap cocked sideways

a triple x sized football jersey on

and baggy nike air shorts that go down to his ankles

he has a gold necklace of his favorite team

that keeps hitting him in the chin

every time he turns to give his woman the verbal business

he looks angry and about ten years old

save the gray hair on his sides and the wrinkles all over

maybe he’s got a small penis

or simply has a bitch for a wife

i suppose the same argument could be made for older women

still trying to dress like teenage fuck doll queens

it’s bad fashion sense or a sign of the times

there was once a time when men wore suits for leisure

and women wore skirts in a field of play

and that didn’t make much sense either

still, i’m curious where this is going

like i wonder what awaits me

forty years from now

when they finally lock me up with the other senior citizens

will it be like it always was?

floral print and polyester handed out at the door

or will it be a room full of old sad bastards

dressed like children

wrinkled women

with suggestive phrases written across

their wide and flabby asses

and their tits hanging out for popular consumption

and rooms full of wasted men of all races

with their hats on backwards

gold chains and their underwear hanging out

listening to rap music and calling each other nigga

as we all sip soup through straws

and wait for our medicines to lull us into

a nice and peaceful rest

from our everlasting youth.

                                               

poem of the day 09.12.14

on her knees

i thought

that i was supposed

to sit on her knees

fourteen years-old

and i was the fattest kid in the place

some weeklong summer camp

that my parents sent me to for future leaders

i didn’t want to be a leader

future or otherwise

but i didn’t want to be lead

still i thought

that i was supposed to sit on her knees

jenny clemente

the cutest girl in the place

it was some kind of trust exercise

so i started making fat jokes

because i was good at doing that

i was a born leader at making fat jokes

i made the fat jokes

before someone could make them for me

jenny kept giving me a look

that i didn’t understand

most people laughed when i made fat jokes

it gave me an inflated sense of self despite my girth

but jenny looked sad

her leadership skill had to be her empathy

when it was time to do the trust exercise

it was jenny who had to sit on my knees

for a minute or two

her warm ass cheeks just resting there

while i wondered if they did things like this

in the white house

but then it hit me

shit, she thought that i was making fat jokes

about her

god i felt so bad

i knew that i had to establish a détente

when the exercise was over

i tapped jenny on the shoulder

and said, i’m….

but she gave me the finger

then walked over to the other side of the room

toward this guy she’d been flirting with all week

mike kosinski

he was the cutest boy in the place

jenny whispered something in his ear

then the two of them stared me down

my very own power couple

looking like they wanted to bomb my fat ass

back into the stone age.

                                               

poem of the day 09.11.14

stuff

she was insistent

that i drive out to her house to get my stuff

i don’t want your stuff hanging

around here anymore

it had been less than a week since we’d ended

i’m sick of looking at

all of your stuff, she told me on the phone

i went out to her house on a saturday night

a week before we had been going to the movies

or going out for bad mexican food

having bad sex in her bedroom

now we were face to face in her dining room

with all of my stuff scattered on the table

and two black garbage bags

like deflated balloons hung over a chair

i want you to take your stuff and go, she said

but then she started crying when i began packing everything

i hate you, she said

she ran upstairs to play more

sad break-up music on her stereo

it was supposed to be symbolic

the music boomed throughout her house

i just kept thinking of the poor neighbors

who had to put up with our shit

while she was gone

i got most of my stuff into one black garbage bag

old denim shorts, hoodies

books i’d let her borrow that she’d never read

she had two of my poetry manuscripts

and i was glad to have them back

the poetry inside was bad but at least it was mine

she’d ripped out both dedications

and had them crumpled into a ball

with more of my stuff

i tried to leave before she came back down

but i wasn’t fast enough

what’s this? she said, pointing back into the dining room

there’s still stuff on the table

true….but it was stuff that i had given her as gifts

stuffed animals, a framed photo, perfume, a tin ring

a journal because she wanted to be a poet too

she had the christmas ornament that i’d given her

on the table too

that’s not my stuff, i said

well, i don’t want them, she said

she tore into the dining room like a maniac

and started putting all of that stuff into the other garbage bag

including the crumpled dedications

all of your poems are lies, she said

the music was booming in her home so loudly

that i couldn’t think

i couldn’t wait to get out of there

i needed a cigarette and a vodka

some friends and i, we were going to a bar later

to meet a few girls and talk about some stuff

here, she said

she tossed the other garbage bag at me

it landed at my feet with some stuffed animal

looking me right in the eye

so i grabbed the other bag and hit the road

while she wailed and her shitty, loud music played

i crossed her street for the last time

i looked like some sad sack santa claus

with two huge bags of stuff slung over my back

then i sat in my car

i smoked a cigarette

and read some of my bad poems

i watched her watching me

from her dining room

you could hear the music blasting from outside

then she shut the light off

and i crushed my smoke

i threw the poetry manuscripts in the back seat

and drove off with no music playing

thinking it was hard to be the sensitive artist type

and wondering where in the hell

i could find a garbage can big enough

to hold all of this stuff.

                                    

poem of the day 09.10.14

homeless guy on the n train

he’s taken up

a residency here

found a place in new york

where the rents won’t put your daydreams into hock

and when he stands to slap box his shadow, man

…see how they run

he’s scaring the stiffs

who get on here every day

with their ten-gallon coffees and smartphones

various scents of whore perfume

and gigolo cologne

enough of a pleasant odor to choke the air

from brooklyn to manhattan

fearful blobs standing huddled

against the poles and doors

powdered faces into scented armpits into

primped coifed hair into manicured fingers

anywhere around him

there’s always a seat to chose

as sea of plastic that he slides up and down

the ghost of christmas yet to come for millions

with his arms flailing and beatific smile on his face

making little kids laugh

when he pulls his dirty green snowcap

over his dirty green face

until their mothers pull them away

throw a video game machine

in their hands 

to beep and blop away the vagrancy    

plucking away at his beard like a fiddle                         

poem of the day 09.08.14

george the racist

george the racist

used to lean against the bar

with his workman clothes

and his vodka and orange juice

he’d guard the door

in case any unknown undesirables

would try to get inside the joint

it took nearly two years for the man

to stop glaring at me

he was a slum lord

who had it in for all minorities

once a black tattoo artist

came in for a beer

you would’ve thought someone

had taken a shit in george’s drink

when he left george the racist

sucked down half of his vodka-orange

then turned up his face like he was crying

to mock the black and mexicans and chinese

oh, poor me, he cried

oh why can’t the government help me

motherfuckers, he grumbled

then he sunk back into his white male privilege

to kill off the other half of his drink

before whipping out a stack of bills

all that rent money given him by his sworn enemies

to buy himself another round

like he was the king of close-minded brooklyn

i didn’t like george the racist for obvious reasons

but mostly for the way he glared at me

those two years

when all i was trying to do

was have a drink or three to shake off

my work day

i figured if it ever went down for me

in that place

it would either be with him

or with someone else because of him

but it never happened

the bar closed instead

and the whole lot of us scattered like flies

toward new piles of shit

george the racist drinks down at dean’s now

with the few who can still tolerate him

sometimes i think about

going down there for a drink or three

just to see what would happen

see if good old george

would start staring me down again

as if i were new

but it’s not worth it to me

and, besides

if i want to be watched

i can stand on any street corner in america

at any time

where the george the racists

running the government

keep their eyes on everyone

no matter what color you are.

                                                

poem of the day 09.05.14

margaret in 5G

took me for a potential rapist

in the laundry room

once when i was trying to wash

my stained underwear

now, she’s rapping on my door with her cane

because she can’t get her ass

back up to her own apartment

with both elevators broken in this place

my how the tides have turned, i think

sipping on the first of many wines

but i get up to help margaret anyway

because vindictiveness is not all

that it’s cracked up to be

she’s sweat-soaked and confused in the lobby

she says, it’s so hot

i tell her that’s because she’s wearing a jacket

in ninety-degree heat

she’s like a hunchback walking around in circles

dazed and confused on a wednesday night

i hope to christ that i never get this old and helpless

that i’ll have courage to throw myself

in the east river if i can’t even get in my front door

margaret says, grab my bags, will you?

she smacks a sack of barnes and noble bags with that cane

and i grab them all like we’re both coming home

from a day of shopping in the city

margaret says, get behind me, god damn it

so i don’t fall

and for five flights i’m on her like i’m lester hayes

as we take one step at a time

in the sweltering sludge of this dying summer

the trim and the fit

are racing up and down the steps

a few look and shake their heads

either at margaret or at me

they are the new breed in this building and i despise them all

by the fifth floor i feel like shit

i can smell that glass of wine coming through

my nostrils and my pores

margaret still has that jacket on

she’s a stream of sweat and damp hair

and i wonder how in the hell she’s still doing it

she says, put my bags by the door

so i do

then i come back over to get her

but she waves me away

margaret says, you want anything for doing this?

like a drink or some money?

i tell her no and then introduce myself

so that maybe next time in the laundry room

we can both just fold our sheets instead of hurling accusations

then head back down the stairs

it’s much easier this way

i pass some jack ass

kicking at the stalled elevator door

he’s forty years younger than margaret

and i got about fifteen on him

he sighs and grunts

tells me how this is a bunch of bullshit

then he goes back to manically pressing buttons

smacking his head against the door

praying, betting on the fountain of youth

to get him there.

                                               

poem of the day 09.04.14

little victories

side street

brooklyn

green lawns

lined with the

smiling visage

of a tax evading

politician

who will probably be

reelected

into this american

meat grinder

for a third or fourth term

this fall

instead of going to jail

and there are

two cops

smiling in the

morning sun

writing parking tickets

to the sound

of beethoven’s third

as an old man

yells at them

his wife holding

the front door

screaming and crying

for his old

stupid ass

to get back inside

to let these

brave heroes

do their job

to let them

finish

winning the war

on sanity

that this country

has declared

against

us all

                                   

poem of the day 09.03.14

it pays to drink at home

a jukebox full of my hard-earned dollars

playing james brown and the temptations

and it’s still not good enough for this guy

he has to have his cell phone blasting

some club song to impress his friends

when the bartender comes over to see what’s up

he says, whatever, man, i’m puetro rican

by way of an excuse

it’s been a long hard summer that won’t end

i’ll be honest i’ve been looking

to hurt someone since june

and this guy sort of fits the bill

so i glare at him until he notices

hoping he wants to go the rounds

instead he shuts the phone off and shrugs to his buddies

he starts talking about how he was a marine

looking at me while he tells everyone around him

how tough you got to be to get through basic

then he and his buddies have another margarita

he complains to the bartender how last time

he used too much lime juice

then they start quoting classic films

and giggling like little girls

as smokey robinson struggles over the din

and the bartender says to me

hey, man, you ever chase a vodka shot

with a glass of pickled beet juice?

pouring me something ice white and blood red

into two perfect little glasses

meant to take it all away

poem of the day 09.02.14

two patriots

he licks his crisco lips

wipes the mcdonald’s grease off his mouth

he says, and don’t get me started

on that traitor in the white house

oh, that commie, she says

sucking down coca-cola through an oil pipe

i’m a revolutionary, he says

the silent majority reborn

i have to watch my mouth or else the government

will be on me like white on rice

speaking of white, she says

and they both laugh

my friend’s husband is a cop

he said all that missouri black had to do

was go along with it and get processed

i mean what’s the big deal?

it’s not like he didn’t know the drill

he says, it’s the way them kids dress

as he hershey stains another disney shirt

if they didn’t dress that way

the cops wouldn’t be on their asses like that

it’s their parents, she says

they were probably criminals

so what chance did he have?

i mean really, he says

flipping his zippo and daydreaming

those smoky marlboro skies

and come to think of it, iraq, syria

whatever happened to just blowing

them fuckers to bits?

have we lost our guts or what?

i’d make it all a parking lot, she says

rows and rows of jeeps and fords

as far as the eye can see

that’s too far, he says

why don’t we just nuke mexico

and make that the parking lot?

that poor cop, she says, burping budweiser sonnets

someone should take up a fund for him

a good ol’ boy just trying to do his job, he says

just like all the rest of us

it’s getting harder and harder for us here, she says

you can’t even be a patriot anymore

without somebody giving you shit

god bless america, he says

america love it or leave it, she says

scratching her ass and sniffing it

my country right or wrong, he says

yeah, she says

but for how much longer?