poem of the day 10.31.14

a nightmare before christmas

jaws kept walking around

the front of the store

he said, you missed a spot…there

….and….there

then i’d have to bring the mop back from the stockroom

and do the whole section over again

jaw said, don’t look so angry

there are tons of kids who’d like your job

he sipped his coffee

jaws drank coffee all-day

talked close with his coffee breath

he said, besides we’re paying you for this

and with the holidays coming

i have money in the budget for over-time

you want over-time dontcha?

when i didn’t nod or answer

he leaned over the counter and said

that section could use a good mopping

…and….that section back there

which he couldn’t even see from where he was

so that was the night

that was halloween

me mopping and sweeping for some asshole

after chasing costumed thugs around the store

giving candy to crying brats

and having a fleet of scantily clad girls saunter by

in cat suits and maid uniforms

to look around while jaws harangued me

for the way that i looked

pull up your pants

shave your face

cut your hair

his haiku of complaint chasing the chicks

who wouldn’t even take a snickers from my hands

and outside in the world my friends were somewhere

with girls they’d met in the food court

waiting for me to get out of this hell

do you think the jerseys need to be steamed? jaws asked

while i continued silently swabbing the deck

he looked at his watch

should i have you steam them or not?

then he stared off into the distance

of a lane bryant across the mall

as if contemplating some great philosophy

to steam or not to steam?

that was the question

but good old jaws kept me like he always did

a good ten minutes after my shift

but not enough to pay me for it

and as i walked out of the store and into the mall

men who had it worse than i

were taking down the halloween decorations

and were putting up the christmas ones

for a moment

it was a sea of orange and black

and red and green and white

a spectacle of commerce so ugly i couldn’t find the words

but just went out to the car

disgusted with everything

deep down inside of me knowing that jaws

would be the first of dozens of bad bosses to come

i had a cigarette

and thought about the friends that i wasn’t going to meet

and those pictures of jaws’ wife in a bikini

the ones he had posted in his locker from their trip to aruba

while three kids dressed as devils

kept pulling on the cat lady’s tail

as she screamed

stop!

stop!

while the maid hit them with her candy basket

and the month of october died again

like it always did for me

with a bit of sadness and regret

making its way for the yuletide

eventual thanksgivings and christmases

black friday america

full of a bunch of bloated, spirited pricks

in santa hats

ready to kill each other

over a premium parking space

and a dollar off

some ugly sweater

made for them with love

from the good folks

in bangladesh and china

                                                            

poem of the day 10.30.14

they got their man

caught him

lying to the FBI

up to eight years on two counts

just a dumb kid in the wrong place

at the wrong time

a twenty year old high on weed

as his friends hauled out the computers and firework tubes

of the two clowns who blew them all away down in boston

he could’ve helped the feds out, they said

played ball

cried uncle

when they stormed his dorm room

except he lied to some of the biggest liars in the nation

concealed when he could’ve assisted

committed the cardinal sin of having no grace under pressure

but now he’s giving them so much more

that mendacious little prick

with the a foreign sounding name

who picked the wrong kind of friends

who got high at the worst of times

eight years of his life on two counts

another scapegoat

in a long line of scapegoats

locked away so that the rest of us

shining examples of sincerity

can continue to sleep

comfortably at night.

                                                           

poem of the day 10.29.14

homophobe in the night

bored

with the bar scene

bored

with the clubs

and the women who never

talk to you

unless they’re

asking you to buy them drinks

you and calvin

and steve

racing down liberty avenue

toward the

all-night porn shop

hoping to select something

good

to give yourself

your own happy ending

when you get

home alone

and there she is

by an alleyway

six foot tall

gold mini-skirt

hiked up to her crotch

thick thighs

a mound of unruly hair

black as the goddamned night

and when she says

any of you looking for a good time?

the three of you stop

consider her for a moment

see that she

has an adam’s apple

think

but, still, it’s been so long since i…

before you say no

as calvin and steve

continue running

and you

slink off toward the porn shop

with a little less

spring

in your step.

poem of the day 10.28.14

almost throwing a beer bottle

at the famous hockey players head

it was another night of no action

the bar, the clubs in pittsburgh giving me no quarter

toward my helpless desire

we were out with steve’s sister, elena

at some over-thirty joint on the allegheny river

she’d been prick-teasing me all night

because steve told her that i had the hots for her

because she was newly divorced and newly blonde

and wanted to feel good about herself for a change

come dancing with me, elena said

we went onto the floor and she shimmed her ass to me

giving me a wink and a taste

before slinking away into the crowd

her thirty-five to my twenty-two years of naivety

just standing there under the purple fluorescents

wondering what the hell

watching boob jobs and face lifts and hair dye mingle

with men still sporting earrings

george rubio had a bottle of goldschlager in his car

so we went outside to drink it

the dead of winter and three slugs in

we were already taking off our coats and hats

telling tall tales about elena

you know, if either of us ever got the chance

back in the bar we ordered two over-priced beers

to chase the booze

it seemed like half the place had cleared

but really almost everyone was packed into one corner

where the hot-shit hockey player and his entourage

we standing with drinks

pointing around the room like conquering romans

as if taking their pick of the women

george and i went over and i killed my beer

that’s when i saw elena slink up to the hockey player

and start whispering into his ear as he smiled

her thirty-five to his twenty-five, his talent, his wealth

i had the perfect shot

a clearing in the crowd

i held the bottle up to my ear

like a molotov cocktail and was about to let loose

on the club, the night, those two stanley cups

the hockey player had helped bring to the steel city

my own brilliant act of terrorism

i felt someone grab my arm

i turned and it was steve

he took the beer bottle out of my hand

and said, dude, that’s my sister over there

i know motherfucker, i said

you think i honestly don’t know?

then i stalked off to vomit in the bathroom

just me and the attendant who kept spraying cologne

thinking that there was still some night left

to go somewhere else in the lonely city

meet a nice young girl

who was into poetry or baseball

maybe tell her all about myself

and how a hero ain’t nothing but a sandwich

                                    

poem of the day 10.24.14

the accidental racist #1

we’re running on half a sick day

pushing it forty-eight hours before vacation

riding the slowest 6 train uptown

to drop off a set of keys to my wife’s parents

at the cancer center

because they’re staying with us

for three days or five days

or we don’t know how many days

until the doctors give her mom the okay

to go back home

my wife is a goddamned wreck with all of this

their doctors’ appointments

other shit, her shit, work shit

the shitty small apartment we spent the morning fighting over

neither of us want to be on an uptown 6 right now

there’s never room to breathe on these trains

no matter the time of day

the girl between us is hugging the pole like a stripper

she’s draped on the thing

a lollipop in her mouth

playing on her cell phone and teasing with her boyfriend

getting the slime of millions on her clothing

she weighs maybe one-hundred pounds

but she won’t give us an inch

new york, new york in the late summer blues

it amazes me that there aren’t more murders committed here

my wife finally gives up and pulls her hand away

she goes somewhere else to stand

the girl looks at her, rolls her eyes at her boyfriend

he says, she don’t want to stand next to you

because you ain’t white

like that’s it, asshole, i think

as his girl continues to hug the pole

spinning around now and knocking into everyone

because a bitch like her, she owns the 6 train

yeah, she don’t want to get your brown on her, he continues

if you was a white girl she’d probably be all huggin’ up on you

white people too good for the train, the girl says

she laughs, keeps sucking her lollipop

i look over at the boyfriend

he’s got that clueless cro-magnon look

tattoos up and down the arm because he’s a bad ass

he’s glaring at my wife

who maybe does or does not know

that’s he’s talking about her

all i know is that she looks scared shitless

and more tired than her thirty-seven years should allow

fucking honkeys, he says under his breath

as i take a step toward him

his girl goes, shush

while i start to fantasize about smacking

his fat face off of the glass doors of the train

taking that big mouth of his

and wrapping it around that pole

sliding him to the train floor

one tattooed arm behind his back

pulling it up toward his thick tattooed neck

as his girl screams and tries to bat me off

whispering in his ear like a lover

tell me all about your racism now, my friend

please tell me.           

the accidental racist #2

we’re running on half a sick day

pushing it forty-eight hours before vacation

riding the slowest 6 train uptown

to drop off a set of keys to my wife’s parents

at the cancer center

because they’re staying with us

for three days or five days

or we don’t know how many days

until the doctors give her mom the okay

to go back home

my wife is a goddamned wreck with all of this

their doctors’ appointments

other shit, her shit, work shit

the shitty small apartment we spent the morning fighting over

neither of us want to be on an uptown 6 right now

there’s never room to breathe on these trains

no matter the time of day

the girl between us is hugging the pole like a stripper

she’s draped on the thing

a lollipop in her mouth

playing on her cell phone and teasing with her boyfriend

getting the slime of millions on her clothing

she weighs maybe one-hundred pounds

but she won’t give us an inch

new york, new york in the late summer blues

it amazes me that there aren’t more murders committed here

my wife finally gives up and pulls her hand away

she goes somewhere else to stand

the girl looks at her, rolls her eyes at her boyfriend

he says, she don’t want to stand next to you

because you ain’t white

like that’s it, asshole, i think

as his girl continues to hug the pole

spinning around now and knocking into everyone

because she owns the 6 train

yeah, she don’t want to get your brown on her, he continues

if you was a white girl she’d probably be all huggin’ up on you

white people too good for the train, the girl says

she laughs, keeps sucking her lollipop

i look over at the boyfriend

he’s got that clueless cro-magnon look

tattoos up and down the arm because he’s a bad ass

he’s glaring at my wife

who maybe does or does not know

that’s he’s talking about her

all i know is that she looks scared shitless

and more tired than her thirty-seven years should allow

fucking honkeys, he says under his breath

as i take a step toward him

his girl goes, shush

while i start to think about what to say back

how to make this train blush

with a whole dictionary of epitaphs

that can gush like a volcano from any willing mouth

in this hard and foolish land

me and cro-magnon boy going toe to toe

slapping tongues of hatred that we’ll never escape

keeping us both stuck in the mud only less than pigs

with america shining down

whispering in our ears like a lover

saying tell me all about your racism now, my friend

please tell me.                                                                                                                                      

poem of the day 10.23.14

did it leave a mark?

            --after hosho mccreesh

it seemed all the boys in school had bb guns

as if they were going through a gun toting phase

in the era of reagan, rambo and the terminator

they were the closest those boys in the suburbs

could get to actual violence

without fists and blood

i didn’t have a bb gun

i had baseball cards and baseball gloves

and beatles records instead

my old man told me

with your luck, son, you’d find a way to kill yourself

which was probably true

and no one wanted to become an anecdote

to a soon-to-be-classic christmas film

so i indulged my violent tendencies whenever i could

hanging around the lucky

shooting targets in the dirt or taped onto trees

aiming at squirrels or winter birds

ray hardy had old baseball cards

that he’d line up on a pool table in his basement

we’d shoot at them

putting holes in pete rose and nolan ryan

and the other cards we’d never kept in good enough condition

to one day retire on

ray’s bb gun was one of those pump guns

or they were all pump guns

again…i wouldn’t know

one time when it was my turn to fire

i pumped that mother the full ten pumps

and like the idiot that i was

i fired it right off while ray was still setting us up

a field of von hayes cards

i got him right in the ass cheek

then i stood there

a clueless john wayne on a vast wyoming range

while ray danced around his basement

screaming and crying

shit, i hoped his parents wouldn’t come down

i was happy that they listened to their television loudly

when ray finally calmed

and came over to me wiping his eyes

i thought that he was going to take the gun

and beat me with it

shoot me right in my ass too

but instead he hopped on an edge of the pool table

and pulled down his pants

ray showed me his bare left ass cheek

with one amazing red welt plastered on it

looking at me so sad and expectant

before he said

jesus christ, man

did

it

leave

a

mark?

                                   

poem of the day 10.22.14

it is what it is

maybe it is what it is

you stop counting the drinks

and let it ride

because when you count the drinks

at least after a while

you forget who’s keeping tabs

you think

well, fuck them

then you crack open another one

or pour another tall one out of contempt

it is what it is

your old man visiting from pittsburgh

talking about his cancer

telling you, you’re forty now

you need to start thinking about the prostate

some doctor’s finger up your ass

telling you that this might be uncomfortable

manana, manana, you tell him

like a lettuce picker in salinas with the sun going down

waving a beer filled hand

or maybe when i’m fifty

it is what it is

the daily abuse of this life

internet trolls with literary ambitions

giving you shit because they can’t handle their own

and everyone pays on credit

or with their cell phone

the girl at the grocery store

who lets you stand in her line for ten minutes

with the food you need for dinner rotting

flipping a glossy tabloid with her razor-like fingernails

before telling you

that the line is closed

then laughing into her little gadget

out of spite

it is what it is

this life

that death

beheadings by the week

and drones galore

the infect of government

endless anniversaries of bloodshed

a dead kid laying on the street

in the hot missouri sun for four hours

while the cops scratch their chapped asses

and play at being macho

america being enthralled by another sports hero

beating the shit out of his wife

the internet abuzz

like a brain tumor

over starlets with their tits hanging out

while you sit on the couch

listening to a symphony of sirens

car alarms, and barking dogs

crying over john lennon songs

telling yourself that it is what it is

that nothing will change anything

save the sun burning out of the car exhaust sky

forgetting to count

how much

of the poison

it was

that you put down again

today.

                                               

poem of the day 10.21.14

unintended pleasures of signing off

using an automated time keeping system

just sit back and watch the time click

it’s easier this way if you don’t resist

or think that now you’ve become some clockwatching

product of the american work force

reject personal autonomy until your shift is over

take comfort in the fact that millions of us

are doing this all over the great nation

maybe even the world

think of these quiet moments

as a chance to take stock of your day

plan tomorrow or negotiate the evening

play another round of solitaire as you ALT TAB these blues

remember something you might have forgotten on your grocery list

a birthday that has slipped your mind

a red-letter date in american history that needs celebrating

contemplate the vodka and cans of beer left in your fridge

because you may need all hands on deck tonight

wink at the security camera bearing down on you

give them a smile and a thumbs up

do not look at the computer screen too intently

you’ll find that time has gotten you nowhere

and that the radio is still playing the same bad song

as when you set out on this endeavor

imagine the sick day you’ll take

when the office is short staffed

or if you do look

wow in the corporate color scheme of the web page

only in your head you are looking at picasso and matisse

imagine that it’s a countdown to lift-off or a great voyage

outer space or around the world in as many days

the first of your ilk going where no man/woman/child

has gone before

because you are a pioneer and you know it

not some sad piece of excrement sitting on the edge of your chair

with your coat and your bag in your hands

tupperware from another unsatisfying lunch resting on your lap

a hat on your head and your legs shaking with anticipatory angst

watching second after second after nauseating second tick by

you are neil armstrong, buzz aldrin, columbus

megellan, vasco de gama, lewis and clark

and robert falcon scott all rolled into one

think of the unintended pleasures of signing off

using an automated time keeping system

instead of the bitter taste of a life wasted

cherish these moments of solitude and personal reflection

remember them for future reference

when the walls of this life start closing in again.

                                                                       

poem of the day 10.20.14

walking around naked

the young movie starlet is online

she told a reporter how great it is

to own her own home

how wonderful it is to walk around naked

it’s liberating, she said

maybe it is for her

she’s twenty-two but she looks fifteen

with her black hair and almond eyes

her perky tits and tight latin ass

the paparazzi are always trying to get

pictures of her naked

they follow her to clubs and to the beach

hoping for a nipple slip or something good between her legs

this morning i’m thinking about her

but not in a sexual way

i’m just out of the shower

naked, pale and bloated as always

i can’t find my watch or my goddamned glasses

i’m practically blind and i don’t know what time it is

stumbling around this place

with my fat belly and man boobs

my chicken legs and ball sack to my knees

my hair soaked and mussed like a madman

unshaved with red blotches on my face from hard water

every blind and window here opened

showing flaccid cock

and pimpled white ass

to the masses scrambling to work in the rain

forty years old and i look like death

like i should be on a coroner’s slab

walking around as naked as a jaybird

like that little starlet in hollywood is doing right now

only i don’t feel so damned liberated

but thankfully

no one is across the street hiding in their car

or in the bushes or stalking outside my window

trying to get a picture

of this impossible mess.

                                                

poem of the day 10.16.14

her shitty red car

she had taken to creating drama

between the two of us

she hardly came by to see me

when she did it was for a minute or two

just to make sure that i was alive

where she left me drinking beer on my bed

she looked me over to assess the damage

that she was doing

and like god she saw that her work was good

it was hard to think that only weeks before

we had been holding hands and fucking like bunnies

but now i stormed out of her shitty red car

more than i cared to count

frustrated, defeated, and done with all women

i always tried to get it so that we were closer

to my apartment before i stormed out of her ride

a few times i had to go the distance

because i just couldn’t take her anymore

she’d always show up the next day

to see if i was still breathing

finally we had it out in a church parking lot

where i’d sometimes go with a bottle of beer and sit

she said she cared for me but there was someone else

i wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction

of getting nuts over it

hell, i wasn’t even going to storm out of her car

because that was his job now

i sat in her shitty red car saying nothing

i fiddled with her radio and laughed

until she told me that it was time for me to leave

it pissed her off that i was so placid

when i didn’t go as fast as she demanded

she started shouting and honking her horn

a priest came out of the rectory to see what was going on

i got out of her car with my hands up

and like god he too saw that it was all good

i started walking back toward my apartment

but not before she and her shitty red car

burned by honking her horn and smirking at me

giving me that universal symbol

of peace and courtesy

that one finger to rule them all.

                                               

poem of the day 10.15.14

sunday night tough guy jamboree

at the old root down tavern

one tough guy comes into the bar

he starts pacing back and forth and then he leaves

my wife says, i don’t like the look of him

all people look bad when you give them

more than a glance, i tell her

the tough guy comes back with two tough guy friends

making three tough guys pacing

at the old root down tavern on a sunday night

he goes over to the bartender

and says, hey man, who was your bartender on friday night?

the bartender is reluctant to answer

but in the end tells the tough guy that it was seth

why do you want to know? he asks

because he man-handled me, man, the tough guys says

his two tough guy friends start nodding

they look around the bar just in case people start getting any ideas

look at my neck, man, the tough guys say

he puts down his collar and the bartender barely looks

did you see it?  did you see what he did, man?

i don’t see shit, the bartender says

see, i told you that i didn’t

like the way he looks, my wife says

you have a very keen eye and discerning taste, i tell her

as the tough guy continues arguing with the bartender

i’m pissed, he says

i want that motherfucker fired

the tough guys looks around the bar

his eyes meet the row of mugs and pints drying on the rack

man, i could’ve smashed this place up, he says

i could smash it up right now

that’s when some of the tough guys

who are regulars in the bar get up

they stand behind the tough guy and his friends

the bartender has his hand underneath the bar

there’s a bat under there, a knife

at one time seth told us there was a gun

it’s a regular ol’ sunday night tough guy jamboree

at the old root down tavern

are you threatening me? the bartender asks

i’m just saying, the tough guy say

as his tough guy friends start pulling him out of the bar

he heard what you said, the bartender says

he points to a regular

and so did he

i heard what he said, too, i tell the bartender

and so did this guy, the bartender shouts

on his way out of the bar

the tough guys leans in and screams in my ear

i don’t give fuck what you heard!

as his buddies carry him out in to the sopping wet night

but not before he leans back in the bar and shouts

faggots!

like all tough guys have

down throughout the centuries

when they are finally safe and free

in the open air.

                                    

poem of the day 10.14.14

a grand gentleman

they are in a fury in this place

the customers and the staff

she turns to me and says,

well, he’s been in the bathroom

for almost an hour

some things take time, i tell her

people are piled up around the door

every minute or so someone keeps knocking

occupied, is all he says

the supervisor of the place

asks him if he needs help

no thank you, he says

still they wait

more and more staff and customers line up

they’re waiting for the man to come out of the toilet
they want to be a part of the great reveal

i think i heard the toilet flush, a kid says

and anticipation abounds

she turns to me

it’s over an hour now, she says

one customer tells another customer

this is outrageous

as if there aren’t bombs in iraq and gaza

murder on the streets of missouri

hungry, illiterate kids in housing projects

a block or so down the street

as if the other bathroom isn’t ready for use

someone pounds on the door again

come on, he shouts

just a minute, the voice says from behind the door

it opens a crack and then it closes again

there is a residual sigh throughout the place

pervert, she turns and says to me

he has to be a pervert

the building stays captivated by this

for another fifteen minutes

as they keep knocking and knocking on the door

suddenly it opens and an old bald man

comes walking out into the fluorescent fanfare

as if nothing has happened

everyone in the place stares at him

like he’s a deranged celebrity

he puts his hands in his pockets

and smiles at the angry hoi polloi

like a grand gentleman on his way to the opera

when he leaves the building

the pack of them descend on the small space

looking for traces of degradation

they look for piss in the toilet

sniff the air for traces of his shit

they check the floor for blood or semen

only they find nothing

and another whole hour in all of our lives

has been gambled on the hope

of something different in this life

what a waste of time, she says to me

before going back to her video of a two-headed dolphin

as the supervisor puts the bathroom key

back in its place

and the rest of the people in here

go back to searching

for a new and improved meaning of life.

poem of the day 10.10.14

ode to a pen that doesn’t work

when i need a pen to work

you stupid fucker

you could’ve been immortal

there’s a kid who won’t stop farting on this bus

and a brazilian chick in a mini-skirt

put the two of them together somehow

and i could’ve made us both famous

or at least a couple people

would’ve read about it on my blog

but you had to crap out on me

you cunt

pilot g-2 .05 tip of nothing

and there’s nothing worse for a guy like me

than a pen that doesn’t work when i need a pen to work

you’re like my heart giving out

or my will to live

you’re a six-day work week with only one day off

a flaccid penis at the end of a woman’s period

the final dreg of wine that won’t make a proper glass

and that kid keeps on farting

i think the dude sitting next to me is going say something

start a fight with his mother about manners

that brazilian might be a tranny

this ain’t manhattan this is brooklyn

do you know how many trannies we get down here?

you blue tipped albatross

and to think i chose you over your .07 pointed brother

i’ll bet he would’ve worked

with him i’d be writing about flatulence

and chicks with dicks right now

the scribbles of the gods

but instead i’m sitting here huffing someone else’s gas

with the guy next to me ready to pop

a blood vessel

trying to see if i can see

the bulge between that brazilian’s legs

another shit writer

on a shit work day

abandoned

adrfit

without the tools of his trade.

                                                            

poem of the day 10.09.14

another dog barking

at five in the morning poem

i’m up

i’m sure they’re up over there

half the neighborhood is probably awake

especially after

the amount of invective i spat out

into the black morning

i should probably go on over

introduce myself

try not to strangle them

or the dog

maybe bring them a copy of the novel

a book of poems or two

show them what i’ve been up to each morning

while their beast barks

into the waking dawn

i’ll even sign a copy

people like having signed shit

even from nobodies such as myself

maybe if i let them see

that there’s flesh and blood in this neighborhood

they’ll try and keep the mutt quiet

at least until

the joe and joanne workers of the world

start hoofing it up the street

of course

what about those folks coming home from night jobs

the ones who have to contend

with their dog

and the unforgiving sun

it would be unfair to exclude them

after all

we’re all in this together

and if one working man can’t help out

another working man

then what good is a civil society?

i doubt they’d even care

if i came over

i mean here it is five o’clock in the morning

and that goddamned dog

is going crazy again

they’d probably call the cops on me

they look the type

and the cops never understand

the plight of the working man

it’ll be all on me if they show up

i’ll probably get cited for disturbing the peace

it would be a cold irony

to get frogmarched back over to the apartment

when i was only trying

to do the general public a favor

fuck it

i’m just going to sit here and hope that animal

howls himself into cardiac arrest

let some other neighbor take care of it

get back to writing

another horseshit poem

more prose that only a dozen people will read

bite my nails

see what’s going on in the world

of internet porn

close the window

turn on a fan

blast the radio

mediate

on the true meaning

of what it means to be

man’s best friend.

                                              

poem of the day 10.08.14

in response to car horns

and hammering before 8 a.m.

america

the industrious

megalopolis

america

so loud and self-important

on a weekday morning

forever advancing

progress for progress sake

except

where it counts

in response to car horns

and hammering before 8 a.m.

i refuse to work another

eight-hour shift

or to shower

or to pay taxes

support the arts

or my local congressman

i won’t vote

or eat red meat for a year

america

i’ll lie in bed

and think bad thoughts about you

i won’t have fun on saturday afternoons

i’ll stop masturbating

to your celebrity women

and teenage girls

i plan on cancelling my cable

if this doesn’t stop

i won’t watch this year’s football season

or give two shits

who wins the world series

i might kick

a dog or a small child

i won’t give up my seat on the bus

for your elderly and the infirm

or buy girl scout cookies

maybe

i’ll cancel christmas the year

and tell people that jesus

wasn’t born in texas

but the ebola virus was

oh you america!

the industrious

the diligent

the hard-working

the busy

the assiduous

america

the tireless demigod

the world’s aging hipster

just stop

the goddamned hammering

and lay off the car horns

before a man is ready to face you yet again

would ya?

                                   

poem of the day 10.07.14

billy knuckles

he tells my wife

his name is billy knuckles

he says that’s what

the black dudes in prison called him

of course he’s been in prison

everyone in this joint has a prison story

they changed the name of this place

classed it up with more tvs and fireplaces

raised the beer prices

and sell coke out of the bathroom instead of weed

still you can put lipstick on a pig….

anyway billy knuckles probably went to jail

for not paying his taxes or writing bad checks

just like the rest of them

but it’s enough for him to tell the story

we’ve been drinking beer with him

for two hours now

after he started eavesdropping in on our conversation

we’ve pumped too many dollars in the juke

we’ve listened to too many good and bad songs

billy knuckles loves nirvana and pearl jam

i’m a grunge baby, he tells us

i think better him than me

because nothing good came out of the nineties

in my opinion

but billy knuckles bleeds that decade

before prison, he says

then sucks down some more guinness

he’s an ex-con with refined tastes

when he stumbles back over to the juke

to play another golden oldie from the bush/clinton era

my wife leans over and says

if nothing else at least you’ll get a poem out of this evening

but i tell her i’m bored

with writing about guys like billy knuckles

it used to be fun drinking with guys like that

but now he’s just an impediment

he cock blocks the evening’s joy

with his nostalgia and his opinions

the oral history of cell block four

i’d rather be in prison

than listen to this guy, i say

as billy knuckles screams from the jukebox

because a staind song came on

my anthem, he says, coming over with his hands raised

ready for our seventh high-five this hour

we should try wine bars, i tell my wife

i think i’m ready for the wine bar crowd now

he’s just lonely, she says

so is everyone else, i say

as two new beers appear before us

slapped down by the bartender

with the suds going all over the glossy wood

courtesy of billy knuckles

our new best friend

tonight’s benevolent warden

                                                           

poem of the day 10.06.14

jack and the giant jukebox

jack can’t get the jukebox to play

goddamned digital….he says

people are laughing at him

because they’ve been laughing at him for years

i just want to play a little grateful dead

he says it

it sounds like begging

we watch jack and the giant jukebox

that takes up half the wall in this place

it turns into a camera

white light is flashing throughout the bar

on the screen there are pictures of a frustrated jack

trying to put dollar bills in the machine

pictures of him squinting

pictures of him in a half-curse

jack’s jack daniels hat cocked sideways

his fat, red winedrunk face illuminated

it’s a status update, hashtag bonanza

jack says, if i wanted this kind of abuse

i could’ve gone home to drink

a few of us look at the glass of white wine

that he left behind for what seems like days now

then go back to singing summer wind

jack puts another dollar in the jukebox

it spits it back out

plays a song from its archives

as the telling pictures fade from the screen

and turn back into images of half-naked pop stars

puckering up for all of us saturday evening drunks

i don’t get it, jack says

i worked in computers for twenty-five years

but this….

my wife gets off of her stool to help him

last week in the liquor store

i paid for the rest of jack’s bottle of white

because he didn’t have enough change on him

when we see him on the street

we laugh and point and say, there goes good old jack

my wife gets the jukebox to work

a little grateful dead, jack says

sitting back down like a twenty-first century master

he takes a pull on his white

begins drumming on the bar

i can’t tell if it’s a jerry song or one sung by bob weir

but things are suddenly looking up

for us in here tonight

as the bartender sets two shot glasses in front of us

and says, the next round is on me.

                                                           

poem of the day 10.03.14

getting poems rejected

by a writer you don’t respect

there’s really nothing to do

but stare at the email that says

thanks….but i think i’ll pass

after all, this is your fault

you sent the poems to him

against your better judgment

you remember back two weeks ago

to when the submission was just hanging there

as you finished a last coffee

you checked your watch and still had minutes to kill

before you had to get ready for work

i believe your exact words were

ah, fuck it, mine aren’t any worse than his

then you attached a batch to him

with a little note saying:

hope this batch does something for you

because you wanted one more shot

at having your name in lights

and now here they are back in your possession

like you thought they’d be

this isn’t the first time he’s rejected you

the first

thanks….but i think i’ll pass

you remember the one time he solicited from you

and he still rejected your poems

it would almost be laughable

if you weren’t right in the middle

of what is shaping up to be

two bad writing weeks in a bad writing month

in an overall bad year

maybe the worst year you’ve experienced on this planet

you didn’t need this dickhead’s rejection

but there you have it

and to make matters worse

here you are committing the cardinal sin

of writing a poem about being a fucking poet

christ

you go on his web site and read his bad poems

just to fuel your anger

they all look the same

they all sound the same

three words to a line

that snake along like a river of shit

for a page or two

until they die like common houseflies

with the comments from a bunch of sycophants

egging this literary abomination on

you think the whole world

must be crazy

then you load up a new page on the machine

to type your next immortal dung heap

take a sip on the scalding coffee

thinking that you’ll wait at least six months or so

before you try that asshole again.