poem of the day 11.28.14

black friday 1991

seventeen years old

pressed against the wall

in a sports retail store

to try to shield

yourself from the masses

a hangover from pilfered beer

on thanksgiving

it seems that these customers keep

coming from out of nowhere

demanding hats

and jackets

trinkets to shove into stockings

on christmas morning

discarded items marked down

treated like gold found in a pan

packs of teenage girls

who don’t have to work

coming in to give you a look

or to laugh at you

arm in arm with your wealthy classmates

who don’t have to work this shit either

as the store manager runs around

targeting you and only you

pull up your pants!

tuck in your shirt!

you better shave tomorrow!

why aren’t you selling anything, you bum?

knowing that he’ll be

cutting your hours come january 2nd

as he roams around

his little kingdom

kissing ass

and taking names

an inept drill sergeant

fifteen years older than you

but in the same clown outfit

and you’re supposed

to take orders from this guy?

as the old beer beer

and turkey dinner

rises in your stomach

like a harbinger of doom

you wade through the crowd

past the t-shirts

and sweatshirts

and sweatpants

that have fallen from their racks

trampled on

mounds of goods you’ll spend

your twilight steaming

so that they are as good as new

tomorrow

before another day of this hell

to reach

the staff bathroom

needing sweet vomitus relief

but finding it occupied

with another fallen soldier

so you have no recourse

but to head out into

veins of the mall

secret gray corridors

smelling of rotten food

from the food court

echoing silver bells

silver bells

sil-ver bells

it’s christmas time

and i fell shitty

finding

an open garbage can

outside a taco bell

into which you hurl

bile and turkey

and mashed potatoes

and beer

like a roman

wiping your mouth

as some pimple-faced

slave-wager

pokes his head out a doorway

shouts at you

hoping that he didn’t see

the logo of your brand

on your right breast

as you

start to run away.

                                   

PoemS of the day 11.27.14

three brand new poems (never on WineDrunk SideWalk) over at Dead Snakes!

"best of" poem of the day 11.26.14

fiscal cliff

there was a time

when my old man

had to work two jobs to help support us

between he and my mother that was three jobs

struggling to pay rent and bills on time

packing lunches and making dinner

buying new clothing

for two oblivious boys who wouldn’t stop growing

who they’d chosen to shove into catholic school

for a dose of morality

i don’t even remember what the old man did

at this second job

except that he didn’t have to wear a shirt and tie

like he did for the morning one

which i thought was getting off easy

because i had to wear dress clothes in the fifth grade

and there was a time

that my mother didn’t have enough money for bread

and had to bum it off of me and my piggy bank

promising to pay me back by friday

as we marched through the january cold

to catch the grocery store before it closed

she promised me

as if i were her bookie or something

oh, those blessed fridays of paycheck salvation

my brother and i, we didn’t know nike or polo

from a hole in the ground

but there was always thanksgiving and christmas

a hot meal on the table every night

so neither of us had a clue

we thought the tears and the arguments were about something else

when i got older and shed my immortal coil

over-educated and unmarketable

dodging student loan sharks

tact that worthless piece of university paper on my wall

when it was my turn to wonder

now what?

there were bad paychecks and good ones

the good ones meant decent friday night

maybe a used book or a used cd to sell again when money got tight

the bad ones meant the rent got paid

and you kept a count of your cigarettes for the next two weeks

but ghetto smokes on balconies could last a lifetime

watching the city an amusement unparalleled

and the laughs kept on coming through the low bank balances

and cheap pasta dinners

it never seemed as bad as it was

as child or as an adult

i never felt broke or that i was lacking

it always seemed like no matter what

that we were getting there

me

my family

my love and my friends

all of us hard and honest people

putting food on tables and punching clocks

struggling for rent and small joys

the ones who built this country up from the ground

this troubled promised land that our leaders

with their expensive suits and pensions

those pretty corporate chains around their necks

so hungrily want

to mash back into

unrecognizable

dirt.

                                    12.31.12

"best of" poem of the day 11.25.14

talking turkey

i feel like

a big sentimental dope doing this

and i don’t want anyone

to see me dancing with you

in the living room

to smooth jazz coming

out from the television

what would they think?

a loud mouth like me

letting you lead

laughing whenever you giggle

dipping you with

the greatest of ease

after you pull on my hair

and tug at my goatee

my dance partner

you sweet child

you little angel

the way you light up a room

turns my soul to butter

there are so many things

that i want to tell you

like you are better

than beethoven or the beatles

but you haven’t even

said a word

or tried thanksgiving turkey yet

you just giggle again

and let me spin you

we stay quiet

moving toward the front door

where we’ll watch

a brand new snow

that has started to fall

and where we’ll write your name

in the thick condensation

fogging up the window

we’ll write it backwards

as the late afternoon

aches to show us

the whole world

in one vast and verdant scope.

11.29.10

"best of" poem of the day 11.24.14

i'm tired. i'm worn out. this has been a wretched year and no one seems to be reading this blog anymore.  so....i'm going to do a "best of" WineDrunk SideWalk week, while we all prepare to stuff our faces with turkey and the retail clerks of the world wait to be stampeded upon by a herd of bargain hungry elephants.

tradition

she says, you hate tradition, don’t you

i tell her that i hate it from auld lang syne

all the way down to silent night

she says, you’re nuts

you just don’t want to like what others like

i tell her that may be so, but i’ll be damned if i choke

on another thanksgiving turkey

or memorial day hot dog again

she says, you won’t have a choice

i tell her i know

i’m trapped in a situation perpetuated by fools

easter ham in april

and fireworks every fourth of july

she says, tradition makes people happy

that it gives them something to look forward to

i tell her that tradition makes people complacent and dull

she says, go hang on a string of christmas lights

and i tell her how about a cross instead

there’s something wrong with you, she says

i’m just like everyone else, i tell her

now give me a pint of green beer and a red heart full of chocolate

carve me into a pumpkin

and wake me when it’s election day

she says, there’s just no talking to you

i tell her that many have tried and failed

so i guess you won’t be coming to my next oscar party, she says

nor your labor day barbeque, i add

impossible, she says, getting up

and storming into the cafeteria

where they serve a mean fish fry

to the devout and hungry

every friday afternoon

during lent.

                                    10.15.12

poem of the day 11.21.14

happy hour

sitting here

in froth’s tavern

trying to carve out

some semblance of a night

the last seat available in the joint

by a tv blaring college football

watching sweat collect

on my $5 jack on the rocks

playing mathematician against my will

calculating all of those mistakes

and the things that never should’ve been

how one of the bills

that came in the mail was for $50

how that one didn’t bother me

as much as the one that came for $700

along with a note from the company

casually mentioning their friends

the collection agency

yes just sitting here

waiting for my wife to walk in

the both of us tired

from the tail-end of another

thankless six-day work week

waiting for her to smile

and ask me how i am

waiting patiently

for her to take off her coat

and order a drink

so that i can talk a fiscal filibuster

and ruin her night too

before she even has

that first glorious sip.                            

poem of the day 11.20.14

entertainment capital of the world

two black kids on the train

slap box up and down the car in real-time

not this simulated video game action bullshit

the white people let their jaws drop

like white people are supposed to do in these moments

they take out their cell phones

to take pictures of the two boys in action

suddenly becoming rogue photographers behind enemy lines

all so that they can post the images online

before we even hit the next stop

so that their other white friends can post messages

kids these days

that’s why i live in the suburbs

so that their racists friends can write

f***n n*****s

with all of the asterisks in the right places

but it’s when one of the black kids closes his fist

and roundhouses the other one that shit gets real tonight

then the blows and kicks come

the falling into the good people’s laps

cell phones getting jostled and pictures blurry

online friends writing

what is that?

where are you?

the two black kids in a huddled mass

on a dirty train car floor that has caked trails of coffee

and candy wrappers littered about

their girlfriends clutching barbecue chip bags

screaming and shouting

no one here can tell if it’s cheering or not
 

one of the ace photographers turns to me and asks

is this for real?

but i don’t answer her

i just crank up the dylan

bob singing about rubin carter in oh-so-long-ago new jersey

and as the two boys roll off each other

kick at each other like a couple of violent cripples

thrown from their wheelchairs

i think about all of those people who’ve asked me

why i haven’t left new york city

i think maybe it’s because i’d miss the action

or i’ve just gotten too old and have run out of places to go

the prospect of lying to another employer

in another dirty city

telling them how much i want to work for them

when i’ve never wanted to work for anyone

seems too much the hassle at my age

maybe because new york city is still

the entertainment capital of the world

this train as alive as the neon lights tonight on broadway

and we’re all just waiting on these two black kids

to kill or kiss each other

shit or get off the pot

as the legs keep flailing to cell phone clicks

dylan sings to me about burning cities and injustice

while i watch a mexican day laborer

taking it all in with one eye open and the other closed

getting up the nerve

to do another hard eight

freezing his ass off on 18^th avenue

in a country that keeps trying to kick him out

slaving for the city that never sleeps

for the beautiful violence in a moment like this

carrying us home

to alcohol and conversations

another mediocre dusk

turning itself over

into another cracked and hopeless dawn.

                                                                        

poem of the day 11.19.14

pondering the motivation

of the girl who keeps looking my way

on the N train or….a poem fragment

about my own vanity

and

if they give you

a second look

now

you don’t feel

exactly good

or attractive

bestowed of

some magic

but wonder

like a fool

just how much longer

those second looks

will keep coming

in this life of yours

before you become

a ghost to them

forgotten about

altogether

                       

poem of the day 11.18.14

my face

my face is a thankless vessel

it does me no service

i try to be hard and aloof

but my face is affable by nature

it smiles instead of spits on strangers

it says sit down my good man

and tell me your tale of woe

it’s an affliction of mine

home to many a drunkard’s yarn

a welcoming beacon

to some lunatic on the train or bus

who has to unburden themselves of their life story

lest they burst into a million pieces

this plagued visage

trusting and honest

a boy scout’s face

the face of american good will

all green eyes and rubbery nose

and strong white teeth

a face that says

i’ll be your best friend

your baby tonight

your shoulder to cry on

instead of what it should be saying tonight

to this asshole in rudy’s bar

who keeps asking me my name

so that he can sit and spin

another novel of his own design

which is

please brother please

just leave a guy

the hell alone.

poem of the day 11.17.14

in december 1992

the wild

the innocent

the e street shuffle

playing through grainy headphones

on a tapped-up

walkman

that has seen the face-end

of more concrete

than me

one foot of snow on the ground

covering feet

and shins

springsteen’s voice

right like youth

like me

youth incarnate

for now

eighteen years old

boosted cigarette in my mouth

heading toward

the campus of a million coeds

from lowly

suburbia

1993

coming with a bullet

that’ll turn out to be

just another nothing year

with my heart

broken all over the city

of pittsburgh

but i

don’t even know it yet

in this

a portrait of the artist

december 1992

puffing

my old man’s menthol kool

as the snow

consumes me

waiting at

the bus stop

freezing the good year

peering into warm cars

stopped at red lights

looking for

another saint

but laughing

laughing like a drunk

joyous

after an old lady

glares at me

locks her door

yells to her husband

to run the

red light

which

of course

he

does.

                        

poem of the day 11.14.14

celebrity skin

celebrity cunt

and ass

on the internet

and everyone here

is up in arms

over celebrity cunt and ass

they covered pink stars

over the naughty bits

caught up in newspaper ink

causing a hundred tisks

a million dollar smile on her face

reveling in the audacity of

celebrity cunt

and ass

as happy as a child naked

and streaking into a playroom

full of toys

celebrity cunt

and ass

and everyone here

is acting like hitler

rose himself up from the grave

celebrity cunt

and ass

telling us

that it’s better to be beautiful

rather than smart

and since so many of us are neither

it’s best that we

keep our mouths shut

and our clothes on

man

they can land a rocket on a comet

any old day

but celebrity cunt

and ass

greased up and served

american style

24/7

will always make

the news

                                   

poem of the day 11.13.14

not getting served at the subway inn

ten minutes before this

we were still in the hospital room

watching my mother-in-law wrestle

with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich

just something, the nurse told her

to get in her stomach to take away the nausea

we were dressed like hazmat techs

in gloves and smocks and something to cover our mouths

the steelers were losing to the jets

two minutes left in the game and my wife shut the tv off

so her mother could get some sleep

but that was all right

the football gods will always live to see another day

and besides i stopped watching the NFL

almost two years ago

i have ceased tying my fate

to that of any sports team

only here in the subway inn they have televisions all over

playing games in between commercials

for SUVS, luxury cars or joining the marines

the few people in here are shouting

some drunk chick keeps screaming

pass-interference!

pass-interference!

but i don’t know at which screen

and though it may seem sexist

i’ve always held a special hatred for the female football fan

my wife and i aren’t getting served in the place

we probably need a drink

more than any two people in manhattan this sunday afternoon

only the bartender is gone

or he’s one of the people sitting at the bar

watching football and waiting us out

most likely he’s changing a keg or taking a shit

the bar has signs hanging

asking people to help save it from

twirling moustache landlords

and the inevitable new york city rent hike

you can tweet or twit or join facebook

to spread the word

at the end there’s a banner proclaiming the bar saved

the same legendary subway inn

only now it’s moving four avenues away

where the rent hikes will take another ten years

to make their way east

and they’ll have to do this shit all over again

still, while we continue to wait

on the first drink of the day

i consider the subway inn and its change in venue

how it really won’t be the same

no matter what these people fool themselves into believing

like my mother-in-law in her hospital bed

telling us that she feels like an old person

or how i’m forty and wondering where in the hell

the tiredness and all this gray hair came from

human beings

we change and morph and never realize it

because we’re too hung up just trying to live

i think it would be nice if human beings could shed their shell

just like buildings or locusts

put up signs asking people to help them get a new body

to tweet or twit or join facebook

until we can hang a joyous banner around our necks

proclaiming ourselves saved

the same mortal coil that you’ve always known

only now four streets down

and ten blocks away

free of stress and all tangible worry

a fresh pint before us as our favorite team scores

a new legacy sprung from the ashes of the old

a living and breathing phoenix

at least until the landlord finds us out

and comes knocking

once

again.

                                   

poem of the day 11.12.14

machu picchu

i have no interest

in inca ruins

but i have a well vested interest

in your happiness

i’m more interested in

the ruins that people are making

of the here and now

than some past dangling

8,000 ft above sea level

but i’m not adverse to the idea

of macho picchu

after all isn’t the point of life

to collect any and all experiences

until death?

or is that debt?

anyway in peru

they have a drink

called a pisco sour

made with liquor

lime juice. syrup and egg whites

i can imagine us

somewhere in cuzco

beneath the shadow of the behemoth

or maybe on the coast of lima

drinking them by the ocean

free of the burdens

of altitude sickness

just as well as i can imagine us

drinking a cold beer

in a dark bar

here in good old brooklyn

where the air may be compromised

the edge of the ocean

right here at our feet

my love for you

never in question

at any height.

                                        

poem of the day 11.11.14

a healthy man’s lunch

at work

eating a bowl full of salad

because i am reaching the age

where i can no longer eat

what i’d like to eat for lunch every day

i am told a meal of mixed vegetables

could keep me around for a long time

but looking around this room at the bored faces

buried in books and their phones

people also indulging in salad and their own health

colleagues crawling toward

another american retirement

i think, keeping me around for what?

oh…yes…i may one day see peru

but the salad is cold

it’s wilted from chemicals

every third bite there’s something hard

like grit in my mouth

when i pull a bit out

it’s small and white and crystal

like salt or sugar or glass

then i am just another character in a prison film

being served his poison

so i dump the salad

gleefully watch all of the longevity

mix with the other trash

fall back into my chair

to watch time move toward the afternoon

daydreaming

vistas of pepperoni pizza

and wide rivers

of coca-cola.                                        

poem of the day 11.07.14

cradle

the derelict kids

keeping running up and down

the subway can length

they’ve made it their own marathon

there are four of them

they sound like elephants

although their old man is able to sleep peaceably

having done is job by spreading his rotten seed

the mother keeps trying to calm the kids

she’s sitting across from dad

shouting in a voice that i can only compare

to rusted metal scraping off of sandpaper

and i’m a man who hates metaphors

but of course the kids aren’t listening

they are breathless at mile eleven

one of the kids has taken to squeezing

the other one’s head

his scream is piercing and defies

all that i’ve ever known about the human voice

i suppose it’s wrong to condone violence these days

but i wish the mother would just grab one of the kids

or have the dad wake up

grab the slow one, no, the oldest one

and whack them until they start to cry

it would send a nice message to the other kids

and to us poor saps stuck here with them

but dad keeps sleeping and mom keeps yelling

the kid getting his head squeezed is on the verge of passing out

while two of the others

start swinging on subway poles

while in a desperate act of self-preservation

i take my vodka bottle from down between my feet

and hold it to my chest

like a helpless infant or a lover

as the train conductor whispers

sweet nothings into my ear

by calling out the name of my stop.

                                               

poem of the day 11.06.14

stuck inside of brooklyn

with the san francisco blues again

--for kristofer collins

at work we were

talking about travel

people reminiscing

about italy and germany

places they’d like to go

like the amazon or to some beach in the caribbean

i was talking about the places that i’d been

doing it more for myself

than for the sake of conversation

then i was talking to the nineteen year-old part-timer

about what she’s going to do when she graduates

she’s a history major

like we were english lit majors

maybe or maybe not

there’s a long road ahead for her

but hopefully not

when she mentioned

wanting to move to san francisco

the bells went off in my head

something had been awakened

i was back on that campus with you

like twenty years hadn’t gone by

and we’re skipping class like usual

we’re on forbes avenue picking at dry bagel lunches

looking through used records and cds at jerry’s

or in the bee hive drinking cappuccino

showing each other poems

talking about nineteen year-old girls

acting like we knew a thing or two about the world

the west coast and jazz and kerouac

and all of the dreams that we’d put on hold

until we finally got to see the pacific

floating around in the haze of afternoon cigarette smoke

the after graduation road trip

with pittsburgh burning behind us like some

sodom and gomorrah of the mind

but time has shown me, old friend

that things worked out differently

no worse and maybe even better than we’d hoped

only we never made it out west together

and this morning i’m sitting here

stuck inside of brooklyn with the san francisco blues again

visions of you

visions of me

so glad that i didn’t tell that kid

the sad old man shit that i started to tell her

about how expensive everything is

about dashed dreams

and how plans change on a dime

i’m glad i stopped myself and didn’t do that

i just said, go to san francisco

go live in that glorious city

like some hapless benediction that she didn’t even need

because who in the hell am i, old friend?

except some guy sitting here

trying to write my heart out to you

about time and the promise of golden cities

a few fleck of gray in my hair

a few dreams still stashed in a frayed pocket

my years a deluge of memories

hoping that this levee doesn’t break.                                        

poem of the day 11.05.14

to an unsatisfied customer

i should thank you

for bothering to read the book in the first place

even though you won it for free

and it cost me two bucks to mail it to you

while all you just had to do was

sit on your ass and wait for the postman

maybe you don’t read enough poetry

to “get it”

but you certainly took the time out of your day

to trash me on amazon.com

oh…and goodreads too

a two star review?

i’m not up to your standards for sure

obviously where you come from

adorable eats adorable and

some captivated cannoli: a charmed bakery thriller

are proustian in nature

at least that’s what your reviews have lead me to believe

i’ll have to check them out

the next time someone offers to give me a lobotomy

or stick a hard cold pole up my ass

i probably shouldn’t bitch

i mean you did say

that the book was okay

granted it was no shitake happens

or squashed: why men don’t have to make our break you

you know, the kind of shit that can really speak to you

but how can i keep up with those masters

hanging around on your book shelf?

i guess you get what you pay for in this life

and you struck out this time

maybe the next time

you sign up for another handout on another web site

another freebie sent to you

from some broke jack-ass like me

trying to hustle up just one more reader

in order to make my daily suicide

in front of this machine more palpable

read the fine print, babe

see if it’s something that matches your wit

your verve

you keen discerning eye

for great literature

instead of just saying, gimme gimme gimme                              

poem of the day 11.04.14

dave the pimp

was kind

when we ran into him

two in the morning

outside of the liberty avenue porn shop

he wasn’t panhandling us white boys

he was understanding

dave the pimp wanted to know our needs

instead of just pushing product

although he did ask if we liked black girls or white girls

but pittsburgh was a cultural wasteland

when it came to latina women

and there weren’t many asian hookers around

in western pennsylvania

so there really weren’t a lot of other options

calvin said that it didn’t matter

because when it came to sex what did it matter?

spoken like a true virgin, i said to steve

as we headed up toward the ramada

dave the pimp asked if we liked music

calvin said that he liked new edition

i hear that, i hear that, dave said

he stated pushing concert tickets and bootlegs on us

he seemed less a friend than before

secretly i wanted dave the pimp

from back at the porn shop and not this hustler

but i wasn’t paying for it anyway that night

when we got to the ramada i officially opted out

dave the pimp thought that i was a bitch, i could tell

he said, i ain’t even talking to you

even when i tried to tell him about the girl i’d been seeing

he told calvin and steve

that he could do the two of them for thirty

really hot girls just waiting for them inside the ramada

so calvin handed over forty dollars

dave the pimp shoved the cash in his pocket

because he knew a good deal when he saw one

he could spot a sucker from a mile away

when steve said, wait, where’s our change?

like he was at the 7-11 buying a big gulp

dave the pimp said

forty, take it or leave it

he was a shell of the kind and understanding man

that we’d met outside the liberty avenue porn shop

steve said, that isn’t fair

because he was still living in a democracy

but calvin said that it was his money

so it was all right

that’s when steve opted out too

and dave the pimp told him

i ain’t even talking to you either

we let calvin go off with him

we weren’t being bad friends

the suburbs had just warped our sense of security

but before we could question ourselves

calvin and dave the pimp

came sprinting around the other side of the ramada

dave was wearing a different t-shirt

and calving was trying to take off his

jesus christ, steve said

what in the hell happened?

calvin said, they called the cops

because of his motherfucker shouting,

dave the pimp said, pointing at steve

so no pussy? steve said

no pussy, calvin said

none whatsoever, dave the pimp added

then give us back the forty bucks, steve said

what forty bucks? dave the pimp said

just as a red-jacketed security guard from the ramada

came outside on a walkie-talkie

dave the pimp sat down on a concrete flower bed

and began picking his nails

steve kept shouting at him about the money

man, the suburbs had warped our sense of entitlement as well

when the sirens sounded i took off

i ran a block away from the ramada

and then down under an overpass near the monongahela river

there were a shit-ton of shopping carts

and old clothing scattered about

like an old hooverville

i could still hear steve shouting

at dave the pimp about calvin’s money

but then soon he and calvin were with me in the hooverville

we’d never seen a thing like this in the suburbs

we hung out there for almost a half-hour

steve yelling and calvin crying about his parents

we walked back to the car quickly

because three white boys

in downtown pittsburgh in the middle of the night

was enough to make the papers

then we drove around for another hour

looking for dave the pimp

although we never found him

by the time steve dropped me off

the sun was coming up over my neighborhood

a couple of dads were coming home

from their night

one of them sleeping it off in his car

the other smoking a j on his front porch

we nodded to each other

i had one last smoke on the porch

as the leaves blew

while dave the pimp was somewhere else in the city

spending calvin’s money

then i went inside

                                    

poem of the day 11.03.14

human resilience

and the fine art of privacy

there is so much love gone wrong

on these trains

on these streets

on any given day of the week

there is a different drama being played out

some bad actor crying into her cell phone

some pouty boy shouting into his

so much love gone wrong

and played out in the public sphere

human resilience

and the fine art of privacy

being taken over by impulse and need

you see them screaming at stop lights

or shouting down the aisle in the grocery store

relationships ending between

the frozen foods and the processed meats

between tire rotations

or in line at the DMV

so many of us willing to bear ourselves

so nakedly out there

the thin line between cell phone love and hate

available for public consumption

as if we are the only ones within

one hundred miles of each other

creating and destroying

our own little universes

crowding out and contaminating

the one we’re leaving behind.