Hiatus time again

Hello

 

WineDrunk SideWalk will be on hiatus from Saturday December 20^th until Monday, January 5^th so that I can spend the next two weeks in a holly jolly drunken stupor.  As always, thank you for reading this here old blog. Merry Whatever Imaginary Being You Follow and Happy New Year. May we, somewhere between the inflatable Santas and rivers of dead evergreens, find some peace.

 

jg

poem of the day 12.19.14

birth of the cool

i remember

smoking cigars

in my parent’s small dining room

my portable CD player

placed right on the corner of the table

as you remember it

there was ice tea and nary an ounce of liquor

we were such rebels back then, huh?

but there was you and there was i

there was miles davis on a cool spring night

or was it the winter?

as much as i keep locked in my head

is as much as i’m starting to forget

whose CD was it?

or did it belong to the library?

these kinds of questions are coming to me

as i sit here tonight

getting drunk on vodka alone

listening to the birth of the cool

brooklyn screaming car horns and dogs

and assholes on their cell phones

parked in front of my open window

complaining about the other assholes in their lives

i can’t remember if it was my first time

listening to the album or yours

or was it the first time for both of us?

oh, i don’t know

i’ve had too much to drink

and i’m probably going to make

this a miserable night

for ally when she gets home

i tend to do that these days when i get going

about any small instance from the past

mixing alcohol and memories

into a fine molotov cocktail

i always hurl right into the present

what where we even doing at my parents?

smoking cigars and drinking ice tea

until my mother bitched down at us from the upstairs

home after some old high school friend’s

shitty metal show?

or at the movies with women

who’d try to ruin us with their love?

i don’t know

what does it matter now?

sitting here in this lonely room

the ice from my drink

burning my rotten tooth and freezing my throat

we had miles then

and i have him with me tonight

making finger shadows

in the headlights of some prick’s SUV

all this time regained

and all of this nostalgia

be damned unto a soused infinity

with all of the other moments of youth

disguised so badly as immortality

                                    

poem of the day 12.18.14

poem to cindy x garcia

age, approximately 5 ½

cindy

what is there to say?

except that we’re both pretty tired

coming home on this evening train

only i don’t have my mother with me

to try and keep waking me up, like you do

she’s only doing it

because if you sleep now

you’ll be a terror when she tries to put you to bed

it’s kind of like how i feel

those nights struggling to keep my eyes open

until at least ten o’clock

frustrated at all of these inabilities and limits

i seem to be acquiring year by year

cindy

it’s hard at your age and it’s getting harder at mine

and i know how you feel

two parents working full-time

or maybe even just one

up and out the door before most kids are even awake

back home to the insult of everyone else’s warm yellow window

because you’ve spent mornings and afternoons

shucked off to daycare or lousy babysitters

that your folks can’t really afford

you know they’re working hard

but it’s tough only seeing them when the sun comes down

when you’re tired and on this train tonight

where thankfully no one is making any noise

remember they don’t want to pay someone else

to raise you either

cindy

i wish that i could say that it gets better

that the tiredness abates

but if i have to be honest with you

life comes down to small pockets of joy

tucked between the sadness and strife

and before you know it

you’ll be putting your mom to bed

or saying goodbye for the long run

so don’t give her too much shit right now

because she seems like a nice lady

with soft, brown loving eyes

cindy

i can see the tears welling up

as she keeps sitting you up straight

there’s no need to cry

because this is just what we do

trying to live this life we’ve been given

we endure

we make magic happen when we can

and there’s still a few more good hours

left in the day for us both

dinner, television, or maybe a decent book

so let’s not squander this, little girl

on tears and petty disagreements

let’s do as mom says

and get up

let’s get off this train tonight

and get back to the art of living

until tomorrow, cindy

until tomorrow.

                                    

poem of the day 12.17.14

vulnerable

it is

in those moments

tired

hungover

up doing what you’ve

been doing for years

when you suddenly

find yourself

without the words

without

the resolute desire to create

just sitting there

staring at the wall

and the clock

that you begin to wonder

if this is it

the magic gone

the joy

the fun

absent

time to hang it up

and simply go to work

shove

food down your mouth

two to three times a day

sit on the bus

reading a bestseller

or shouting

into a cell phone

at some poor bastard

coming home

to the couch

communing with the television

those regrets

those thwarted dreams

left with nothing

but to wait on bed or death

finally

just as weak

and vulnerable

as all the rest

                                                

poem of the day 12.16.14

everyone is a victim

inside the bagel shop

the protest marches are on the morning news

there are a pack of cops watching them

while men behind the counter are hopping to it

buttering cop bagels and toasting cop muffins

fixing cop coffee and making cop smoothies

we are a sea of white men on a sunday morning

a shop full of america’s least desirable overlords

there is one woman amongst us

a black woman

she’s the only person not watching the tv

she’s trying to get a scone and an orange juice

but the bagel men are talking to the cops about the protest

how a couple of anarchists went after cops

with bags of hammers

an alleged attack, one of the cops spits

that could’ve caused brain damage,

the head bagel man says

with cops…how in the fuck could you tell?

the night before, my wife and i were down in the protests

we marched for half a mile or so

from the book store to the wine store

chanting about taking back the streets

how racist all of the cops are

it felt like a shining moment walking down

the middle of broadway

a sea of different people united under a common cause

but you could sense the futility of it all

if you looked to the side at the thousands of cops at the ready

slouching, smirking, hands on their holsters

police vans by the dozens

it let you know whose streets these really were

and all of the blood you’d need to take them back

but in the bagel shop this morning

the cops are still the good ol’ boys, the big heroes

the only lives that matter on this block

their every whim is taken care of by the bagel men

strawberry tarts and cream instead of whole milk

a complimentary copy of the ny post

as the black woman sails between a sea of blue

asking behind the counter where the line starts and ends

running late….church, she mutters

as one bagel man looks up at the television

rolls his eyes and says from one cop to another

you ever notice how

everyone is a victim these days?

                                                           

poem of the day 12.15.14

recognition

i was playing

jack kerouac that fall

just out of college

bus trips to maryland

bus trips to ohio

working half-assed

at a full-time job

that didn’t pay shit

i talked a good game about writing

but i hardly put down a word

just pissed away days and nights

with people whom i don’t even know anymore

drinking in bars

where i was the only white face

buying hot nike hats

and stale marijuana

loving women who didn’t even know i was alive

knowing where every quarter draft night

in the city of pittsburgh was located

vomiting in streets

pissing on porches

howling into bullshit

trying to solicit 3 a.m. hookers

pouring drinks over balconies in clubs

when the boredom hit

shoving dollar bills

into the crotches of strippers

with yellow teeth and shit stains on their g-strings

always planning to leave

but never going anywhere

stuck steaming like a dung-heap george bailey

waiting for the student loan debt

to start showing up

looking at that strange

hungover face in the mirror every morning

trapped in a moment

of clarity

wondering when

any spark was ever going to strike

or wondering

jesus christ

if this was it

                                    

poem of the day 12.12.14

bend over and take it

they tell us in coded words

to bend over and take it

they say i work for you

but like a shot in the ass

they always go back to cuddling

the money and influence

on the streets we call people like these

gold-diggers and whores

everywhere else we vote for them

put them in mansions and positions of power

go against our judgment and need

to keep these people in suits

to keep them fighting wars

arming cops like green berets

to murder in the name of law and order

gerrymander our states

so that there’s nothing but division division division

pitting us one against another

from angry, desolate coast to coast

lobby them to kill the environment

pump our fruits and vegetables full of cancer

pack the meat into steroid cages then let the methane fly

and when we get mad enough

yes, we take to the drought-dusted streets

for a moment or two

to loot and pillage from our own

put our grand statements on t-shirts for the internet selfie

let sports superstars rock the cause

knowing that the revolution will never be televised

and these elected masters

they wait us out

with benevolent smiles and hollow words

or they pass laws to further entrench us in this futility

give us a coke and a smile

the flag and the middle finger

as another celebrity scandal snaps us back in line

and into the warm home

where the consumer avarice waits for the avalanche

and passing congressional gas

is considered a monumental achievement in justice

where we sit in a loud harmony

of car horns and technical toys disguised as progress

to bend over and take it again.

                                

poem of the day 12.11.14

killjoy

i try talking writing

with my part-time clerk

mostly because she overheard me

tell my other co-worker

that life has been miserable now

for six months

which is bullshit

i mean she didn’t overhear me

i said it out loud for her and everyone else to hear

maybe it’s not true

i really don’t know anymore

the way life is now

it has to be an aberration

and not the new normal

i don’t want this kid

thinking that i’m some kind of head case

another old man gone off the deep end

left to get old and rot in his lot in life

if she even considers me at all

she’s got a lot on her plate

just like we all do all the time

talking about writing is hard enough

sometimes it’s like talking about

another kind of cancer

and when my co-worker comes out

of the office and says to me

you know, you’re nothing but a killjoy

i try to take it in stride

because five minutes ago

some kid told me that i saved her life

just by renewing a book

i think it’s all relative to the person

exactly who you are to them at any moment

you can never really win

but still the comment cuts me pretty deep

to the core of what i’ve been feeling for so long now

i cut the literary talk with the young part-timer

when she says she prefers the editing over the craft

i disagree

because nothing in this world

beats that first thought

it’s the lingering over anything that’ll get you

but in the end opinions don’t matter much

over your own sense of truth

instead i think everything that’s happening to her is brand new

while everything that has happened to me

feels like a rerun or a dream

a remembrance of things past

like some perfect killjoy

i ask her if she’d like to go on her way home

her eyes light up and she nods

because we all really want to go home in the end

she touches her stomach

and says, i’m soooooooooooo hungry

and i think to say, you know

i used to feel a certain kind of hunger

at your age too

but i just walk away

lock a few doors

shut off a long row of lights.                                    

poem of the day 12.10.14

prodigal

when i tell my mother

that ally and i are coming home

for christmas

there’s silence on the other end of the phone

the signal lost?

i start thinking

these damned things…

but then i hear my mom huff and sigh

and i know that she’s crying

it goes without saying

between the two of us that

it’s been a hard year

wall to wall cancer

and no one talks about the new year

with any excitement 

although that just may be what comes with age

i give her a few minutes

ask where she is

the mall, she says

shopping for the granddaughter

that she hardly gets to see

the niece who’ll never really know me

when my mom breaths deep

she says that i’ve made her holiday

son, you just don’t know

how good it feels when your child tells you

that they are coming home

i laugh

think of how wasteful i am with my emotions

wonder how long it’s been

since i made anyone’s day

tell her i hope to never

experience that feeling

which explains more about the gulf

between me and everyone i know

then any other word i could type down

to end this pointless piece

of poetry.

                                    

poem of the day 12.09.14

the carolers

the cops are lined up

in their little cop uniforms

at the atlantic avenue station

they are in rows according to height

the tall cops in the back

the ones with short guy syndrome

shoved up front

there are a couple of women cops

interfiled with the boys in blue

the head cop is stalking in front of them

he’s pacing

he looks like he’s ready to give it

to the whole group of them

little town of bethlehem

jiggle bells, deck the halls

the whole works

last week the cops were out on broadway

singing rudolph and frosty

like star-studded musical extras

while the protesters chanted at them

from across the street

no justice, no peace

as the cops kept on singing into the lights

of a paddy wagon van

there are no protesters today

they’ve cleared out or have gotten bored

there are just a couple dozen of new york’s finest

laughing and smiling

movie cops in christmas mode for the tourists

the head cops says

white christmas in three

then he starts counting down

as we make our way across the station

where the less musical cops

are checking bags for bombs

standing against the wall on both sides

single file as far as the eye can see

with flak jackets and machine guns at the ready

german shepherds

with silver bells around their necks, snarling

waiting to bite your balls off

give you the true meaning of christmas

in new york city.

poem of the day 12.05.14

white palms

i thought that

i was so down back then

but i didn’t know shit about shit

stacks of r&b tapes

new edition

al b. sure

guy, levert, and karyn white

my old man’s

temps albums

sailing on with lionel richie

black films

hollywood shuffle

i’m gonna get you sucka

eddie murphy impersonations

in front of my mirror

cosby before the fall

a new jack city of the mind

listening to slick rick tapes

with calvin deflino

outside the girl’s high school

public enemy

ice cube

fucking the police

rocking the suburbs

it was a cross-colors world

and i wanted  to be a part of it

i had no clue what the white kids

were doing

because i didn’t give a shit to be white

the autobiography of malcolm x

soul on ice

iceberg slim and donald goines

pictures of lisa bonet

hanging on my wall

BET

donnie simpson after school

bbd (i thought it was me)

2pac on the rise

sitting on the bus next to calvin

our school bags

scrawled with rappers names

name dropping jodi watley

i told him

a joke

hey, calvin

why are the palms of black people white?

calvin shifty eyed

on the school bus

didn’t have an answer

so i said,

from always being pressed up against

the hood of cops cars

no laughter between the two of us

fifteen years old

had no clue where i first heard it

babyface and bobby brown

heavy d and the boyz

full force on full blast

janet

michael

tony! toni! tone! had done it again

my friend rodney hastings

only a seat behind me

who told me

two days later that he heard

everything that i said

i couldn’t look

him in the eye

kept staring at his palms

red

white

pink

brown

his flesh

while he asked me why

said

i should’ve known better

because i thought that i was down?

and when he walked away

man

i knew that i truly

lost a friend

                                    

poem of the day 12.04.14

dispatches from post racial america

she comes up to me

a stack of fliers for the new annie movie

in her hand

throws them down on my desk

the mostly black cast looking up at me

and says, for the new pc america

when i ask her

what she means

she calls the little star of the film

a colored girl

like we’re a couple of fiddle-skipping

southern darlings

right out of the jim crown south

then waddles away

with thirty pounds of excess

white privilege stuck up her ass

clutching the new york post

a picture of missouri in flames

on the cover

to commune with the last vestiges

of her freedom

in the stinking shitter

we’re she’ll fart

glory glory hallelujah

and the star-spangled banner

over articles on immigration

as the ghost of jefferson davis

shakes his fingers

testifies

to flushing all of those

patriotic turds

of hers

away.

                                    

poem of the day 12.03.14

mother of invention

i had been looking

for a reason to get away from her months

for we had become loveless and sexless

but a simple break-up wouldn’t work

face to face i chickened out

on the phone while she gave me shit

about my female co-workers or ex-girlfriends

i just let it slide

happy to be off the phone with her

when she finally slammed it down on me

i needed to get her with something

but she had no real life outside of me and the relationship

outside of television and doctor’s appointments

for her made-up ailments

outside of her job working the strip mall dollar store

once i almost had her

when she had me grab a five out of her wallet

stuffed inside with the bills she rarely used

was a folded up piece of paper

with a guy’s phone number and his name

for a second i thought, you bitch

but then euphoria overtook me

i had my ticket to freedom

for a few weeks i held on to this information

thinking i’d hit her when she least expected it

but oddly enough we went through a good period

movies and laughter and that kind of shit

she started wanting to do it again

her happiness over us

started playing with my head

alone i began to wonder

if this joy was a result of the phone number in her wallet

had this other man opened her up?

or let her go to fall back on me

i began to imagine their dalliances

sexual or otherwise

the things in bed that he did to her

that she wouldn’t let me do

the jokes of his that she laughed at

because she’d sure as hell stopped laughing at mine

movies, dinners, walks in the park holding hands

so on and so on

i finally got up the courage to confront her with this

in a dairy queen parking lot

some lost summer night

she claimed that the number was just some kid

who kept coming in the dollar store to hit on her

nothing serious, she said

she opened her wallet to show me that the paper was gone

she was probably being honest

but i called her a whore anyway

and told her that we were done

she threw her blizzard at me and sulked in her car

she cried and pounded the steering wheel

i felt glorious and utterly satisfied with myself

despite the ice cream on my shoes

until it hit me

that timing was everything

how i was thirty miles away from home

without a dime to my name

because my dumb ass

had let her drive to the dairy queen

that fateful evening

so i calmly drank my milkshake

as the sun fell on the commercial landscape

i waited for her to calm down a touch

so that i could get inside the car

hold her hand

caress her hair

invent a brand new way

to apologize this time.

                                                

poem of the day 12.02.14

to a writer who stopped drinking

i guess the easy joke is: more for me

you say that you stopped drinking because…it was time

well, you must have found something

that the rest of us stuck down here in the mud

are still searching for

or else you’re full of shit

you say with alcohol you always wanted

to bring the party

well, there was your first mistake

it’s easy to love the company of the multitudes

when drinking

hell, i love everyone when i’ve had five or six

only i do it from within the privacy of my own home

i’m willing to bet that this was all a ploy on your part

a way to get you back in the pages of the new york times

with that over-used sinatra quote

because your articles on the club scene were dull

and your investigative journalism went nowhere

why not give up writing instead?

from where i sit, man, it seems the safer bet

but, no, it was the booze that left you hollow

it had to be

couldn’t be the lump of writerly shit

staring back at you in the mirror every morning

the man who could no longer get the word down on the paper

it was the hangovers

those dirty, dirty hangovers that you got once a week

i had a hangover once for two months

and you didn’t see me writing about it in a national paper

and, yes, i know no one asked me to but…

this all seems so trite

another writing doing battle with the bottle and winning

another writing doing battle with the bottle in general

and fucking writing about it

why not be the writer who gave up oranges

they’re in season now

so at the very least you’d be topical once again

maybe now your liver will give out

out of boredom and neglect

maybe some sober chippy will give you herpes

you can start a book club to pass the DTs

instead of sipping gin and tonics at happy hour

and telling people who wasted you are

or maybe you can finally go to sudan and get real

change the world

win a pulitzer

write a memoir’

and have one of your recovered buddies

write a breathtaking review of it

so that he (or she) can concur with all that you’ve gone through

in your journey toward sobriety

you wicked old drunk you

then come awards time

you can stand there and black tail and a tie

a glass of ginger ale in your hand

a full man in bloom

scanning the room for all of those well-greased swine

standing on your shoulders

indeed.

                                    

poem of the day 12.01.14

the great night of 2003

you were the first to admit

that it was a great night

a friday night in brooklyn

without the gang members on the street

or the guardian angels

saying hello to us as we entered the apartment

or that pit-bull roaming around

without a leash

a great night

one-half a magnum bottle of white

waiting for us after the horror of the f train

and then the little red bar on carroll street

selling vodka lemonades for three bucks a pint

because no one ever went in there

it was such a great night

sitting in that bar with  you

having four of those vodka lemonades

with the russian bartender

they complemented the white wine, i thought

you wanted burmese food

and i guess i wanted burmese food too

or to sit in that bar drinking vodka and lemonade

talking with the russian and playing springsteen songs

like some kind of strange glasnost

to keep pretending that brooklyn was paradise

instead of a sweltering shit-hole

of cockroaches, gang members

and stolen wallets

bass from the asshole living upstairs

it was such a great night

fingering you in the f train on the way to manhattan

your hands down my pants

the sloppiest people moaning

on the train that night

stopping into mcsorely’s

because the tourists had all gone home for the summer

round after round of dark beer

two mugs for three-fifty for such a good night

falling on the sawdust floor

while trying for handful of magic

and even with the burmese place closed

it was such a great night

spilling a pitcher of coke all over a famous ray’s pizza

on st. marks

yelling at each other over the hum and buzz

of a friday night

we’d been drowning in now for hours

and when our heroes showed up at our table

two jesus freaks with business cards

and rosaries

who asked us if we needed

their spiritual help

it was like they were all a part of the great night

that we were having

even though i threatened them with a fork

and our soggy pizza

at just about the time you got up

and ran out onto broadway

where i chased you two blocks

sweating wine and vodka and beer and coke

to have it out like a couple

of minor characters in another new york city drama

our great night

where people passed this holy shouting

like it was nothing out of the ordinary

and i made you give me back

the engagement ring

pretending to throw it down bond street

while you waited

for the glitter and the ting that

never came

then the two of us huddled by

that parking garage

the worst year that we’d had so far together

clasping each other in grips of fear of death

and i put that ring back on your finger

like a promise that the next year

would be better

and the next one after that

our life a lifetime

of great nights

yet to come

                                              

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.