poem of the day 04.24.15 ....and Hiatus time.

the dance

when the

six day

work week

full of the usual

failures

ends with you drunk

and dropping

a wine glass

on the shitty cracked floor

there’s nothing left

to do but scream

and dance

on the shards

in your bare feet

like you’re

fred

fucking

astaire

                      

Well...that's it from me...for a couple of weeks.  Gonna go off and see if i can still function like a human being in the so-called real world. As always thank you for reading, and i'll see you again on Monday, May 11th.

jg

poem of the day 04.23.15

alcoholics anonymous blues

knee deep

into my fourth vodka

i think about the man

this afternoon

whom i gave

the alcoholics anonymous

pamphlets to

wonder what he’s doing tonight

to kill the pain

shake the ice cubes in my glass

before killing the dream in one gulp

then rise for a fifth

as beethoven shits out

another masterpiece

on the old static radio.

AND.....something for Shakespeare's birthday.......

american high school tour group

at anne hathaway’s cottage

dude

like

shakespeare

was only

eighteen

when he

like

banged

this twenty-six year old

and then

he

like

left here

for london

or something

and

like

banged all kinds

of chicks

in london

for all

of these

years

and then

like

he

only

became

the most

famous

writer

of all time.

dude

i told you

that

shakespeare

was

fucking cool

or something

huh?

                                                10.13.09

                                  

poem of the day 04.22.15

to the girl waving at me from

the passenger seat in a big black car

or at least i think it’s me

i see your hand and hair and little else

you could be anyone or no one

i have headphones on so i can’t tell

if you’re calling for me or not

i’ve had a long day

and the idea of saying something else to anyone

fills me with dread

and are you shouting, hey! hey!

or my nickname?

there’s a park full of people behind me

but none of them are waving back to you

so it must be me you’re calling for, right?

this is so unusual though

i haven’t had anyone call for me

from a car in a long time

twelve years in a city full of eight million

and i’ve managed to make no friends

except maybe you

whoever the hell you are

leaning over and screaming into the driver’s ear

your goddamned face blocked for posterity

in new york city

we’re surrounded by everyone

still it can be the loneliest place in the world

so maybe i should be glad someone has found me

wave back even if i’m not quite sure or don’t want to

make that connection

but before i do anything

the light changes and you’re gone

the music fills my ears again

the street comes alive with its usual nonsense

dogs barking and kids crying

some chick in leopard printed pants

reading her old man the riot act

and i think thank god

thank the ever-loving gods

that i’m alone with everyone

again.

                                    

poem of the day 04.21.15

brooklyn says

sixty degree morning

in early april

the illusion of

a ray of hope

after the mournful winter

i open my window

to the sound

of jackhammers and rap bass

dogs barking

defecating on the wet pavement

some fat bitch

screaming into her cell phone

about who she’s going to kill

and as babies cry madness

i go back to bailing out

the clogged bathtub

pouring gray sudsy water

into the toilet and sink

singing an old tom petty song

as more noise

permeates the apartment

house alarms and car horns

i daydream serenity

a small informal peace

genocidal rainbows

as all of

brooklyn says

to me

fuck you

poem of the day 04.20.15

emmylou harris

when i turned thirty

i told my wife

when i turn forty

i’m going to start a punk band

with some old warriors

with teenagers and kids in their twenties

we’ll be the fuckheads

last night she reminded me

that was eleven years ago

i told her time flies like time flies

plus kids in their teens and twenties

are dull substitutes for humanity

they know everything

and they know nothing

they always have their heads buried

in some device made in china

plus i always hated punk music

and i never learned how to play guitar

but would if i could now

i wouldn’t start a band

the idea of collaboration is so foreign to me

i’d just want a bunch of yes men around

to carry out my ideas

my each and every whim

or maybe i’d go it completely alone

record my old man jingles on a computer

give emmylou harris a call

and have her sing background for me

like she did for dylan and neil

and practically everyone else

old emmylou has to be pushing seventy now

but i’ll bet her voice is like a fine wine

more refined than

some twentysomethings

who’d spend their breaks in the recording sessions

smoking e-cigarettes and texting

looking up videos

of people cracking each other in the nuts

instead of coming outside

to get high behind the trash bins

with the rest of the fuckheads

in the band.

and here's an old marijuana poem for you, dipshit, wherever you are:

the reluctant pot head

we told calvin that

phillies blunt cigars

came pre-made with marijuana

just like all the rappers smoked

he didn’t bat an eye

when we bought a pack

and lit them in his car

as we drove around suburban pittsburgh

listening to a 2pac cd

and when calvin finished his cigar

and acted fucked up

we acted fucked up too

because no one had the heart to tell him

that you couldn’t buy pot

over the counter in america

besides he was a natural born citizen

and none of us thought he’d believe us anyway

about the cigars

but when calvin said that he was

coming down from his high

we all acted like we were coming down too

and later on when one of us said,

dude, would you like another smoke?

we all understood it when calvin said,

nah, i don’t want to become an addict

all in one night.

                                    07.02.13

                                              

poem of the day 04.17.15

overeaters anonymous

my mother loved me

she fed me dish after dish at dinner

a heaping of pasta in three rounds

another hot dog coming out of boiling water

she kept candy and cakes

and potato chips by the dozen

the media loved me

i loved twinkies by the bushel

and shooting globs of canned cheese in my mouth

while i sat there like jabba the hutt

watching copious amounts of television

sat their contented with my evening snack

a cream horn, a huge piece of cake

a bowl of popcorn just for me

as my old man walked through the living room

singing, wasting away again in sitcomville

to the tune of a jimmy buffett song

the corporate world loved me

stouffer’s pizzas and hot pockets galore

mcdonald’s commercials and not avoiding the noid

a cocktail of sugar, salt and fat being cooked up just for me

in labs all over this great land

i ate pop tarts for breakfast every morning

until the doctor caressed my stretch marks

and went wild with rage

i sucked the heinz ketchup packets

and finished everyone’s fries

i was beyond husky

i wore sweatpants out of necessity

and those faded jeans with elastic waists

ate meatball sandwich after meatball sandwich

after meatball sandwich at christmas

because baby jesus loved me

until i heard my aunt whisper

christ, look at what he’s doing to himself

the kids loved me

a girl at school whom i liked

called me jumbo john

me and jimmy jackson played duck duck cow

on saturday afternoons

while the other kids played outside

i stood in front of my parent’s mirror

i looked at my girth, at my obesity

then i punched myself in the stomach

over and over again until i could barely stand

slapped my face

until i had red welts all over

then went and hid in my room

because more than anyone else

in this beautiful and benevolent world

i loved me

only i couldn’t yet figure out

how to express it best.

                                                

poem of the day 04.16.15

toys

brian collected toys

batman and teenage mutant ninja turtles

that he kept in the packages

they excited him

filled a void that women

and lifting weights couldn’t fill

at least once a week

he’d park the delivery truck

and run into the toy store to grab

the latest star wars or sport figurine

brian’s hobby often made us late for deliveries

once we were two hours late

for a shipment of doors and windows

to this condo development

because brian wanted a spider-man doll

and we had to hit three stores before he could find it

the guys on the construction job wanted to kill us

the foreman got in brian’s face

and threatened to quit doing business with his old man

i had three big mothers on my ass

as i carried hundred pound doors to each new home

without trying to fall over

but when we got back in the truck

all brian could talk about was spider-man

his old man never said word

i was sure these foreman had to be calling to complain

the old man just sat in his office

listening to talk radio

getting his two slices of pepperoni per day

as brian sat in the warehouse fingering his new find

some of the guys said he was a special case

a suicide gone wrong

and the old man had to handle him with kid gloves

that didn’t help me

when construction guys were kicking at my ass

over a hobbit doll

i tried getting off the deliveries with brian

go out on calls with some of the guys from assembly

but i couldn’t put shit together

all i was good for was grunt work

and not even so good at that

i dropped my share of things

and couldn’t back-up the truck to save my life

so brian and i were stuck together

driving throughout greater buffalo

with talk radio and dunkin coffee breath

making foreman fume and wait

while he hunted down the next great find

bearded thor or darth vader with a helmet that came off

these fabulous toys that brian did nothing with

except put in his bedroom, he said

waiting for their value to increase

or for his old man to retire and give him the company

where the sky would be the limit

and it would be like christmas morning every day.

                                                          

poem of the day 04.15.15

he is (almost) risen

you can hear the chickens clucking

from inside the fresh slaughterhouse

and the people outside waiting are so calm

playing on cell phones and smoking cigarettes in line

the day before easter on a frigid april morning

i don’t know how this works

do they just go inside and pick out a chicken

send it off to the sacrifice?

i hate my shitty grocery store

but walking to work this morning

i feel a soft fondness for it

the chickens there are already dead and cut and quartered

taking all of the murder out of the meal for me

a block away i can still hear the chickens

only faintly underneath the sound of christian music

playing out inside the compound of

an emergency food pantry

there is a long line of people waiting there as well

a little less cell phone playing

a lot more cigarette smoking

the benevolent church ministers are walking

up and down the line

getting information from the people

and passing out pamphlets

reassuring them that they don’t have to attend services

in order to get some food

god loves each and all of us one and the same, they say

even the guy sleeping underneath his shopping cart

between the enterprise rent-a-car and the honda dealership

he will be risen!

one of the ministers shouts to the crowd

only no one claps or cheers

and on cue the christian music rises to a crescendo

covering the sounds of the chickens and the people

jesus christ with his dull perpetual life of holy servitude

as the rest of us live this way and that

driving fancy cars off of lots

walking to work or standing in long lines

with starving bellies

spending our single short lives in cages

in awe or disgust of that tired crucifixion

apathetic to the whole bloody mess

but always certain that the slaughter will come

and round out the blank spaces of another year.

                                                            

poem of the day 04.14.15

failures

to the ones sitting in suburbs

leafing through yellowing film scripts

to the ones sitting in office meetings

with no desire left to draw or paint

to the ones stuck in traffic

reciting old lines of dialog from long dead plays

the lifelong admin assistant still hungering for the stage

to the ones too old to dance

or take their clothing off for salivating men

to the ones whose hands are too shaky

to make anyone’s body their canvas

to the ones whose guitars have become statues

resting in corners in their homes

the ones thinking about getting the band back together

to the ones who are still cooking that novel up

in their heads while teaching a writing class

to the ones who write poems like this

in cold bedrooms as they turn another year gray

to the ones meant for five star restaurants

instead of backyard barbecues on the fourth of july

those poor fools surrounded by cracked bowls and candle wax

to the ones the ghost of rodin has shunned

or the ones pasting pictures of chickens

next to images of the moon next to car crashes

to the ones blogging about their neighbors

instead of getting it down for the new york times

for the crafty mothers and fathers rushing their kids to daycare

bemoaning the passage of time

as the anti-heroes of  their youth

are being given the keys to the city

or having dinner with the president

to the ones too self-conscious to pull a rabbit out of their hat

and the ones who watch dull buildings being built

for the stained glass artists and the folk artists

and the quilters and cartoonists put out to pasture too

and to the ones for whom getting up

and simply getting through another day

has become their last

and only tangible piece of performance art

that anyone here will ever see.

                                                           

poem of the day 04.13.15

spring is here

and the asshole

across the street

is on his porch again

blasting talk radio

with that big dumb dog of his

who barks all day and night

spring is here!

the sitting garbage smells like banana peels

coffee grounds and rotten eggs

and the people are stopping

in front of my window

to scream at their loved ones on cell phones

or to smoke cigarettes

stop and watch a video on youtube

spring is here!

all of the beautiful children

are riding their big wheels and bikes

up and down the street

crying when they fall off their scooters

while their parents pacify them with hand-held video games

and bruised fruit in freezer bags

having inane conversations

about their jobs and the weather

spring is here!

teenage boys are bouncing basketballs

and talking about pussy

teenage girls are singing pop songs about love

wearing next to nothing

before the weather truly breaks

the man with the buzz saw

is letting her rip before noon

spring is here!

there is rap bass and club music

permeating from freshly washed cars

millionaires are hitting baseballs again

and the loud tinkle of the ice cream truck

parked for eons at the top of the block

is sucking my will to live

spring is here!

you dumb son-of-a-bitches!

you slap-happy capitalists!

open your windows

turn up your blinds

like the asshole across the street

turns up his radio to block out his barking dog

he ruffles his ny post and scratches his ass

farts into the echo of a sun-bleached street

as the joggers jog in stiff spandex

cursing their luck

whenever they step in the fresh piles of shit

that litter the sidewalk

smears of excrement

that’ll be here all spring

until the summer comes and it gets too hot

for anyone to want to step outside for anything

least of all

to walk their fucking dogs.

                                    

poem of the day 04.09.15

forty one

i’m thinking of being forty one

rather i’m thinking about turning twenty one

which was twenty years ago

tonight i’m thinking about you, mary

all of those years back

how you sat scowling on the couch

watching saturday night live at the stroke of midnight

while i downed my first legal beer

with such good friends that i no longer have them

how i knew right then and there that we were through

remember you kept it going the whole next day

the standard rainy april in pittsburgh

moaning and bitching through some will smith movie

that they’ve made endless sequels to

my birthday and i didn’t even want to see it

christ, twenty years ago

and hollywood is still making the same shit

will smith still has a million dollar movie career

as i sit here turning old and gray

trying to make something decent of myself

forty one

it doesn’t sound so bad unless you’re looking in a mirror

but, of course, you’re older now too, mary

married and not even living in america

imagine if we’d gotten hitched

like you wanted to all of those years ago

when you connected our names in your notebooks

imagine the misery as i have

some suburban prison home

soulless jobs and passionless sex

two dumbass kids and a dvd shelf full of will smith movies

i hope you’re happy like i am that we got out

it’s been twenty years since we’ve seen each other

not even social networking

can fix what we’d damaged back then

what we never really had

mary, i try to think of you turning forty one too

i try to think of you happy when you were a girl

but all i ever remember

is the fight we had after that movie

some dumb argument over 2pac and rush

on the way to meet my family for my birthday dinner

a disagreement that escalated into madness

you told me i crossed a line

when i told you i’d rather have fucked a prostitute

than lost my virginity to you at nineteen

yet you still hung around for another seven months

ah, mary, the girlfriend of my youth

what can i say now but i’m sorry?

that i remember you fondly

sitting there crying in the car

the whole way to dinner

mary frozen in time at twenty years old

the first woman of many

who ever made me say out loud

jesus christ, i need a drink.

                                                            

poem of the day 04.08.15

here is where we all begin again

right here

in this bar that we’ve been avoiding for months

there were so many good times

there have been hours lost in the drink

that i don’t mind getting back

on a saturday afternoon that’s too cold for late march

the last two seats at the bar

motown playing like a portent of good things to come

a half block of rubble two blocks away

two dead bodies that they haven’t found yet

but will have by the night

when we’re already home and working on the wine

here

right here

with seth at the end of the bar pouring pints

for the same people that were sitting statues the last time we left

here is where the pieces fall into place

and years can slip back into common, tangible moments

here is where the storm ends and the sun comes out

another new york city story

another tragedy reaching for the light

two pints of dark beer

and a basket of greasy popcorn

seth now pouring us two chilled vodka shots as payment

for talking our ears off about his ex-girlfriend

just like he did all summer

when we and cancer came in here incognito

to hear his tales of woe and to forget our own

before we forgot here

right fucking here

with the neon reflecting red off the faces

of young women too dumb on their cell phones to notice

that right here

right in this moment

is where we rise

where we all begin again

                                               

poem of the day 04.07.15

mammogram after

it’s a shit morning in january

bright but it might be ten degrees out

i’m sitting on the edge of the coffee table

already dressed in my coat and hat

sweating as the radiator clinks

my wife is running around

she’s still getting herself together

we’ve made a pact not to talk

at least not until we’ve left the apartment

hoping maybe cooler heads will prevail

it’s the morning of the mammogramafter

the mammogram that sent us spinning

into six months of surgery, radiation

chemo threats, and a shitload of tears

i feel like we just got out of one war

and we’re about to enter another

really, we haven’t gotten out of anything

we get momentary reprieves in between doctor visits

i think i should be strong, positive

any other man would be strong on a morning like this

say something calming, soothing

say i’m sorry i’m not being there for you like i should

but i’m running scared and not moving

i’d hide underneath the couch if i could fit

i’ve run out of so many comforting words

that i’m going to have to start coming up with new ones soon

and my wife has heard more apologies from me for my negligence

then she’ll ever need in this lifetime

so i sit there on the edge of the coffee table

feeling bad for myself and only myself

dully watching our old, blind cat roam around the living room

in that same pattern that drives me nuts

take my hat off and wipe the sweat from my brow

as my wife comes in the room

with that ubiquitous blue medical folder in her hands

and says to me, you ready?

so quietly that it sounds like a bomb.

                                                           

poem of the day 04.06.15

ass walk

it was the first

beautiful day in months

and i was walking down 5^th avenue

with brahms on my magic music machine

behind this woman with an amazing ass

thinking, well, i love my wife

and the spring and brahms

and women with wonderful backsides

she was moving too quickly for me to pass her

she was moving too slowly for me to fall back

so i had no choice but to walk in the spring sun

letting brooklyn and brahms

and her wonderful rear end

bathe me in the celestial light of a thursday morning

it didn’t even matter that i had to go to work

but coming in the other direction

was some shit with his pants down to his ankles

his hat on backwards and big headphones

attached to his thick skull

he was such a dull, common pound of flesh

manufactured in sweating bedrooms by the dozen

i could see him staring at the woman in front of me

he had that salivating look of entitlement on his face

when the three of us clashed

he leaned in and said something that made the woman flinch

but she kept going

when he passed her he turned and checked her out from behind

shouting, damn! over my brahms and the sound of car horns

we made eye contact and he pointed at the woman’s ass

he said, yo do you see that shit?

like she was some great catch in centerfield

or a super bowl touchdown

we brothers in arms

when he was gone i kept going for a couple of blocks

letting the woman get further and further ahead

until i grew sick of myself and the world anew

and turned down another, dirty city street.

                                                           

poem of the day 04.03.15

good friday

i used to drink in a bar

that was open at 9 a.m. year round

you’d find men in there

well, mostly men

sucking up the suds on thanksgiving and christmas

they looked happier than anyone i’d ever seen

shoving hunks of dry turkey or greasy christmas ham

down their throats with their sullen families

it was a good place

if you could tolerate some bullshit

and the arbitrary conversation here and there

like i said, the place was never closed

except good friday

the bar was closed from twelve to three

the bartender kicked the drunks out

so they could go and cleanse themselves in church

mumbling along to the passion of the christ

with the other hoodwinked

but around two-thirty

they’d all start to congregate

third shifters and unemployment boys

drunk dads and retired old farts

mona, who fucked everyone in the bar

but her boyfriend, benny

a convention of the neighborhood’s saints

shaking in their faded beer buzz

waiting in the gray

for the miller light sign to come back on

red and illuminated

and the wooden door to click open

like the pearly gates of heaven.

poem of the day 04.02.15

vanity fair

the poet

had a display for her new book

up at the old squirrel hill barnes & noble

but that wasn’t enough for her

she found me working the circulation desk

in the midst of another hangover

contemplating my fourteen thousand a year salary

and the fact that no one wanted my writing

she said, there’s a display in the lobby

for black history month

okay, i said

i knew the poet from seeing her around campus

back when i went there and thought that college

meant that you’d amount to something in life

other than being a guy with a hangover

working the circulation desk for 14K a year

she said, where’s my book?

you have all of the usual suspects in there

baldwin, hughes, dubois, wright, douglas, and ellison

all men, she said

if you look closely, i said,

i think there’s some rita dove

the poet said, that’s not the point

the point is i’m a woman, a black woman

i’m an artist in this city and a teacher

i do readings, i sit on committees

i’ve written three books in twenty years

and none of them are in your display

i want to know what

you’re going to do about this?

the poet asked me

i shrugged

i said, lady, i think you’re overvaluing

my place in this institution

they check my bag when i leave here

to make sure that i don’t steal anything

oh please, the poet said

because she wasn’t buying my oppression

i wanted to tell her all about hangovers

and fourteen thousand a year

rejection letters and manuscripts fit to burn

but  she said, well, something has to be done about this

i said, why don’t you go

up to the barnes & noble

stare at the display of your book for a few hours

maybe that’ll help

the poet rolled her eyes

she said, this isn’t finished

then she stormed out of the library

into the bright cold of an early february afternoon

to go and teach people

how to become poets just like her

while i stood there and checked my wallet

found that i had three dollars left

almost screamed out hallelujah

then wondered what it was i’d do for lunch.

                                                                       

poem of the day 04.01.15

the drum teacher

had me as his first student

at nine in the morning

after a friday night of gigging

his eyes were bloodshot when they were open

and he smelt of cigarettes and beer

which made me think of my grandfather

he never took off his newsboy cap

and his ginger goatee always had egg in it

when he asked me

why i wanted to learn how to play the drums

and i said, because of micky dolenz

he said, awwww, man, then slumped into his seat

the drum teacher had me do beats

on this piece of shit kit in a cramped room

i did fourths, eighths, sixteenths, whatever

when i stopped drumming

the man was still bobbing his head with his eyes closed

saying, yeah, man, yeah

to some great gig in his mind

i let him ride out the fantasy

thinking that this wasn’t anything like being on the monkees

the drum teacher excused himself a lot

maybe three or four time in an hour

he told me to hit the skins while he was gone

but i just sat there thinking about all of the girls

who would like me when i could play

i should’ve been out in the cold

jogging my fat ass down a size or three

the drum teacher sold me a pad and two sticks

so that i could practice at home during the week

i tried it once or twice

but the pad mostly sat on the floor

and the sticks, my brother and i used to sword fight with

i watched the monkees on rerun instead

the last time i went for a lesson

the old man and i sat in the car, waiting

we saw the drum teacher come staggering down the street

christ, my old man said,

he looks like some of the guys i used to loaf with,

as the drum teacher tried opening a door to the wrong store

he shouted, fuck it, before going to get a cup of coffee

i think i want to quit, i said

me who’d quit baseball, football and pretty much everything else

usually my old man rode me

for wasting money that we didn’t have

for not following through

but as the drum teacher came out of the coffee shop

trying the wrong damn door again

shaking it and shaking it with a passion

he’d never exhibited in two months of lesson

my old man just nodded

and turned on the ignition

and we waited for our old car to warm up

as the drum teacher stood waiting

for the wrong store to open

fumbling in the cold to light a bent cigarette