"best of" poem of the day 01.29.16

snowballs

i’m addicted to the gloom

the misery of the daily race

i miss so many moments this way

moments like this

throwing snowballs

while we wait for the bus

to take us both to work

hurling ice balls across 77^th street

hitting walls and fences, trees in the distance

laughing like two idiots

our love as crystal as the ice shavings

melting on your black gloves

there are so many things to talk about

the worst kind of trivial business

i want to keep quiet about it all

but i’m addicted to the gloom

i feed on it

i miss too many of these moments

years of joy passing between us

undiscovered by me

for a moment like this

i have to work the silence into an art

just to catch it

i miss moments the way working stiffs

miss busses

please not today

today i know i’m keeping this one

here it is.

                                                                        02.12.10

poem of the day 01.28.16

the electrician

three days
with not heat
no hot water
vodka after vodka after
as a blizzard falls
we breathe heavy
into the amber-dimmed room
to see if we can see our breath
while in the hallway
some tenant screams accusations and obscenities
at the super, at his wife
at their two year old daughter
chalkboard slangy valley girl blonde ditz voice
who’s never been cold
a day in her life
looking for someone to blame
because daddy told her on the phone
not to take this inconvenience lying down
the younger they get the more they bitch
the less empathy they seem to have
some have taken
to scrawling revolutionary script
on paper throughout the building
begging us to call 311 for salvation
calling bullshit on the dead boiler
but still the snow falls and the wind howls
and the hard wood gets colder
the extra shirts and blankets and socks and hats
are outliving their usefulness
the alarm clock flips slowly
on these desperate hours
and the kitchen light won’t turn on
four double vodkas and no food
suddenly i’m an electrician
a high wire act on a shaking chair
i fall and land on shoulders land on knees
next to a frozen cockroach
as my wife rushes over
as the cat circles and cries
while outside my door
ditz blonde ditz screams echoes into our little world
that she’d not going to take
this kind of stupid shit
anymore.                                                         

poem of the day 01.27.16

art is subjective

and it’s mozart’s birthday

and in one of the books i’m reading

a character curls into themselves

like a question mark

in the other they can’t decide

miso soup or salad for dinner

and i wonder what the fuck?

oh, you pretty little

MFA things

i put both books down

hum the jupiter instead

some say that it is bad to not finish a book

a disservice to the author

most mornings i think that life is too short

to fall into the shape of a question mark

to waste the energy

stacking five cent words onto each other

and if it’s miso soup or salad

that’s on the menu for tonight

well then you little literary darlings

i guess i opt for hunger too.

                                               

"best of" poem of the day 01.26.16

i promise some new poesy before the end of the week.

hipster in the laundry room

there’s a hipster in the laundry room

i don’t know how he got there

but he’s putting some of his clothing

in the washer

some in the dryer

all of his little plaid shirts

and his tight blue jeans

he’s got his head down

pressing the buttons on his smart phone

multitasking like a motherfucker

on a sunday afternoon

while i’m shoving clothing of all types

into one washer

my hair greasy

blood and wine and come

caked into my t-shirt

there’s a hipster in the laundry room

i wonder if he’s lost

he’s staring at me through those

thick glasses of his, confused

looking at me like i’m the same old story

same old act

maybe he’s seen me around the building

i think he’s judging me

i want to put his head through the wall

but i’m tired

half hungover on wine

useless from working six days

worried that my old cat is going to die

there’s a hipster in the laundry room

i wonder if he’s the one who’s been

leaving all of those david foster wallace

and jonathan safran foer novels down here

the old seasons of mad men and the wire

there’s a warm outdated six-pack of pumpkin ale

in the garbage room

and i want to ask him if it’s his

there’s a hipster in my basement

is he trying to be ironic by living down here?

putting his empty containers of tofu

and vegan cheese slices

next to my packages of bloody rancid meat

and whole milk mozzarella

there’s a hipster in my laundry room

i don’t know how long he’s been in there

but i hear 1980s music coming out of his headphones

he’s suffocating me now

sneering into his little gadget of infinite jest

laughing at some private joke

as his vintage clothing do cartwheels

in the dryer machine

this fucking hipster

he’s only going to be in this laundry room

for a short while, i know it

then he’ll move on to bigger and better ones

he’ll find his breed

they always do

i’ll probably be here forever

eternally damned

folding yellowing whites

and socks with holes in them

reading threatening letters

from the building management

that are tacked up on an old corkboard

mistaking nickels for quarters

under the blinding fluorescent lights

huffing detergent and my own stagnation

prostrate on a plastic table

humming hall and oates songs

reading that used copy of everything is illuminated

and waiting for the spin cycle to end.

                                    02.01.11

"best of" poem of the day 01.25.16

novel writing, four days w/o heat or hot water, a blizzard....we'll try again tomorrow.

irate american

there is no simplicity

in bureaucracy

there is only me and this guy

on the other end of the line

asking me a million questions

about my credit card history

my banking history

when all i want to do it put a note in my account

saying i’ll be in germany and prague for two weeks

i imagine he is in india

because that’s what he sounds like

i try to tread carefully

don’t want to sound like the irate american

so i play it cool while he puts me on hold

then puts me on hold again

comes back and asks me

where i live

makes me repeat my phone number

work number

he even asks me about

the previous phone number attached to the card

i’m surprised that i remember it

do you want me to send you my sperm too? i ask

but he only puts me on hold again

what’s going on? my wife asks

i shrug and wait

he gets back on the phone

he asks me when the last time i used the card was

where i used it

how much did i charge

look, i don’t remember, i tell him

i hardly use this thing

is there something wrong with my account?

he puts me on hold again

i can feel the blood boiling beneath me

the fear

the beast emerging

i imagine terrorists or some jack-off

who wanted exercise equipment has stolen my information

a duplicate me out there

buying all of the shit that i can only look at

when he gets back on the line he gets a word out

sir

before i start

a litany of profanity so long

i couldn’t tell you how i laced it together

but it feels good to yell at him

to yell at someone

to pitch a fit

have a good old temper tantrum

to tell this faceless imp thousands of miles away

how i feel fucked with

abused

degraded

me? a card holder for twenty-three years

there are chicks giving head in bars

who weren’t even born when i got this card, i shout

i tell him how i’m going to cut the card

into a million pieces and sent it to him

like a horse’s head

a ransomed finger

as if he cares

as if anyone cares

and when i’m finally done yelling

i notice there’s a woman on the line

instead of my main man

she says, the note has been added to your account, sir

then hangs up

while i stay there on the line

sweating

shaking

letting another hollow victory wash over me.

                                                                        05.11.15

poem of the day 01.22.16

sunday morning

crossing

the highland park bridge

3 a.m. i’m no george washington

i wonder if it’s really 3 a.m.

the witching hour

sunday morning like a velvet’s song

half-drunk i glide the machine

over empty concrete

a fresh dent in the driver’s side door

from who-knows-what

coltrane playing his blues

the world asleep

calvin asleep

steve asleep

colby is somewhere in maryland

with baby worries but still asleep

this city…asleep but still glowing pittsburgh pink

around the twists of the frozen allegheny river

killian asleep

portia asleep somewhere

where i can no longer reach her

dreaming her pot dealing fractions

amanda asleep

her phone number tucked into my flannel pocket

stealth behind calvin’s back

17 year old crooked smile finger over lips

ssssshhhhhhhhhh

before they tossed her blondeness from the karaoke bar

a problem for next week

the next holy saturday night

where we’ll sit in drunk bars

and calvin’ll claim he loves amanda

or claim he loves someone else

calvin loves the world

loves every fruitydrinksloshedwoman we see

like always he does

but i finger amanda’s phone number

tired, the true hero of my shit

just wanting to get across

the highland park bridge

and fall into my bed

dream blonde

damn, i know this isn’t the delaware river

really, it’s just another lonesome night.                                                  

poem of the day 01.21.16

pregnant pause

i ask

colby if he’s sure

but he just nods like a scholar

we watch the first snowfall

all over route 22

smoking cigarettes

in a kinko’s parking lot

pittsburgh cars flashing red brakes

no one can drive in the snow in pittsburgh

one inch or flurries

they develop this fear

i want to ask colby if he’s scared

because i know i’d be

but he doesn’t seem like he wants to talk

back in pitsburgh

for beer drunks and vodka bombs

linda dropped a bomb

set to detonate in nine months

i think how stupid

comparing the two like that

how stupid it is

to not know how to drive in snow

or buy a condom

what is life now with this in all of our laps?

twenty-two

and we suddenly feel so old

so…yeah, colby finally says

then doesn’t say anything else

as the cars honk

as the people act like they’re driving

through a blizzard

man, the road isn’t even wet yet

i want to say but don’t

all casual i light a new smoke off the old one

as calvin comes

tripping out of kinko’s

a stack of paper waving in his hands

licking new snow

with his hungover tongue

he says, guys

there’s some hot girls working in there

and i can’t even begin to tell you

what you know

you’re missing                                      

poem of the day 01.20.16

This may or may not be a "best of" poem. I dont remember posting this but....all the same I'm deep in novel land so the poems haven't been coming:

mit gas

in the grocery line

i’m still not sure

if i got the water with the bubbles or not

the germans have a thing about water with gas

mit gas, they say

they’ll serve it to you whether you want it or not

i’ve already figured out vodka

it starts with a “w” here

but will do the same damage

that it does back in america

the grocery store is packed but i got lucky

i’m behind the guy who only has a carton of eggs

i have to piss

there’s nowhere to piss in berlin

like there’s nowhere to piss in america

i’ve already caught three guys pissing into the street

i thought to do it myself

but in america if the cops catch you

you’re an instant sex offender

i don’t know what they do here in germany

and i’m not willing to test such an infamous land

at least i’m in a good grocery line, i think

and the hotel is only around the block

luck has its way of working out

a good grocery line can make moments

but then the guy in front of me gets out of line

he comes back with his arms full of things

potatoes, frozen dinners, oj and meat

i look back

his old lady is handing him stuff from a basket

that is piled to the top

a month’s worth of groceries

to my one bottle of carbonated water

it boggles my mind

the absurdity of this country and the people

it’s like this water with or without gas

i have to start tickling myself to keep the urine at bay

as they pile more and more on the grocery belt

underhanded germans and their secrets

the cashier seems unfazed

she’s had the same bored look the whole time

i wonder if she’s going somewhere

to get drunk after work

have her own bottle of vodka that starts with a “w”

i think if i ever get up to see her

i should probably ask about the water

so i don’t have to do this all over again

mit gas? i’ll say

try not to tickle myself while she answers

or piss all over the grocery store floor

set a bad example for the next american jack-off

who comes in here in need of a stiff drink

and is too cheap to buy one

in the fancy hotel bar.

                                                05.20.15

poem of the day 01.19.16

the dealer

9 p.m.

i sit in the bar

of del’s restaurant

third wheel

between calvin and this girl amanda

he wants her

i want her

but most likely

neither of us are gonna get her

saturday night feels forever

in the fresh autumn

behind bar glass

with an underage blonde

then she comes out of the kitchen

with an empty drink table

portia

with her red hair and lip ring

the memory of her back tattoo

i wonder how long it’s been

at least since may

when i never showed up

at the bar she was working

portia and her boyfriend

portia leaving pittsburgh

but there she is in black and white del’s uniform

apron around her waist

giving the bartender drink orders

she sees me and smiles

she melts me

like she did those months back

through a summer of women

of holy saturday nights

of bars

i never stopped wondering

hey you, she says

like hey you means forever

calls me over

says, i was wondering what happened to you

i want to ask

about the boyfriend

about being back in pittsburgh

porita beats me to the punch

starts scrawling things on her order pad

tears it off

hands it to me

immaculate holy phone number

i want to hold up

to the light like a treasure

she says

we’re dealing on the side now

so…you know

winks and leaves with a tray full of beer

i look at the paper

1/8 costs this

1/4 costs that

can’t even read the last two numbers

of her digits

i stumble back to the bar

calvin

amanda

playing footsie she glances up

sadly and says

honey

you look

like you’ve seen

a ghost.

                                                

poem of the day 01.18.16

hate

bryant oliver

was the only black kid in my grade

back in the 1980s

when reagan was all the rage

in poor neighborhoods and in central america

reagan’s hate was a benevolent one

he fought a war on drugs

and put millions of dads and sons and brothers in jail

bryant was a basketball star

and a football star

if our school had a baseball team

he probably would’ve excelled at that too

bryant didn’t like me for some reason

it might’ve been because

i was fat and i acted dumb

like funny dumb

i tried to be the funny fat kid

who did voices and disrupted classes with jokes

some kids laughed

but i was used to the hate from many others

i had a lot of hate inside of me

which i took out on myself with my fists

pounding my stomach in my parent’s bedroom mirror

my hate turned black and blue and yellow

my friend, billy calvin

he hated bryant as much as bryant hated me

maybe more

billy called bryant  nigger lips in class

he called him porch monkey

whispered it to him while we were learning u.s. history

billy said bryant ate watermelon

hog jogs and possum grits

billy had a lot of hate in him

which came from his old man

but he was learning to make it his own

billy hated blacks and asians and anyone

that wasn’t white and didn’t listen to metal

there weren’t any asian kids in our school

for billy to hate

but sometimes he still slanted his eyes

and said, oh, so solly

i never understood why bryant

didn’t beat the shit out of billy

why he sat there and took it

with that steely look i’ll never forget

it probably had a lot to do

with being the only black kid in our grade

a two sport star

but you were never sure who your real friends were

you never knew where hate would come from next

i think bryant took his hate for billy

and transferred it to me

pushing me on the playground

and calling me fat ass in front of all the pretty girls

although i never laughed or commented

on a thing billy said

and to this day i still don’t know

what hog jogs and possum grits are

it’s easier for me to understand it now

all that hate from back then

living as an adult in a world of endless war and murder

plastic people and diet fads

sold-off politicians and police brutality

violence toward children

and especially women

hate is an easy emotion

when you’re still fighting the war on drugs

you can turn it on or off on a dime

or you can let it fester until it kills you

and everything you love

only you won’t be able to tell

love is much harder

it’s harder to hold onto love than it is hate

it’s life’s greatest failure

you really have to work for love

like a lifetime

longer than bryant or billy or i had

back in those salad days of ronald reagan

when quiet insults flew like bombs over libya

and we didn’t learn a thing from our shared history

other than to learn how to hate

talking out of our asses

with the excellence

of smiling, bashful honor roll kids

                                                            

poem of the day 01.15.16

mistaken identity

he hands me

a senior citizen bus pass

with a blurry photo on it

and says, this isn’t me

sure enough it’s not

it’s another old white guy

but it’s hard to tell the difference

if you aren’t really looking

he says, you gave me back the wrong i.d.

we take i.d. here

in exchange for newspapers

and there’s no other i.d. in the box

i don’t have your i.d., i tell him

well, who does? he says

most likely the other guy, i say

he looks around the room

like he’s trying to spot a terrorist

where is he? he asks

probably on the bus, i say

what am i gonna do? he asks

use his i.d. and take the bus too

he says, he could be doing anything with my i.d.

creating a fake credit card

ordering plane tickets

joining facebook

he’s probably on the bus, i say

can you call him? he asks

so i look up the number and dial

no luck

old white men and me

we’re the last people on the planet

without cell phones

and i can’t wait until i get my free bus pass

he hands me the i.d. and says

well, i can’t do anything with this

he walks out of the building like a zombie

like someone has stolen his life

and maybe they have

but not five minutes pass

before the other one walks in

like he’s never been in the joint before

he’s holding the controversial senior citizen bus pass

like a soiled tissue

throwing it on the desk

he points at the blurry picture of the other old codger

like he’s seen a ghost

hands shaking he says

i don’t think that’s me.

i hand him back his correct i.d.

but he stares at it, as if he’s not sure

that’s the right one either

then he walks out of the building

looking from the i.d. to the image of himself

in the glass doors

not really sure of anything

anymore.

                                               

poem of the day 01.14.16

monet’s sunflowers

freezing

i stand under a sign that says

smile, you’re on camera

a big yellow bulb with a grin

and something of hollywood production value

looking down on me

i imagine the camera is

degas’ ballet dancers instead

millet by way of van gogh

and not the police state

rearing its ugly head

on a cold morning

when i just want some shelter

from the howling wind

i think maybe i should do a two-step

moonwalk

an exotic dance

for the voyeur on the other end

audition for the world stage

but i’m too cold

in too many layers to really move

and any attention these days is bad attention

so i stand there for a while

and watch the people

huddle into themselves

as they hustle down the block

shiver and wait for buses that are late

sulk in archways like me

thinking we are all beautiful characters

in avant garde movies

we don’t even know are being filmed

in paintings we are

monet’s sunflowers wobbling

drooping in the arctic breeze

frowning still lifes on this canvas

tripping down the avenue

we are actors

under the illusion of safety

or maybe we’re a bunch of potential killers

just a band of thieves

like they really see us

waiting on our fifteen minutes of fame

basking in the camera’s seductive gaze

itching to strike.                                                            

poem of the day 01.13.16

piggy

i must’ve been

pink faced and fat

i must’ve looked like a piggy

sitting there in front of karen nelson

in that homeroom class

too fat to fit in my seat

love handles bulging over catholic khakis

i must’ve disgusted her

the way i thought i was so funny

interrupting the teacher

during math and science

karen nelson who had the misfortune

of having her last name so close to mine

behind me in almost every class

watching my red neck

and fat shoulders shake at something i said

turning back to make sure

that she was laughing each time

my pink face in her face

my fat jowls going up and down

glasses and slicked hair

double chin jiggling

a waddling abomination of adolescence

and she was so beautiful karen nelson

one of the top beauties in the class

with her olive skin and violet lips

that needed no make-up

those brown eyes that looked pleadingly at me

every time i swung my mass her way

she must’ve thought i was a pig at a trough

i bet she couldn’t even watch me eat

poor karen nelson

whom i cornered at that skate party

and asked her if she wanted to go steady

after practicing in front of my mirror for two hours

punching myself in my fat pig belly

she didn’t laugh at me then

karen nelson, you kid

the way the others standing around did

you just went off silently with the center from the j.v. team

while i stood there watching you doubles skate

chuckling at the absurdity.

poem of the day 01.12.16

whisky

whisky

my grandmother

had no problem with whisky

sitting at her kitchen table

with brittle yellow calendars

working lottery numbers

the way some do palm readings or magic

have some whisky, she told me

i was twelve years old and obese

give him some whisky

she said to my grandfather

who was talking the steelers with his bookie

drinking whisky before noon

his eggs and potatoes and bacon in a large mound

whisky will calm you down

my grandmother said

though i didn’t know that i was nervous

although i always have been

nervous and unsettled

like my grandmother

like the time she blew her paycheck

on the dogs and horses

drinking whisky

then checked herself into western psych

sitting there now

trying to figure out the lottery

how to run the numbers and work the game

i’ll get you some whisky, she said

reaching for the amber bottle of imperial

whisky and a beer chaser, she said

to help us think

like we were trying to recite shakespeare

the word of god

in two small, sculpted orange juice glass

that my grandparents always used

for whisky.

                                    

poem of the day 01.11.16

in the seconds before impact

i was dreaming something

i was wondering what i did to my knee

and glad that today wasn’t a jogging day

i was shivering in the bed

having left the windows open

in a world that’s sixty degrees one day

and thirty degrees the next

i was thinking of my rumbling stomach

i was wishing the coffee had already been made

i was thinking of indian food

and this norwegian film my wife and i had just seen

i was taking a piss

and trying not to wake the cat

though deaf and blind she can still sense light

so i was walking in the dark

scratching my ass

looking out the kitchen window into black brooklyn

cursing the guy playing bass out my window

while his car idled

i was wondering why in a world full of cell phones

people still felt it incumbent upon themselves to honk

i was looking at the trees blowing in the breeze

and thinking about going to spain this year

i checked the calendar

and couldn’t believe how old i’d turn in 2016

i thought maybe i’d check the weather

and some film times

avoid the news of demagogues running for president

i crept into the living room for the ipad

i heard that cat stirring and i did not breath

i booted the machine

and hoped it still worked

saw my shaggy reflection in its gray apple light

i thought maybe i needed a haircut

then i saw the cover of an online newspaper

it told me david bowie had died

and i knew the day had gone to shit before the sunrise.

                                                          

poem of the day 01.08.16

barney

is mentally handicapped

i’ll just get that out there

only we’re not really sure

how he’s that way

he stutters

can’t get words out

can’t comprehend a thing

meaning….you can’t joke with him

but if you get sarcastic

he gets the drift

he gets angry and defensive

barney spent the month of november and december

wishing everyone a merry christmas

multiple times

he’s been saying happy new year for two weeks

now he just says,

have a good holiday

only we’re not sure what he’s talking about

people walk around here asking each other

what holiday is he celebrating now?

barney is always dressed in black

like lou reed

lou reed if he were pushing three hundred pounds

had brown-yellow teeth

a pubic hair beard

and had a tear up the ass of his black levis

lou reed has been dead since 2013

a dead lou reed might look better than barney

just yesterday i watched him

drink in entire liter of diet pepsi in two gulps

(barney not lou reed obviously)

while watching a fifteen year old girl bend over

to tie her shoes

in those stretchy pants they all wear now

barney has a bit of a problem with the young ladies

he’s always following them around

saying hello

telling them to have a nice day

i’m supposed to tell the girls that barney is harmless

but i don’t really know him from shit

and when he backs one of the girls into a corner

trying to tell them a joke

stuttering like a madman

i make sure that i’m watching

because i’m a fine upstanding man

who never notices

when fifteen year old girls bend over

to tie their shoes in stretchy pants

barney spends his days printing tons of things off the internet

no one is sure what he’s printing

no one cares

we do wonder where he gets the money though

for the printing

spitting out hundreds of pages ain’t cheap

and the two-liter bottles of soda he brings in

in groups of three

they can cost a pretty penny too

when you stack up the days

it’s pretty obvious barney can’t hold down a job

though i’d like to get him one at wal-mart

he could stand by the door in a bright blue smock

and wish all the fifteen year-old girls

a happy holiday

or to have a nice day

when they bend over to tie their shoes

soda is dirt cheap at wal-mart

and barney would be in a carbonated paradise

but rent is too high for wal-mart

in this city

and we already have enough places here

that don’t pay a living wage

so barney is probably better off not working

he seems happy with his print jobs and his soda-pop

content to watch the young girls

lift and bend

filled with joy in whatever celebration

is going on in that head of his

people are always trying to improve other people

people are pricks

a lot of people thought lou reed was a prick

but barney’s not lou reed

and the next time he tells me a joke

i’m gonna make sure

to laugh

as he stutters

howl

like i really give a shit.

                                               

poem of the day 01.07.16

my memory

seems to be going

in small fits and starts

not the big things like where i live

or each grudge and slight

i’ve accumulated over the years

all the women then girls

who wanted nothing to do with me

no, for me it’s the small things

that i’m missing

forgetting items at the grocery store

even carrying around a goddamned handwritten list

dumping the parts of vegetables i need

into the garbage can

and keeping the skin or rind

occasionally a name won’t come to me

it’ll take me a few minutes to remember the title

of a good movie from long ago

or one of the few truly great books i’ve read

in those moments i’ll get scared

and think it’s age finally setting in

here it is i’ll say

a little early onset dementia to go with the gray

i’ll blame the alcohol but only sparingly

still, you can’t do what i’ve been doing for years

and not think the brain cells

have finally started to give up

to my wife i’ll worry that it’s alzheimer’s

when my memory slips

i’ll get nuts and tell her that

i’ll be one of those guys at fifty

stuck in a home with people twice his age

my mind tattered and shot full of holes

no traces of a present or past

no hope for a future

she looks at me like i’m insane when i go on like this

she says, all of this drama because you forgot the gravy?

i want to tell her that it happens though

the corrosion of the mind at such a young age

the horrors done to memory

i know i read a novel about it a few years ago

by this author whose name

slips my mind at the moment

and whose title

i can’t even begin to remember.                      

poem of the day 01.06.16

just starting out

his laugh is insane

he IS insane

dressed head to toe

in that horrible gym class gray

teeth that won’t fit in his mouth

he laughs the way some people howl in pain

i can’t look at him

so i study the keyboard instead

q w e r t y u i o p

while he adjusts his sweatpants string

and calls the world a sieve

before he laughs his death laugh again

yesterday he wished my co-worker dead

today he has a free cell phone from some company

and is on top of the world

hallelujah, he says

at least corporate benevolence is NOT dead

still i can’t meet him eye to eye

look at those large blonde teeth

that i want to shove back in his mouth

a s d f g h j k l

he says, do you know i’ve been retired since 1969?

only he doesn’t look a day over sixty

1969…making him what?

my math skills are also gym class gray

he says, you probably weren’t even around then, huh?

laughs like murder as i shake my head

z x c v b n m

weren’t even around for the real stuff

points to the computer

says, it’s la-la land all the time now

flips his cell phone like a zippo

my god, he finally says

i’m already done with this cruel world

but you?

good luck, kid

you think you’re running the show

but you know what?

you ain’t running shit

none of us ever are

remember you’re just starting out

and no matter how old you get

in this life you’ll always be an amateur

and if you don’t know it, he says

as i finally look up

to see him shaking his phone

give me a call on this

because i’ll be happy to remind you

hell

i’ll tell you all the time.

                                                            

                                                                                                                        

poem of the day 01.05.16

mucus

this is the joy

in not having children

acting the petulant perpetual child

no one to rely on me

watching these diseased streets

from a time dusted window

the floor a gray carpet of old newspapers

and shitty unread books

this is the joy in not having friends

nearby or even in this state

pulled strands from the couch

dance in the breeze from open windows

crushed pillows

and i don’t have to clean it for anyone

sitting here pissing away another weekend

in the same clothing for three days

winedrunk flies circling used bottles

kicking up pine needles from fake plastic trees

watching dust balls roll

like southwestern tumbleweeds

another year waiting to do its damage

older but no more wiser

it pays to no longer anticipate a thing

no longer scared of any year

or what it’s going to reign down on me

this is the joy in not knowing my neighbors

when the door buzzes i know it’s not for me

so i let it sing

drink vodka in the twilight

an ancient cat sitting to my side

sick with everything

molted fur and brittle bones

she’s also sick with her age

sneezing yellow mucus all over my glass

and i don’t even have to worry

about who’s going come

and make me clean it up.

                                                

poem of the day 01.04.16

two women in a bookstore

they come in

giggle-tripping down the narrow aisles

fashion scarves, knock-off bags and designer leather

disturbing whatever viola abomination

the surly long-haired clerk had been playing

fondle everything like small children

picking up books and tossing them

like cans of corn into a shopping basket

schopenhauer and nietzsche flung about

you can catch some words in between

the gangly cadence of american slang

sounding like buddhist chants with chewing gum

derivatives of oh and my and god

so you hide in the poetry section

because who goes there?

but even that’s no good

soon they are right next to you

reality tv babble bumping you at every turn

selfies galore

these women will one day photograph

their own decent into hell

and you wonder how they found this place at all

this hole-in-the-wall bookstore

that mostly fronts as a bully pulpit for old men

angry about not getting more money for their used copy of

zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance

what turn from big buildings and flashing lights

these women took to be here now

looking for books by george-what’s-his-name

the guy who wrote that book 1983 or 1989

no, silly, one of them says to the other

that’s the title of taylor swift’s album

and they both squeal at the name of their pop diva

forget old george and his dystopia

because who needs it anyway?

when it’s right here

singing off-key pop songs in your ear

crouched down like two idiots

taking wide-mouthed pictures

with a sleeping and bored overfed alley cat

checking bright cell phones with taylor swift ringtones

wondering when this is over

where they can get some cheesecake flavored fro-yo

or a real, authentic new york slice.