poem of the day 04.29.16

fat american kids

at the anne frank house (amsterdam)

they’re running circles

around me and my wife

and everyone else whose standing out here

like we’re going to a rock concert

instead of  going where eight people hid from the nazis

they have us queued in a tight pack

near the church where rembrandt is buried

or where he buried his old lady

i don’t honestly remember

all i know is these kids are getting on my nerves

two pasty, tow-headed cherubs

with their midwestern elongated a’s

and two wisconsin t-shirts wrapped around their fat bellies

americans always want you to know where they’re from

when they travel overseas

jetlagged and in need of a drink

i’ve already seen two new york yankees hats

and some shithead in a pittsburgh steelers jersey

but these kids, good christ

their parents must have them hopped up on something

all of the chocolate and sugary waffles i’ve seen here

they can’t keep still

and the old lady is giving it to the old man

about where they’re going to have dinner

while the kids run around jumping on shit

that’s older than their shitty state

saying things like, why do we have to visit the house

of some dumb girl who died?

the little fuckers

and their parents don’t even have a reason

the old man shrugs

and dear old mom keeps complaining about where

they can take the kids to shove some food

down their fat faces

i’ve already checked wisconsin off the list

of places that i’ll ever chance to go

and if this line weren’t so long

i’d say fuck it and see if the wife wants to

go and dig up rembrandt’s bones

or find some place sans children

where we can get a stiff drink

but anne frank is important

it’s important to see important things i’m told

i often tear up in front of van gogh

and i’ve almost seen the grave of william shakespeare

plus, now the boy is trying to frog hop

these metal poles they have all over amsterdam

to keep the sidewalk separate from the street

there’s a good chance he’ll land wrong

and crush his nuts

or maybe even smack his jaw on it

bite off his tongue and break a few teeth

if nothing else

at least that ought to be worth the price

of admission

and the precious traveler time lost

to see that little abomination

rolling on the pavement all bloody and broken

while standing in this line with the ghost of anne frank

and a bottle of vodka

on my mind.

                                   

"best of" poem of the day 04.28.16

ripping the military recruitment brochure

out of a young woman’s hands

i couldn’t tell if it was army, navy, air force or marines

to tell the truth they all look the same to me

especially when in uniform

the soldiers on the brochure probably aren’t even soldiers

they look more like fashion models playing dress-up

the point is, i got it away from her

this young black-latina mix on the R train

with golden brown curls and cherry red lips

she was startled at first, she looked like she wanted to hit me

but then i said, give me a minute

you got about ten seconds, asshole, she said

i shook the brochure at her

i said, you don’t really want to do this

she said, but i don’t have any other choice

i said, we all have choices

she said, spoken like a white man in america

what am i supposed to do with my life, work the register at mcdonalds?

i said, what about college?

she said, have you seen my high school?

i was practically strip searched before homeroom

so i said, in the military, you have a twenty-five percent chance

of being sexually assaulted…before boot camp

she laughed, she said, you really don’t know shit

about women in america do you, uncle sam?

i said, i know that women have a higher chance of getting PTSDs

she said, come visit my neighborhood some time

well, i said, it’s not worth it

taking a bullet for some oligarch in a mansion

she said, the systems already stacked against me

she said, look around they’ve already won

guys like you are just the last to catch on, professor

i said, they’ll treat you like a slave

oh man, she said, i don’t even know what to say to that shit

other than give me back my brochure

i said, you’ll be just another automaton in khakis

she said, or just another welfare mom

toting a baby around before i’m twenty

and hated by dudes that look like you

we should work on this together, i said, and find an answer

too little too late, she said

this is the system you set up

it wasn’t me, i said, i’m as much a victim as you are

tom joad you ain’t, she said

snapping her gum and checking her nails

i said, but…..

she just held out her hand

until i took the brochure from behind my back

and gave it to her

she slapped the glossy folder on her knees

and then got up when we reached her stop

wish me luck, uncle sam? she asked.

but i couldn’t

i put my head down and let her go

i looked up only when the train started moving again

into the crowd hustling along on the platform

for nothing but a paycheck and a pipe dream.                                        07.20.15

poem of the day 04.27.16

we’ll all make it?

black lesbians kiss

on the N train platform

while i just spent eight hours

having my ass handed to me

lowliest of the lowly public servants

it’s my fault for everything in the hoi polloi’s eyes

i can’t bear the sight of people

at the end of this sixth work day

can’t bear them when the work week starts

still i can’t help but watch these women

tongue wrestling in the sunshine

as if they’re the only ones really alive out here

maybe they are

i know i feel dead

and the rest of the people standing here

with their heads buried in their phones

well, they aren’t making the case for humanity either

i’d like to think we’ll all make it

the black lesbians in love

the people waiting on the N train

squandering these little lives we’ve been given

make it into something we can survive with

but one too many fall through the cracks

you can see them walking in a daze along the avenues

standing in those ministry pantry lines

suffering the word of god for a loaf of bread

hustling with change cups

singing old songs for a dime

on nearly every corner in this city

people with no hope sit covered in cardboard mansions

begging for money and beer and dignity

gone

even my lovers waiting on the train have parted

and are arguing over some stupidity now

tongues sharp as blades

they cut away at the ties that bind

transgressions that form in the blink of an eye

screaming so loud

they’ve shaken the sun and stormed off

crushed that love like a bug

just as the lights of the train approach

and the rest of us walking dead

take the few steps forward toward the platform

ready to hang on the noose

of wherever oblivion will lead us next.

                                                                        

poem of the day 04.26.16

stoned immaculate

here comes

the king of amsterdam

stumbling out of rookies coffee shop

buzzed on his first marijuana high in years

here comes his head changed majesty

who sucked up more than half the joint on his own

because moderation is for peasants

wrecked ruler

of korte leidsedwarsstraat

glassy eyed and stoned immaculate

taking pictures for posterity

and here come the chest pains

two blocks later outside the sticky aroma of the pancake center

the thumping of the royal heart

the pulse of the stately ear drum

and that old paranoia that you weave so well

the king of amsterdam

suddenly fred sandford holding his chest

refusing to cross weteringschans

because the bikes and the cars

are coming too fast for him to process

this the big one! this is the big one lamont!

staggering dying for sure

while toked up french girls laugh and point his way

as this wasted monarch come junk man has his wife

guide him across the street like a child

whining and crying and asking the world

how he could do this to himself at forty one

down in amsterdam down in amsterdam

all he wanted was to get a little high

this baked ruler

who should just stick with the booze

pressed against a corner of an elevator that won’t move

because he forgot to press a floor

refusing to come out when it reaches their destination

afraid of stairs

afraid of his reflection in the mirror

a cooked tsar laying on the bed of his room

dragged in like a corpse

heart still thumping

pains up and down his arm

everything numb

waiting on the big one

it’s the big one lamont!

telling his dear wife

how he plans to jump out the window

three stories down into concrete bliss

and only fifteen minutes have passed in this contact high

stand back, as our fried liege

kills his wife’s buzz with his moaning and suicidal threats

threats to sue the hotel for that window

threats to sue the coffee shop for spiked weed

threats to sue the french girls for laughing

threats and threats and threats immaculate

witness the noble panic attack in full bloom

the flapping jowls, the sucks on waters

the foaming of the mouth

the big one i tell you!

though no heart attack has come.

                                                                        

poem of the day 04.25.16

from section 105, row 8, seat 10

of the bruce springsteen river 2016 tour

soft light

bathes the rock legend

guitar slung to the side like a gun

is a bad metaphor

but, trust me, it works

springsteen stands there in black denim

alone with everyone

earrings catching the light

looking much younger than

his sixty-six years

we’ve smoldered through a prince tribute

burned through meet me in the city

and now bruce wants to talk about the river

about the process

when he was a young man of thirty

family and pain and love

and work and devotion and humor and grit

and yearning for a place in the world

he holds his hands out to the crowd and says

i wanted to capture it all

as if for us

as if trying to let us inside his world

this rarity

this gift

but from section 105, row 8, seat 10

all i see are a sea of people

with cell phones slanted

sliding fat fingers across blue screens

the nitwit next to me on facebook

between sips on his twelve dollar shitty beer

twits twittering precious inanities

as bruce lowers his arms

the spotlight fades to blue

counting

1...2…3…4…

and i guess giving these good people

what they really

paid

to see.

                                    

poem of the day 04.22.16

when doves cry

i had

buddha beat

before puberty

i knew that all life was suffering

at the age of twelve

the kids at school helped

me with my understanding

and i knew

that i’d turned into a fat blob

didn’t want serena reno to see me like that

and i couldn’t have given a damn

that her family had flown to pittsburgh

from california

had driven fifty miles from relatives too

for this reunion

no, i was content to sit in my room

pissing away the day

playing my prince cassette over and over

as the sounds of two families blending

came from below

it was better for me

alone

solitaire

like a fat monster hidden in the attic

not to sully the beauty of the summer afternoon

but sit in the middle of the bed

an obese quasimodo

with the mattress bent boomerang from my mass

but oh

my mother couldn’t let it go

and as i sat there huffing through dizzy gillespie jowls

she knocked on the door

opened it without my consent

and there stood serena reno behind her

california blonde and beautiful

nearly thirteen

she came in and sat soundlessly next to me

how long had it been?

too long

she wouldn’t even look at me

even after my mother closed the door

we just sat there

listening to prince play fantastic

wordless children

golden beach beauty and her tubby beast

but what was there to say?

california talk

pittsburgh talk

it was all such nonsense

let’s just let purple rain speak for us

and we were saved our little reunion

by another knock on the door

mitchell

my friend

fit and young

already thirteen with a peach fuzz mustache

backward hat

checkerboard vans

and his ubiquitous basketball

he and serena hit it off like fire

like magic

like cosmos colliding in the mix of paisley guitars

talking their rapid talk of youth

as i crawled into myself

crawled further along the bed

trying desperately to sink into oblivion

their laughter was such torture

why not pull out my nails?

i rose

only to change sides on the fading tape

the bed moving like tectonic plates

mitchell and serena

already up and at the door

laughing

passing the basketball back and forth

their feet down the steps

like tap dancers in love

i let the music start

but turned it down low

sat back down on the bed and waited

for the sounds of their revelry and abandon

to come echoing up to my room

the beat of the basketball

as it went

patter

patter

on the pavement

around this stone oubliette

that i’d trapped any and all joy for myself

deep within.                                                                            

"best of" poem of the day 04.21.16

01.03.2011

on the bus ride

home

i watch greek kids

slapping

each other silly

they smell

of garlic

and old clothes

they won’t stop

shouting

as an old man

sneaks

a beer from under

his coat

while outside

they are taking

holiday lights down

from the church

these are the most

beautiful things

that i’ve seen

all day.

                                    01.03.11

poem of the day 04.20.16

watching the fat kid play video games

he hasn’t been in here for months

because the other kids were making fun of him

this afternoon, they’re leaving him alone

caught up in their own stupid boy/girl dramas

he’s as good as the mildew stain on this wall

….for now

fat kids pray for small miracles like this

moments of calm within the maelstrom

of insults and indignities

i know because i was one

obese double chinned sweatpants wearing

bad hair pimpled glasses wouldn’t fit over my face

tailored polyester pants xxl t-shirt man tits

wouldn’t go bare chested on a beach or in a pool to save my life

especially if there were girls around

until i starved myself for a small vanity at seventeen

told myself a little conformity never hurt anyone

i still carry that fat kid with me

into every relationship

you just never get too close to people

because the past has shown you  just how easily they turn

i wish more for the fat kid sitting here

playing video games on his phone

more than a life of caution and a well of distrust

small moments that evaporate

with the blink of some bastard’s eye

i hope he learns how to come through the fire

better than i ever did

hope he carves out

some simple kind of happiness

finds his niche his crowd his tribe

learns it’s okay too to make it alone

i think how a little bit of optimism

never hurt anyone either

but soon the conversation

of the other kids dies down

the taps on the shoulders and the whispers

and the giggles through cupped mouths begin

the fat kid playing video games

can tell it just as well as i can

this sixth sense we’ve been saddled with

and as he gets up to leave before the onslaught even comes

i want to tell him something

something that’ll make this all right

but i just say, take it easy, man

and he doesn’t even answer me

just breaks for the door and is gone like a phantom

before the first cackle bursts

from the cacophony

of those ignorant, well-formed

well-adjusted mouths.

                                                           

poem of the day 04.19.16

nuit debout

            --I sure as hell wouldn’t want to live

              in a society where the only people allowed guns

              are the police and the military (william s. burroughs)

cops in riot gear

with helmet shields

and bullet proof vests

hurl tear gas at kids with headscarves

wrapped around their mouths

charge them like a battering ram of metallic flesh

oh, the streets of paris

are full of that ol’ joie de vivre

as i sit in an amsterdam hotel

drinking bad wine and listening to the rain

or is this new york that i’m watching?

londoners calling for the prime minister’s head?

it’s hard to tell these days

another city, another pack of boys in blue

dragging some citizen across the street

at the beck and call of some silly law

or politician with his hands in an offshore tax haven

you say you want a revolution?

right now i’m thinking about that quote

william s. burroughs had

only i can’t get it right

or maybe i’m not the pacifist i thought i was

as i watch bloody kids with no future but debt

get dragged across haussmann boulevards

and thrown into police vans

reflecting all of the beauty of the city of light

all i can think

is get these kids something stronger

than a rock to throw

something more than just the will

to stand up against this bullshit and tyranny

let the sky rain bullet proof vests and riot gear for the masses

throw all of the batons

in the middle of the place de la republique

the tear gas in trafalgar

the guns in the middle of times square for the cowboy americans

then let us all stand back

and on the count of three

let’s see who can get to them first

and then we’ll see what’s up.

                                                                        

poem of the day 04.18.16

poem in which the neighborhood asshole

fixes his car on the first seventy-degree day

of the new year

obviously there are the requisite tattoos

a neck one of a skull and crossbones

that bullshit spider web on his elbow

the ones going up and down his forearm

so you know what a bad ass he is

i’m sure death before dishonor is tattooed across his back

and something about his mother

tattered close to his heart

there aren’t even leaves on the trees

and he’s got a late summer tan

the wife beater seems almost obvious too

a powdered blue one from some beach in south florida

where maybe it was sex, maybe it wasn’t

but, hey, at least no police report was filed

and that hair he has, a style that every other dego prick

in this neighborhood is rocking

what is it?

pizza slurping douche bag by way of the murderous marines?

semper fi for sure, bro

and is that his camouflaged ATV parked in front of my building?

the sun and a cloudless blue sky are like crack to dudes like this

the way they attract asshole families eating ice cream cones

on their way to kill precious hours in the park

cockroaches one and all

i’m sure he’s contractually obligated to say, yo, what’s up?

to every blonde chick with resting bitch face

who passes by him in biker shorts

sucking down on a gallon jug of sugar-spiked iced coffee

while shouting at their boyfriends on their phones

about what insensitive pricks they are

behind his reflector shades is a blank stare

or one of some mongoloid, bulging eyed confusion

contemplating how he even found the front door

jetlagged and hungover and yet in need of a drink

i watch him noodling on his engine or carburetor

not sure if he even knows how to fix a car

waxing poetic to my wife about charles darwin

about how easy it would be to kill a man

if only it weren’t for these laws we have here

i think this guy also has the right to vote

the right to oxygen and water and the very essence of life

to the cosmos we’re one in the same

two specks of stardust shit forced to endure each other

on the same sun-soaked block

on the first seventy-degree day of the new year

where his car alarm has been wailing for at least five minutes

as he touches wires and laughs the laugh

of a peaceful fat ass, unfazed buddhist

nods his head to the relic rock coming out of his stereo

as the dog across the street barks shakespearian sonnets

yowls for tender mercies

and i close the blinds

grab the vodka

and pray for rain.