poem of the day 05.31.16

my old man at the 9/11 memorial

fleet week in new york city

and gotham is littered with tourists

and sailors by the thousands

their ships docked somewhere along the hudson

yesterday we were packed like cattle on the circle line

as fighter jets flew over and people cheered

today we’re at the 9/11 memorial

because my mother wants to see

those two glorious holes in the dirt

no self-respecting new yorker would come here

but here i am regardless

as always, willing to appease for the sake of argument

my old man has had enough though

he sits on a stone pillar in the sun where few other are

because there’s nothing nearby to photograph

nothing to throw on facebook pages or instagram

near him, there is a pack of sailors

all clean shaven and shiny and white

a collection of popeye characters come to life

some chicks in short shorts want photos with them

and the boys are more than happy to oblige

they stand arm’n’arm behind the girls

as if they’d just won world war ii

instead of standing at ground zero

in our current perpetual war

the girls have their friends take pictures in turn

so that they can all get a shot

all of them tan and golden and it’s not even june

with their legs bent and asses facing up toward

the sailor’s crotches and their beaming smiles

it’s too little to say we’ve come to glorify

this kind of militaristic bullshit

it’s woven into the fabric of our national identity now

without any of us knowing the cost

i watch my old man sitting there in the sun

checking his timex and most likely wondering

when my mother will finish with this

and what tourist trap she’ll want to go to next

when he left vietnam they told him

not to wear his uniform on his way back to the states

for fear someone would spit on him or worse

i think about this while toggling between my dad

and the girls and the sailors kvetching like they’re at a club

then i head over toward my mother

catch the reflection of a plane

in the glass of the new world trade center

then go and have a look

at those two glorious holes in the dirt too.

                                                           

poem of the day 05.26.16

tough guy poets knitting circle

it’s always the feminists

that give them shit for being honest

those feminazis with their hairy pits and unshaved legs

who don’t understand their place in this literary patriarchy

they just don’t understand what these

white male poets are trying to achieve

so they bitch about the feminists online

complain and gripe about the women ganging up on them

in their very own tough guy poets knitting circle

one claims he’s too edgy for the masses

no one gets him because he’s so raw

if only bukowski would rise from the dead

anoint him and set all of these bitches straight

another tough guy poet is mad

because those fucking feminists

didn’t like his rape poem

the one that was about this girl but really wasn’t

because he changed her name from jess to jane

even though the rest of it he took verbatim from her blog

another one continues to hate the MFA poets

he’s hated those effete bastards for years

it’s agreed amongst the knitting circle

that the MFA poets suck

that they’re as bad as the angry women poets

those fucking feminazis!

i’m a dish washer, one tough guy poet writes

so everything i put down on paper is authentic and real

fuck that, another misunderstood wordslinger posts

i drive a truck, so that makes me the chosen one

yeah, well, i worked in the warehouses, another chimes in

that is, until i got my cushy librarian job

but i’ll still take any fucker in a bar

fucking feminazis, they all write

lest they forget the purpose of this little gathering of brilliance

occasionally a woman poet will chime in

usually it’s something about how those feminazis

are giving them all a bad name

real women aren’t like that, those enchantresses write

the tough guy poets knitting circle revel in those comments

it proves their point entirely

people are just so easily offended

everyone is so PC these days

the rape poem was a joke, the one poet says

a commentary on the way the world works

how could she not see it that way?

and that poem about my ex-girlfriend’s smelly snatch

man, that was just me saying shit for my art

no one gets art anymore, they agree

only the tough guy poets knitting circle

understand what it takes to make great art

because they are all so edgy and raw

and gut-wrenching and direct

only they can appreciate the appetites of jackson pollock

who killed art? they ask amongst themselves

it must be the feminists

those feminazis who are giving true women a bad name

it always comes back to them

with their ancient gloria steinem bullshit

with their scratched ani difranco cds and butch tattoos

with their small tits and penis envy

with their aggressive and pushy personalities

with their inability to take a joke

those feminists simply don’t know how penetrating and genuine

the tough guy poets knitting circle is

because they can’t see beyond their own anti-male agenda

those tongue-pierced cretins who never understood hemingway

those plain-faced haters who never understood saint bukowski

who hate all men

who are all secretly lesbians

those traitorous cunts who just want to turn and fuck

the tough guys wives and girlfriends behind their backs

while the real men are off writing poems

about how hard it is these days

being a visceral tough guy poet

the accusers and the victims

in a gender-wide conspiracy butthurt

pawns in world that fails to see them

as true masters of the universe

bathed in all the brilliant white light

of pure genius.

                                                           

poem of the day 05.25.16

today's poem (never featured on here) is over at In Between Hangovers. Give 'em some love.

poem of the day 05.24.16

the accidental islamophobe

i don’t know why

but i got on this bob dylan trip

with my wife

as we were walking through the neighborhood

talking about bob

making all of these sinatra old timey records now

and how sometimes it just takes people longer

to become complete and total bores lacking in vision

my wife said,

you know, bob is playing a whole bunch

of those standards at his shows

big surprise, i said

another artists letting down the masses

with mediocrity and self-indulgence

she said, maybe people will revolt

people will take what’s handed to them,  i said

but it would be nice to see people shouting

hey, play like a woman!

play like a rolling stone!

enough of this old fart music!

of course, most of those songs are over fifty years old too

i bet bob would walk off the stage, my wife said.

nah, i said, he’s probably part of the zeitgeist now

he’ll probably stop playing and shout down to the crowd

fuck you people, this is donald trump’s america!

which i shouted out loud

just as two muslim girls met us at a crosswalk

having no context for why i barked such putrid inanity

they both gave me the dirtiest looks from women

that i’d seen in a long time

and then kept going their way

as we kept going ours

over battered sidewalks and sink holes

traffic and bass permeating another garbage-strewn block

all the refuse of life that ties us together

from the things that work so hard to rip us apart

not really saying anything

until we were far enough away

when i finally said,

i hope dylan at least plays jokerman

or maybe tangled up in blue.

                                                

poem of the day 05.20.16

distilled

something to drink

something to read

something to eat

something to watch

the bills all paid

the bills all paid, my god

and a sturdy roof 

sunbathing in the noon light

resting so heavily

over my weary

hangover head.

                                    

poem of the day 05.19.16

the ex-pat

the newspapers

and the internet are a horror show

but we already knew that

everywhere i turn

the orange-faced bloviating billionaire

with bad hair and a small penis

tells me that he wants to make america great again

for its dying minority

has his charlatan face plastered all over the media

his huge words a dystopic poetry on everyone’s tongue

while corporatists with grandma hair and wall street cash

and senile socialist demagogues

selling sugar sweet snake oil and unicorn blood

are duking it out on the other side

and i’m left with a neoliberal hangover

repaid for my carbon footprint

on every unseasonably warm day

fighting a perpetual war i’ll never win

only don’t show me the casualties

a poet friend says

with all of this going down

maybe you should move to europe

for what i think about america

as if my money wasn’t tied up in:

new york rents

alcohol

springsteen tickets and student loans

but he’s right about my feelings for america

it’s the shit stain i can’t get out of my drawers

another says

it’s no better over there

high unemployment in spain

fascists in france

yes, i guess that’s true

but i don’t speak either language

so they could be plotting a socialist revolution

outside the cerveceria alemana

a fascist dictatorship inside la rotonde

and i’d be none the wiser drinking my wine

here, i’m getting the shakes

the elephant and jackass DTs

and the blood pressure is on the rise

it is sad

if i were an ex-pat i’d be an exuberant lunatic

while checking out venus de milo’s ass in the louvre

or looking at the whores in amsterdam

shaking my head and saying

america, america, you ignorant young fool

but i’m stuck here in the shit with everyone else

spitting red, white and blue bile into the sink

bracing for tyranny

or for the oligarchy to get up off its knees

and fight for that inverted totalitarianism

that it weaves so well

either way it’s bad news again for jesusland

black humor for two-hundred and forty years

only i’m not in on the joke

and in the bars all anyone ever talks about

is tv shows or superhero movies

they play on their cell phones and do little else

i’m sure it’s just as bad over in spain and france

drinking rioja wine in may isn’t all the rage

and the venus de milo’s ass is covered anyway

but i did get horribly drunk one time

outside the cerveceria alemana

with some good friends

we talked about art and revolution

and the illusion of freedom

we watched some bum dance like michael jackson

for his hard-earned euros

i felt like an ex-pat in that moment

far enough away from america

that i felt like i finally knew how to breathe

and how to laugh deep and long

like i really meant it.

                                    

poem of the day 05.18.16

a violent end

i am

the first drunk of the day

here to get my vodka

i don’t even notice

that the lights in this place

are only half on

and he’s behind the counter yes

but still clad in his coat and hat

with his earbuds in, listening to some club shit

i check my watch

it’s twenty past the hour

that i know this place opens on sundays

though most days

they don’t open on time

still, the door was unlocked

but when i get to him with my bottle

he rips the earbuds out of his ears

and glares at me like i’d ruined his afternoon

glares at the cheap vodka

i’ll use to wipe away my own week

in the service of others

while i glare at his earbuds and the bad music

coming from them

he slams the bottle down on the counter

a little unnecessary

but i guess

we’re both lucky

it was made out of plastic

he grabs one of those narrow black liquor bags

with so much force

that the whole rack comes falling down

but he just lets them lay there on the floor

slams the vodka bottle

into the last bag standing

rips the money from my hand

and i’m so surprised he doesn’t

throw the change back at me

while i collect the booze

and think that there are liquor stores

littered all over this neighborhood

better make like ponce deleon

and start exploring

because me and this cat are done

i stare back into his ugly eyes

one last time

shake the vodka bottle and say, farewell

make it out alive

back into the cold gray street

thinking i hope he has a line of thirsty drunks

outside his door all day

and that the guy working at the pizza shop

down the block

was able to make it in on time

and is a little nicer

because he has the best potato and eggs hero

on the block

i’m hungry as all hell

and  really hate long and lonely

goodbyes

                                                

poem of the day 05.17.16

the only adult on this block

if i’m your go-to guy

for civic responsibility

then surely polite society around here

has broken down and devolved more than i thought

but the water has been gushing

down seventy-fifth street for an hour

a formidable river cutting this part of brooklyn in half

most likely from a busted fire hydrant

and of course all of the people outside

are standing disguised as small packs of philosophers

asking to each other, but what can we do?

the ones with cell phones

they’re stopping to take photos of the rushing watercourse

with that familiar skyward, tapping pose

i can tell they’re posting pics on social networking sites

instead of calling the proper authorities

so it comes down to me to play the only adult on the block

navigating the phone tree for 311

i watch thousands of gallons of water rush down the street

carrying sticks and leaves and paper

ubiquitous plastic bags and fast food wrappers

go sailing on by

to where, i have no idea

and the operator on 311, she wants to know more about me

than what’s actually going on

my name, my phone number

how long i’ve lived at the residency

lady, i say, what in the hell does this have to do with anything?

she says she needs the information for a report

report? look, i tell her, you’re losing water  by the millions

while outside the denizens of the street are still strolling around confused

walking their asshole dogs while kids cry and try to jump into the deluge

311 operator tells me the EPA has one-day to respond to my claim

in one day we’ll all by living underwater, i say

this borough will be a virtual atlantis

but that doesn’t scare her at all

she probably lives in staten island

she thanks me for calling and tells me to have a nice day

as i stand there with the dead flip phone in my hand

watching all of this waste continue to pour down the street

thinking next time this happens

i’m not calling anyone

i’m going out for a fast food cheeseburger instead.

                                                                                                

poem of the day 05.16.16

standing in line at the big pharmacy chain

you know the one

there’s at least two of them on every block

on every avenue here

five registers at the counter

but only one of them ever in use

serviced by some over-worked cashier

paid a politician’s idea of a living wage

and a line snaking half-way through the store

if i wasn’t hungover and in need of water so badly

i wouldn’t even be in this place

behind the old lady with five package of paper towels

behind the chinese chick with a basket

full of nail polish and polish removal

behind the old man buying two for one razors

who probably forgot his special store card

behind this cranky woman

who so desperately needs a plastic dog lawn ornament

that she’s willing to suffer this as well

behind the blonde with her starlet sunglasses

shouting on her cell and sucking on a gallon of ice coffee

who, i know, is going to pay for her m&ms with a credit card

i’d take my business and go elsewhere

but there’s nowhere left to go

the big pharmacy chains have gutted the neighborhood

the mom and pop bodegas are gone

when my stomach rumbles here

there’s only dunkin donuts, mcdonald’s or subway to feed me

this block is littered with so much corporate waste

i always feel like i’m at a convention

screw it, i think

but i really need the water

plus some headache aspirin

only i don’t want to get out of this line for it

because the guy behind me has a cart full of soda

and the woman behind him has six boxes of cereal

and three bad children

because the old lady with the five package of paper towels

is arguing now with the cashier

about what the weekly flyer says versus this abject reality

that we’ve all shoved ourselves into

i think someone farted or took a shit in their pants

so i stand there and wait

head pounding and gas pains doing a number on my chest

reading the glossy tabloids all about the forty year-old actor

who looks about half of his age

the one who wins awards and sleeps with twenty year-old models

who looks like he’s never stood in a long line like this

wishing he could kill everyone in it

or was forced into buying two for one of anything

with a special store card

that one of his various handlers most likely

forgot.

                                   

poem of the day 05.12.16

hello all

today's poem can be found over at the new, wonderful poem online zine In Between Hangovers

poem of the day 05.11.16

and the radio d.j. won’t quit

talking about the beauty of the sun

another day comes on like a virus

in this box that has no plot

i look at pictures by van gogh and feel nothing

look at author photos

on the backs of novels

that should’ve been declared D.O.A. on arrival

and feel the cold passage of  wasted time

there isn’t much to do really

except sit and listen to symphonies from the dead

passing between the news of horrors

in a violently redundant world

suffer the inability to carve words from the air

as the talk of chipper fools outside my window

leaves me salivating like the damned

people here have been stupid, ignorant and self-serving

for hundreds of years now

why should today be any different?

sometimes it’s an emotional battle

just going to get the mail

because you worry who you’ll run into

another sad suck stuck in the mouse wheel

of doing the same goddamned thing every day

i think of all of the places in this world where i could be

and none of them stack up

to being wrapped inside the sheets on the bed

prostrate and numb

days like this are still births

and to think of all of the people who’ve gone too soon

while here i sit soaking up the oxygen

with my indolence and complaint

life is madness and miracle

life is random and cruel

it’s good parking on a saturday afternoon

a wreck on the highway during a hangover morning

it’s the next line that won’t come

as the dogs begin barking a harbinger of doom

and the old cat hacks her warning

while i kill another fly as the coffee turns cold

and the radio d.j. won’t quit talking

about the beauty of the sun.

                                              

poem of the day 05.10.16

communal mourning

whenever some big artist dies

i know that in a few days’ time they’ll be at it

the writers and the writer magazines

send us your tributes

poems, fiction, short stories

memories, essays, what-have-you

they all want to get in on the act

it makes sense some of the time

artists are the closest we get to honest saints

they also come the closest to complete and utter charlatans

and would probably win that race

if it weren’t for the religious and for politicians

i guess it makes people feel better

to get their emotions out that way

one poem next to one poem next to a short story

next to flash fiction next to someone’s essay

about their first date coupled with an artist’s rendition

of the dearly departed and irreplaceable genius

communal mourning by way of publication credits

although sometimes i wish these writers wouldn’t do this

sometimes reading ten to twenty to thirty pieces

of mostly mediocre writing about the same dead horse

lessens the value of what we’ve lost

this over saturation of emotion feels artificial

and has the completely opposite effect of its intent

one so easily tires of the word genius

 i wish that i was smart enough

or articulate enough to pen an essay

telling everyone to stop

but i know no one would listen to me

so i think when the next big one goes

i’m not even going to bother with those tribute issues

i’ll read my grocery list instead

because i honestly don’t care if you got your knob waxed

in the back seat of a car to a bowie song

or if your fat ass lost the girl of your dreams

while listening to prince

and neither, probably,

did they.

                                   

poem of the day 05.09.16

will

i watch

the cat

seventeen years old

deaf

blind

sneezing

hacking

uncombed beast

probably has cancer

of the nose

forgets to eat

shits outside the box

shit stuck in her asshole

i watch her

and think

christ, she has more will power

than most people

loves this life

more than me

as she tries

to stick her fat head

into my vodka glass

swinging at me

like she’d scratch my eyes out

in a heartbeat

after i selfishly

push that old mother

away.

                                   

poem of the day 05.06.16

no guts

it takes

no guts to attack

the establishment poets

the MFA writers

the big agent big bookslingers

in fact they’re too easy a target

you can sit around and wait

for them to do it to themselves

and it takes no guts

it’s too easy

to sit there hidden behind a computer

writing sardonic little reviews

about books no one wants to read

yes yes

we’ve heard it all before

american literature is terrible

it’s slick

it’s game show

the real art is still in europe

there’s no real underground here in the states

just a bunch of charlatans

in old punk t-shirts who want to be david foster wallace

it takes no guts to say any of this

to piss and shit and rail against authors

in the media

to act like you’re doing the lord’s work

by interviewing some underexposed hack

who should just as well stay hidden

all it takes is a big mouth and little else

why just last week

i saw a bird smack hard

against a window

and then drop to the pavement with a thud

i watched him for a while

trying and trying to get up

hobbling around

flapping his wings and then falling over

and doing it all again

knowing that death was almost certain

now that, my dear

now that

now that….

                                                                       

poem of the day 05.05.16

south arabia

the man standing in line at the post office

goes up to the clerks with his package

and says, south arabia

instead of saying saudi

and it’s the funniest thing

these people have heard all day

the little post office line

where humor must come around

as frequently as haley’s comet

the clerk has the man repeat his request again

south arabia, he says,

and they’re dying in the aisles here

all the postal clerks

the fat dumpy people in line

waiting to mail their packages

to much more exotic locations

like south bend, indiana or wellsburg, west virginia

south arabia! a postal clerk shouts

he howls and holds his sides

because he can’t handle the pain of laughter

the man standing there

the greatest unknown comedian of our times

he’s smiling at everyone

but he doesn’t seem to know what they’re all laughing about

he shakes his package at the postal clerk

yes, south arabia, he says

and there they all go again

new rounds of laughter and riotous belly aching

one flabby turd is coughing

because he’s got the giggles so bad

it’s a standing room only stand-up show

here at the post office, ladies and gentlemen

one of the clerks stops snorting

long enough to tell the man

we don’t send packages to no south arabia

confusing the shit out of the guy

who stands there still smiling like a holy goof

before he finally takes his package and leaves

to catcalls and guffaws

shouts of encore! encore!

south arabia!

south arabia!

they’ll be here all night, folks.                          

poem of the day 05.04.16

the cowboy

he used to sit in the corner chair

homeless and stinking of crotch sweat

with all of his possessions

in two big macy’s bags

a tattered cowboy hat on his head

and every time i tried to talk to someone

he’d grunt and laugh

or start talking to himself out loud

crazy shit about genocide and the white man

when i got up at the end of the night

to announce that we were closing

he’d starting coughing

like the devil was scorching his lungs

then he’d go into the bathroom and stay there

until i had to pound on the doors

and threaten to call the fucking cops

every time he was in he did this

two, maybe three times a week for months on end

the same routine

but only when i was there

but only when i spoke

cough!

cough!

hack! hack! grunt!

the cowboy did this to no one else i worked with

he’d be an anti-hero in this if it hadn’t happened to me

some nights i’d catch him

on the N train

the cowboy with his hat cocked back

those two macy’s bags like a fortress in front of him

when i met his eyes

i’d give him a knowing nod

and he’d glare back

the two of us too tired to do anything else

other than acknowledge that we had each other’s number

or mostly he had mine

me and the cowboy

i hadn’t seen him in years

until last night coming home on the R train

there he was waiting at 59^th street

my old enemy combatant

the same two macy’s bags clutched in his hands

but sans the stetson

he started panhandling as he moved along

shifting his bags

bent and stooped from the pressure and weight

of carrying those marley chains around for years

the cowboy snapping at people

who wouldn’t give him any bills or coins

when he got to me

he shook his little empty coffee cup

but i didn’t give him any money

like i usually do for the others

he didn’t even grunt or cough or hack at me

just turned up his nose and kept moving

fuck the cowboy, i said to my wife

as he shuffled along down the subway car

i’d like to think that he took it as payback

from our time together

my own little coughs and hacks and grunts

my laughter

my talk of genocide and the white man too

but i’m sure he just thought

that i was another faceless cracker asshole

with a home and a job and a bed

and a fridge full of food to eat

who wouldn’t part with so much as a dime

for the homeless

and deep down

yes

i guess in that moment

that’s all i was.

                                                

poem of the day 05.03.16

42

to be

quite honest

i thought i’d be a legend by now

though i’ve done nothing legendary

one of those self-satisfied artists

who could no longer

get the word down

choosing instead to rest on my laurels

repackage the old hits

in the same different way

but it’s still the struggle

the hangovers

the early morning noise of the city

waiting on the right words to come and save me

life is like that

some get the brass ring easily

and others get indigestion in the middle of lunch

it’s all a crap shoot

violent, chaotic at times

but mostly dull and unsatisfactory for everyone

with little glimmers of magic thrown in

to let you know what it could always be like

we accept it and call it existence

i accept it

and still wake

hoping to beat the dawn at its own game

with poems and fiction

a greatest hits collection still in the mixing stages

the collected works perpetually on hold

forty-two

placed lovingly before obscurity’s long gaze

anonymity’s fragile kiss

at times no longer sure

if i even know myself

am i the aging man always walking with me

his puffy visage collected in the warped glass

of cars windows and buildings

or am i still that young ambitious kid

the one who’d never settle in long enough

to embrace his own

fleeting mortality

or some sad sack song

such as this.                                                     

poem of the day 05.02.16

the airplane

or maybe

it’s the daily redundancies

that get us in the end

at the very least they’re crippling at times

walking at the same hour

the same conversations with spouses

over the same issues

the same co-workers mumbling the same salutations

no one wanting to be where they are

but marching in to the same beat of time each day

the head nod to the dude

who pours the morning coffee

who pours the same cup of coffee

for the same dour people

getting on subways or buses

where the monotone operators and drivers

call out the same spots

tell the same people each and every morning

that they don’t have enough cash to ride

or the lunatics

the once blessed lunatics and their unbalanced shtick

what is to be said for the day

when even they become rote and routine?

hell, at times i’ve even made art redundant

the act of creation

that becomes a tired act in and of itself

some days it would be better to stay in bed

than face the same old same old

turn to the side and stare at the curtains

instead of telling someone good morning

listening to the same dog bark across the street

hear the neighbor upstairs make the same noises

have the same wicked politicians tell you the same bullshit

as we continue to fight the same wars

just lay there and rot rather than force down

the same fruit, the same lunch, the same dinner

meals that revolve around evenings in weeks that all seem the same

all of these commonalities

that are enough to drive a person insane

getting stuck with the same person in the elevator

passing that same old codger on the way home

standing in the same queue at the grocery

as the same clerk tells the same story she told  you yesterday

when she dropped your seltzer

the way she always drops your seltzer

and makes that same stupid apologetic face

sitting at the same desk

wishing you were home on the same couch

listening to the same radio station

getting drunk on vodka like you do every night

drinking water from the same metal bottle

as that airplane flies over your head

at the same time every day

on an afternoon that is like any other afternoon

watching it burn fuel in the same white streaks

from the same little window

where the same ugly sun

hangs in the same polluted sky

reflecting off the glass with the same crack

that’s been there for years

blinding you

and watering your same tired old eyes.