poem of the day 06.30.16

time to change liquor stores again

these are temporary loves

you should know this by now, i think

but dusting off the embers of these trysts

gets harder and harder with each separation

on any block i pass the dusty visages

of old dalliances gone bad in a sudden twist of fate

an indiscretion here that become too intimate

anger and judgement pushed too far

a price that became too expensive

for my loyalty and trust

or really just hanging around

much longer than i realized

my welcome was wanted

today he wants to discuss rebates

all next week eight dollars off smirnoff

an inane pillow talk that i’ve suffered before

for the sake of the relationship

the drill is to smile and act interested

the way that old couples do

when they tell each other the same story yet again

interject an oh yes, and hmmmm, there and there

while keeping hold of that familiar plastic bottle

as if he were waiting to grip ol’ faithful from my hands

i think of how it used to be when this all started

silent judgment that was easy to tolerate

the cold cash exchange at the register

not unlike a backseat transaction with a whore

how i long for those days

the ones before the hellos and goodbyes

the good afternoons and how was your day, honey

those extra hits from pourer girls

on wine and whiskey tasting fridays

that we never made mention of by monday

but we’ll never get back to that now

we’ve come too far with this

all my relationships have died

the minute they expect me to change

yet like a fool he’ll expect me here all next week

obedient and dedicated like the most beaten of dogs

the way the others have done in the past

but i’m nobody’s slave

i’ve left bigger and better in the dust

over as little as a crossed eye and a torn plastic bag

and there’s this new kid on the block

only five minutes out of my way

a giant grand opening sign in the window

and a face behind the register

blank and unfamiliar, an empty vessel

who knows nothing about me

with whom i can be free

or anyone i want to be…for now.

                                                                        

poem of the day 06.29.16

upon seeing my first book of poetry

deleted from the library’s online card catalog

there is a disbelief at first

kind of a how could they! vibe

that is, before the feelings of failure set in

you remember what it took

to get those poems down in the first place

indignities by the bushel that made up those verses

the years it took for the fucker to come out

remember how proud you were

to have it there on that shelf?

three fiscal years in this institution and not even one read

three million people in this borough

and not one of them cares about you

that’s what you get for sacrificing sleep to the lit gods

for getting up before the sun nursing a hangover

and banging your head against a wall for the right words

deletedeletedeletedeletedeletedelete….delete

to make matters worse you check amazon.com

where the book is currently sitting

at number 10,379,247 with a bullet

clearly not the time to stop paying into that pension yet

or figuring out where to put the pool in the yard

of that big home that you jog past three times a week

should it ever go up for sale

of course, there have been worse things

stabbing at you in this weary life

bullies and jilted lovers and broken bones

shithole apartments and cars on their last legs

jobs that have led you to the brink of death

horrors you never thought that you or any loved ones

would have to go through

a deleted book full of stale sentiments and memories

is quite possibly the least of your troubles

and come to think of it you’d never thought

about that book on the shelf anyway until today

that pride from years ago turning into a dull ignorance

or new words through fresh hangovers

other books to worry about

that you can’t even get on a library shelf

it was a fool’s thought

to think that it would always be there

waiting on that perfect reader

and who knows where it is now?

who really fucking cares other than your bruised ego?

let it be some fire’s kindling

or a doorstopper on mars

let that thin tome sit in its dotage

with the other rejects on the dusty shelf

of an old age home or mental institution

that shit is dead and gone

and there’s an empty page facing you right now

you vain motherfucker

so make your next move, poet

make it count.

                                                

poem of the day 06.28.16

spitting cherry seeds at a rest area

in central pennsylvania

i am

hoping to hit someone’s big huge car

with an oval-shaped seed

as mini tanks with names like navigator

or suburban come driving by too fast

down the narrow strip of pavement

this rest area is packed with slap happy families

doing up america for the weekend

so many people are in red white and blue

or t-shirts for the military

you’d think it was the fourth of july

or an impromptu republican convention

where do these individuals come from?

i wonder, every time i see this spectacle

watching as true patriots

with pasty flesh and violent bumper stickers

pull mammoth coolers from the beds

of over-sized trucks

carrying them two-by-two

toward bird-shit laden picnic tables

as if this rest area off of I-81 were paradise incarnate

where have i gone wrong

in this vast and ponderous land?

sweaty and half dead

devoid and any and all nationalistic verve

as the dark cherry juice runs down my chin

and i miss another RV emblazoned

with eagles and liberty bells

careening by carrying people with dull eyes

and thick wet mouths of democracy

toward the unclean pissers

flat soda pop and stale potato chips

their very own valhalla in central pennsylvania

where is my nirvana? i ask myself

as i daydream empty dark bars

on sunny summer afternoons

or the blinds closed and the a/c on high

in mid-morning beds on work days

where i know i’m calling in sick

as greasy sandwich wrappers and coke cans

lie prostrate in the brown grass

like freedom’s flag limp in the  gray haze

while the people laugh

and sing along to archaic rock songs

as anxious dogs  stand chained to trees

trapped and panting in the sun

barking their feeble dissent

the only real sign that this ritual is dubious

a con job at best

                                                                                   

poem of the day 06.27.16

to the guy with the donald trump

bumper sticker on i-90 east

i can feel your populism from here

in the cool confines of the passenger seat

your window is up too

we both got the a/c blasting, bro

because they sure make america hot these days

caliente or kalinatuh i’d say, much to your chagrin

that is, i’m not much for building walls

or banning people from these shores

but i’d sure like to rip that bumper sicker

off the back of your car

carve a few swastikas in it too, for good measure

if only time and chance

had made us neighbors

i wonder where i guy like you comes from

out of the dark, bloody past of privilege

or straight from some all-white fantasyland of the mind

coming up behind me and the wife

and then swerving in front of us, thug style, baby

at eighty miles an hour on the I-90 going east

then switching to the other lane

so we’re running neck and neck

sunglasses and your baseball hat pulled low

paul ryan stubble that you forgot to shave

shit, you’re making america great again

by just your being you

taking to the open road

like you own the whole fucking thing

a little capitalist king in his little foreign car

or rather some mindless minion begging to be led

lost in america between rochester and syracuse

like so many others of your ilk

oh, and sorry about that middle finger

that i gave you

as you zipped up that exit doing sixty

when they wanted you to do thirty

back to that america

that they’re trying to take from you

one run to the border at a time

it’s just habit for me these days

like i just can’t help myself

so call it a cold gesture

on the rough roads of this hard land

or call it fuel for your fire, dude

a warning shot

or an opening salvo

call it whatever you want

…you dumb motherfucker.

                                                

"best of" poem of the day 06.24.16

corrosive

she’s corrosive

smells like rust

makes the day

more dejected

than it has to be

she’s a gossip

tearing the peace apart

like a rabid wolf

she’s acid rain

on the lunch hour

sounds like a squeaky wheel

complaining about her life

from the first

punch clock until the last

she’s black mold

infesting the walls

asbestos trapped in the gutter

the way she walks this joint

with a killer kind of misery

that makes you want

to hang yourself

she’ll oxidize you. man

pick away at your soul

like it was lead paint flakes

simply corrosive

my friend

stomping around

like an angry teenager

telling everyone

that’s she had enough

calling this one that

and that one this

but she doesn’t

know what enough is

she’s caustic  

her eyes are made of lye

burning through you

judging the judged

until there’ll be nothing left

but scorched flowers

and a burnt cake

bought for her retirement party.

                                                            07.02.11

"best of" poem of the day 06.23.16

hungover on a bathroom floor in paris

hungover on a bathroom floor in paris

i have a headache and my stomach is burning

i have just thrown up wine and peanuts

from a night of debauchery at la rotonde

there is a tallboy of heineken in the refrigerator

it is half drunk and i don’t remember buying it

but my wife has a digital picture of me

holding the beer and leaning on some stranger’s scooter

with the le dome in the background

and rodin’s statue of balzac off to the right

i have been like this on many bathroom floors before

in pittsburgh, in new york, and in buffalo mostly

i’m not new to this

but this is my first international trip to give alms

to the porcelain god

i didn’t throw up in london

i don’t like this bathroom

the white tile feels warm on my skin instead of cold

and the sink has a mirror that wraps around it

so that i can see how black and blue my eyes look

how pale green my face is

how sweaty and matted my hair and beard are

my legs when i get the shits

i can see wine and peanuts on my t-shirt

i can see what an asshole i look like

hungover on bathroom floor in paris

the bile rising in me again

and the head pounding its too typical beat

a beautiful sunny day trip to the eiffel tower

probably wasted

because i wanted to die too much the night before

because i always want too much.

                                                            04.12.10

poem of the day 06.22.16

bad head

the grocery cashier

is simultaneously checking his cell phone

and ringing up my groceries

there is no time for pleasantries

in this day and age of surrender and self-importance

that’s all right i’ve talked to enough people today

i notice the lettuce in my basket

more brown than green

and hard pellets of dirt that look like dried dung

smashed in places all over the bag

that’s par for the course here too

i think about all of the rotten peppers and cucumbers

that i’ve had to throw away from this place

the rancid meat they still have

sitting on the shelves

the expired eggs that i’ve watched the stock boys

switch to different packages

now i’ve lost my appetite and i need a drink

i decide to leave the lettuce in the basket

and put it down on the ground with the other strays

when the lady behind me starts shouting

sir, sir, your lettuce!

i pretend like she’s speaking a different language

she has enough toilet paper

that she could wipe the ass of the army for a month

the cashier simultaneously plays on his cell phone

and gives me my change

while she’s still yelling about the lettuce

if you didn’t want it, sir,

why didn’t you just put it back?

a good question, i guess

but i’m going to leave her hanging

as she turns to the other people in line

saying, do you believe the nerve of some people

it gives me pause and then a little smile

the grocery store bad boy once again

i turn and wink at the woman

then head home

knowing i’ve given her something to talk about all night

maybe even think about tomorrow morning

while she’s on the shitter

or wiping her fat nosey ass

with one of those rolls of toilet paper that she bought.                           

"best of" poem of the day 06.21.16

hello all

doing edits/line readings on the new novel, The Wine Clerk, so might be a week
of "best of" poems.

but thanks for reading!

jg

bitch on the bus

she’s got a tattoo on her upper arm

a hip white domed granny

prison dyke silver fox

with a ten-dollar haircut

she’s sitting there yelling at the bus driver

for being a minute late

whenever anyone yells at the bus driver

a message plays on the bus

telling everyone that

it’s a federal offense to assault a driver

but she says, listen buddy

cut the public service announcement shit

i got places to go

like the rest of us are on this thing for the thrill of it

and not coming home from the doctors

the grocery

or our fucking merciless jobs

she tells the driver

you’re full of shit and you know it

and i can’t help but hate her

i’m usually on the other side of this argument

usually one of the ones cursing the bus driver

having that little message played for me

like my own goddamned ringtone

but there’s something about

this bitch on the bus

her scowl and self-righteousness

her bug-eyes glaring at the rest of us

as if we were pieces of shit

that kind of flips me

makes me feel a new repugnance for mankind

and has me rooting for the bad guys on this one

and although it’ll fuck up my evening a bit

scare the wife when she doesn’t see me

come slouching down the street on time

i hope this driver grows a set

pull this bus over to the side of the road

grabs his paper and lets it idle

plays that service announcement like a club loop

while this abomination

checks her cheap watch

and really gets ready

to blow her top.

09.28.12

poem of the day 06.17.16

the hedonist

ian was going to be a big writer one day

the next burroughs or selby jr.

all of his short stories in fiction class caused controversy

someone was usually on drugs in them

heroin mostly but other stuff to calm the need

the characters in ian’s stories fucked while high on junk

they were always cascaded in dark amber light

that had me imagining beer bottles

people rarely left bed in ian’s stories

they fucked or did heroin or stared into the amber light

or they were tortured by sex or by the lack of drugs

the characters were always drenched in a mad sweat

that soaked through the pages of his self-proclaimed genius

they were suicidal and desperate

the walls were always greasy and wet

ian liked to tell the writing class that his stories were all true

or they were taken from real life

his life maybe but he never said

he just sat there emaciated and bearded

in his amber-colored flannel coat and black scarf

that he wore regardless of the weather

a contented smile on his face

as the people in class argued about his stories

and called him names like pornographer or smut peddler

ian told everyone he preferred the title hedonist

which most of the class didn’t know the meaning of

they were dullards who wrote stories

about their families or things that had happened in high school

rain or a pet dying was usually the big climax to most stories

many of them talked about getting an MFA

ian said college and writing classes were all bullshit

but there he was anyway

with his heroin stories and his over-sexed junkies

who always seemed to have the energy to fuck

all these years later i wonder if ian made it as a writer

did he become the next burroughs or selby jr.

i’ve looked him up online a few times

but have never come up with a thing

maybe he’s still lying in bed junked up on heroin

and having drug-fueled sex next to a dirty amber lampshade

maybe he’s a doctor in rhode island

who knows?

at least he made an impression on me

which rarely happens between me and the world

the rest of those people in class?

shit, i can’t remember their faces let alone their names

and i’m pretty sure

none of them ever became writers

or ever figured out what it meant to want to be called

a hedonist

at all.

                                   

poem of the day 06.16.16

every day is flag day

flags blowing outside of the schools

flags mounted on green, watery lawns

in suburban paradises of the mind

flags on the antennas of block long cars

flag pins and flag buttons for sale in wal-mart

flag socks and flag shoes in the window

flags on your t-shirt and flags on your jeans

flags hanging from brownstones in posh brooklyn

flags hanging in the ghetto

flags on do-rags sweating in the summer sun

flag dishes and flag spoons for your all-american meal

flags in the ice cream and stars and stripes on a cake

flags stapled to your ribs

flag necklaces and flag earrings tinted with gold

flags buried in the jungles of vietnam

flags flying on islands in japan

flags on the hats of patriots at baseball games

flags planted in the cracked pavement

flags waving in the fragile hands of freedom

stickers of flags stuck to street signs and stoplights

flags plastered on the bumpers of trucks

flags painted on guitars

flags on the buses and subways cars

flags when you pump your gasoline

a flag on the horizon looking tattered and torn

but still burning into the western sunset

flags of conscience and flags of denial

flags on your bikini for a soft day at the beach

a flag for allende a flag for mossadegh and a flag for arbenz too

a flag on the moon for humanity

flags flying over the heartland

flags flowing over iraq and afghanistan

flags on the warships and drones

flags on the shot glasses and ties and spatulas

serving up those hot dogs and apple pie

flags for the socialist and the demagogue in you

flags in the morning cup of coffee

flags with a side of toast

flags half-mast at gitmo in the hot cuban sun

oh, so many flags here in america

every day is flag day here in america

flags in my nightmares fucking up my dreams

and a flag on your casket when they finally bring you home.

                                                                                                            

poem of the day 06.15.16

saturday matinee

at the american ballet theater

and there is sunshine

and a light breeze

coming down broadway

as my wife and i drink water on a bench

and watch the people around us

greedily consume some abomination known as brunch

one would call this a nice day

if one were so inclined

looking across the street at lincoln center

there is something going on

an opera

or a saturday matinee at the american ballet theater

hundreds of kids are playing with a fountain

that rises and falls with the rapidity of some regimes

well-dressed little girls (mostly)

and some well-dressed boys

are crossing the street with their parents

to join in the fun

american flags are waving high and bold in the sky

like they do on every block

and the friendly neighborhood police officers

are there too!

four S.U.V. tanks of them lining broadway

taking up a lane and blocking traffic

oh, how the car horns of angry drivers

mixes so well with the smell of bacon and mimosas

the police are in full riot gear

helmets and bulletproof vests

NYPD plastered on their backs

so as to not confuse them with the army or the national guard

because it’s so hard not to these days

almost all of our heroes are carrying automatic weapons

assault rifles to go with some tchaikovsky and verdi

who knew and opera or a ballet could be so dangerous?

i never knew the cops could be so cultured!

i suppose this is the sort of thing

that makes people feel safe these days

safe to drink mimosas and eat runny eggs in outdoor cafes

safe to take the kids to see swan lake

safe to drink a bottle of water

while killing an hour or two people watching

still it’s hard to sit there

watching the little kids in pants and sundresses

mingling with the masters of urban warfare

and not wonder what we’ve sacrificed

for these freedoms that we’ve been given

what’s the true cost of brunch in lincoln center these days?

or in getting in a little art before noon

what’s the true cost of that sick feeling

the one sitting in the pit of our stomachs each morning

as we rise from our beds to face this america

believing that freedom is still more than a word

bandied about by politicians in the heat of battle

hoping that empty platitudes

belong to someone and somewhere else

and that the smiling cops in riot gear

don’t turn around one day

during an intermission

and point those friendly fully automatic peace keepers

right at you.

                                   

poem of the day 06.14.16

sports fan (take two)

jostled

out of sleep

three in the morning

half-drunk on wine white

my sick stomach a shambles

from a weekend

with the flu and the shits

hospital emergency waiting room

my wife still asleep on my shoulder

the television suddenly alive and blaring at this

the witching hour

mucus film on my eyelids

the florescent harbinger of lights to prove i’m awake

squeak of basketball shoes

permeating this room

sound like baby seals getting clubbed to death

i look back exhausted

and there he is sitting at the guard’s desk

boring

docile

dull

the average sports fan

in rent-a-cop blue

not even watching the goddamned game

or highlight reel

whatever the sports world does at 3 a.m.

i get up with murder on my mind

to go and check on my mother

only to be stopped

by this buffoon

suddenly curious as to where i’m going

away from you

and that fucking television, i tell him

but when i try the door to the patient area

it’s suddenly locked

and i have to stand there like a fool

until the basketball reel is over

and he smiles

lets the door go buzz

then click

and just like that

i’m on the losing team

once again.

                                               

poem of the day 06.13.16

let us

let us not take tragedy

and turn it into anger

let us pause and collect our thoughts

let us not heed the words

of an orange-hued, bloviating

xenophobic, bigoted, sexist, narcissist

and turn it into a national fascist drumbeat

let us learn from hard history

before we’re doomed to repeat it on new soil

let us not exploit those lives for political gain

or turn away from our ideals

let us turn the candlelight vigil

into something more than going through the motions

let us not spiral into that human pit

of violence and betrayal

but instead let us act out with kindness and empathy

let us not take this one world

and turn it inside out

let us paint our cities every color of the rainbow yes

but let us seek an understanding

in every drop of blood

before it’s too late

or is it

already

too late?

                       

"best of" poem of the day 06.10.16

bend over and take it

they tell us in coded words

to bend over and take it

they say i work for you

but like a shot in the ass

they always go back to cuddling

the money and influence

on the streets we call people like these

gold-diggers and whores

everywhere else we vote for them

put them in mansions and positions of power

go against our judgment and need

to keep these people in suits

to keep them fighting wars

arming cops like green berets

to murder in the name of law and order

gerrymander our states

so that there’s nothing but division division division

pitting us one against another

from angry, desolate coast to coast

lobby them to kill the environment

pump our fruits and vegetables full of cancer

pack the meat into steroid cages then let the methane fly

and when we get mad enough

yes, we take to the drought-dusted streets

for a moment or two

to loot and pillage from our own

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

let sports superstars rock the cause

knowing that the revolution will never be televised

and these elected masters

they wait us out

with benevolent smiles and hollow words

or they pass laws to further entrench us in this futility

give us a coke and a smile

the flag and the middle finger

as another celebrity scandal snaps us back in line

and into the warm home

where the consumer avarice waits for the avalanche

and passing congressional gas

is considered a monumental achievement in justice

where we sit in a loud harmony

of car horns and technical toys disguised as progress

to bend over and take it again.

12.12.14                                  

poem of the day 06.09.16

the poetry journals

only want poems that are thirty lines long

and they don’t feel bad

that you’ve spent twenty minutes

trying to find five good ones all for naught

it’s thirty lines or bust, asshole

the poetry journals are running a contest

twenty bucks for the pleasure of reading your work

but the commentary and ridicule is free

they only want poems that are one page long

for their themed issue about the abuses

of elephants in the ivory trade

ONLY poems about this theme will be accepted at this time

still…make sure the poems are under thirty lines long

forty lines about the elephant ivory trade are ten lines too many

the poetry journals aren’t reading again until july

or august or september or after the winter solstice

or they’re taking off until next year

so that staff can all concentrate on their long gestating novels

the theme for this issue is light

any poems about light will work

except for poems about actual light

please save those for their fall themed issue on actuality

or interpretations of actuality: actuality in the balance

the poetry journals are doing an all-women issue

but only women over thirty and only black women

but only black women from the continent of africa

if you’re a black women from the caribbean

please read the guidelines for next winter’s

caribbean women only issue

which is only open, of course, to women from the islands

but only those who are under the age of thirty

the poetry journals don’t want poetry with cursing in them

or overtly sexual and/or sexist themes

or poems that are pro-ivory trade

nothing too political and nothing too non-political

no bukowski-male-white-poet wannabees

the poetry journals want poetry that wows them

the kind of writing that makes them take a step back

and reevaluate their whole existence

they want poems with the power to change the world

or at least kick the asses of the ten people who read their rag

they want poetry that makes them feel alive

so send them your best

only no rhyming poems please.                                    

"best of" poem of the day 06.08.16

but still the sky turns purple

and gold before the sun sets

we slaughter each other so resolutely

in actions and deeds

a whole world of blood and guts

spilling into the oceans

but still the sky turns purple

and gold before the sun sets

magnificent and calming

meaning there might be hope out there

for you and me.

                        06.04.10

"best of" poem of the day 06.07.16

hey, sexy

her cellphone says

hey, sexy, you have a text message

as she stabs at spears of garlic chicken

with a plastic fork and sighs

hey, sexy, the phone says minutes later

you have a text message

as she drinks soda and belches

hey, sexy

while she reads the new york post

horoscope page

asking us all of our signs

her cellphone says,

hey, sexy, you have a text message

while she’s in the bathroom

running water

taking a shit and playing video games

hey, sexy, her phone begins

but she’s too busy talking about

the royal family and some starlet’s exposed ass

to listen

hey, sexy,

her phone starts to chirp again

but she grabs the sucker

and shuts it off

throws it in her bag

and goes back to killing her lunch

hey, sexy,

you have a text message

her phone says through the muffled contours

of knock off leather

but she’s beyond all of that now

they say that too much flattery

can sometimes make a relationship

grow cold.

                                                                        08.27.12

"best of" poem of the day 06.06.16

hello all

sorry for a haphazard Winedrunk as of late
but lack of sleep, novel writing, and lingering effect
of a viral infection that i refuse to get treated...well....

coming back to work

after a three-day weekend

i am

still

the guy

drunk

on cheap chilean wine

floor surrounded

by green glass bottles

copulating at randon

movie watching

eating food like a roman

loose-limbed

beer stained immaculate

sleep-filled

without the need of desire

content

humbled by grace

joyous

almost saintly

i am

not

the guy

sober and resentful

stuck under cheap florescent lights

sexless and starving

from the gripes of sad faces

with nothing else in their lives

a bad lunch in crowded lunch rooms

suicidal

hopelessness personified

insomnia nightmare

muscles twisted and tight

jealous and bitter

a morose fallen angel

waiting for the bus

in the cold, bleak twilight

oh christ

oh holy goddamned christ

please tell me

that

i am

not

that guy

once again.                                           01.20.12

poem of the day 06.03.16

joey america

joey america

loves budweiser

he keeps telling everyone on the circle line

american beer for america

the evening of a ninety degree day

and we’re packed like cattle on this thing

my parent’s idea but i aim to please

although i’ve been battling a fever

and the shits for three days

being packed on anything feeling that way

is akin to death

i can’t even get a budweiser down

i’ve been sober for two days now

and want to commit murder

but instead i sit there and hope

that i don’t have to shit on the boat

as joey america and everyone around him

get up to take pictures of gleaming manhattan

you gotta wave, he says

gotta wave, joey tells everyone

then he shouts and hoots

at every boat we pass on the hudson

screams and chants USA! USA! as fighter jets pass overhead

i wonder where they manufacture guys like joey america

is it the water or the breeding?

some factory out in the heartland?

red white and blue cargo shorts and dipshit sandals

in fact, most of the people around me

are wearing something american

one guy has a t-shirt that says, pride

with an image of a soldier busting out of an american flag

he and joey america should go bowling

that is if i don’t rip the budweiser out of his hands

and push him into the river

never forget! joey shouts when we get to the world trade center

never effin forget! he says, looking around the boat

before he holds his can of beer up to the mammoth building

like a lighter at a rock concert during an anthem

another iconic moment for an iconic city

or maybe it’s just a beer commercial he’s ripping off

because sometimes you can’t tell the difference

between the two in this country.

                                                                        

poem of the day 06.01.16

the closer

i tell you

i don’t like him

and he doesn’t like me

we’re two more people in a land of division

who do not get a long

i guess it’s a shame

but he always comes in at the last hour

when my ass is almost kicked

from dealing in eight hours of bitching and complaining

by joe q. public all day

the way he glares at me is priceless

i’ve had women look at me that way

before they’ve told me to go

he wants the financial times

always the financial times

and i’d like to shove it up his ass

then he sits there with it

like a lost financial wizard

his gray tongue licking his yellow fingers

turning the gray pages of the financial times

like he’s bill gates checking his net worth

or that asshole who owns amazon.com

wondering what institution to buy next

as my hours click down on another day

sometimes i watch him as he reads

purposeful like he has all the time in the world

occasionally looking at his watch

to gauge the time

the son-of-a-bitch

he has all day to come in here and act the master of the world

i know it

because i see him on the street sometimes

pacing with coffee or a slice of pizza

berating some chinese lady for getting in his great white way

but he’s one of those kind

someone the world owes something too

our time

our hours

lending our ears for his bullshit

our waning minutes of servitude at his beck and call

the financial times folded neatly and handed to him

once i went into a liquor store at the last minute

for a bottle of vodka

but that was desperation

this…i don’t know what this is

antagonism as street performance?

the outer cosmos of privilege and entitlement?

counting down to the last minute

before he gets up from his rickety throne

and brings the paper back to me

unfolding it sometimes

checking one last article in the financial times

warren buffett in poor man’s clothing

mark zuckerberg in a torn mets hat

running down the last seconds

tossing the paper on my desk

like a used whore

then shuffling hands in pocket whistling a tune

right out of the building

without a thank you

or even a goddamned goodnight.