hiatus time

hello all

WineDrunk SideWalk will be on hiatus until Monday, August 1st. If you will you're missing me
simply google the name, or check out my new novel Wine Clerk.

jg

poem of the day 07.21.16

almost combray

i was the consummate indoor kid

i could kill hours watching tv on the couch

contemplating the endless reaches of my unknown self

asking the eternal, why me? why me?

as i drew bad comics or flipped through baseball cards

with no regards to ever play the game

an existentialist latch key success story

left to his own thoughts and devices from age eleven on

drowning in cans of discount soda

and generic boxed macaroni and cheese

1950s and 60s sitcoms like a banquet too

an obese masturbation machine with the old man’s playboys

and any long, tan set of talk show host’s legs

when the neighborhood kids came calling

with their wiffle bats and nerf footballs

with their basketballs or huffy bikes

i tore my fat ass upstairs and hid in the dark of my room

as if the gestapo were coming for me and my hold on time

there i waited in the rich blue curtain shade

of mid-afternoon dark, for them to go away

or out into the street to play those games

to talk that talk that straddled the line of innocence and lust

cultivating those tranquil memories

a whole carnival of useless moments

that wouldn’t matter to any of them within an hour

wherein i had that solace of time alone

as i crept around my house, daring myself to make a sound

to prove that i was real inside this fortress of solitude

almost combray if you will

but with glossy pictures of alyssa milano

and lisa bonet on my walls to contemplate like madeleines

instead of laying prostrate in a cork-lined room

sniffing at hawthorns and staring at steeples

or whatever it was that proust always looked at

when the memories and melting of time

swelled like bursting rivers in his head

or when he just wanted the good people of the world

to leave him the hell alone

if only for a little while.

                                               

poem of the day 07.20.16

sunday morning (7:45 a.m.)

this morning is ugly

but i needn’t tell you that

and the same dog is taking his same shit

right in front of my window

barking and growling at ghosts

while his owner has the same conversation on his phone

with the same person that he had it with last week

always something about kicking ass on saturday night

he’s wearing the same bar t-shirt and mesh shorts

dipshit sandals and shades that he always wears

flipping his keys like some kind of wise guy

giving me the same clueless douche bag look

when our eyes meet

in the sky the sun beams down

a pale yellow halo over this cracked landscape

of apartment complexes, embedded garbage and concrete

and the world looks like god’s vomit anew

as i watch the dog quiver his hind legs

and drop a massive steaming one

that his owner won’t pick up

like he didn’t do last week or the week before

thinking to myself you can’t spell suicide

without the U and I

before shutting the blinds that i’d only just opened

for whatever idiotic reason that i had

for wanting to let a little bit of light in

and look at the dull world around me.

                       

                                                

poem of the day 07.19.16

the martyr

i was so stupid back then

though i’ll note i’m not much smarter now

but it seemed that

i wanted to feel bad all of the time

i think i got off on the pain of finding the one girl

who wanted nothing to do with me

and just fall head over heels for her

dedicate long love poems in my head to her

lay on my side in my sad bedroom

listening to music and thinking of her always

composing memories in my mind

of all of the things we’d never share

i was a sick fool

i needed good heartache to survive

soul-bashing was my bread and butter

my sacred manna…you get the drift

but all those wasted thoughts!

all that yearning spent on girls

who hated me upon sight!

or who barely knew that i existed at all

this one, i remember i wrote her name plus mine

on the desk i knew she used

for the next period in school

such a self-sabotaging fool i was!

of course, she and her friends

made fun of me for months afterwards

following me in the halls

calling me out

mocking me with how much in love she was too

oh, it was such glorious pain

such a fantastic chain whipping to receive every school day

a wondrously raw bounty to take home with me

and coddle like a child

i swear it almost felt like love

to lie on my bed and know that i’d made some mark

the music and the thoughts feeling so much stronger

until the emptiness started to kick in

the knowledge that soon they’d be done with me

and on to something else

the fear that i’d become invisible once again

stuck with myself and myself only

and that i’d have to move on

and fall in love with someone else.

poem of the day 07.18.16

black girl swinging

black girl swinging

alone

in the park

before eight in the morning

white dress

big headphones on

high

high as she’ll go

with a smile that won’t stop

as i sweaty from the heat

go running by

another shadow in the sun

past parked cars telling me

who to vote for

this world just a blue marble

and thankfully

not a cop in sight.

                                    

poem of the day 07.15.16

ten-cent words

i used to have lines, baby

lines and humor

coming out of my ass

it actually worked on some girls

i’d have them laughing like lunatics

with the shit i said

a natural born comedian

with a double chin and chaffed thighs

in husky pants from the tall and fat store

although my humor never got me anywhere

but with some other girls

there’d be nothing but a stone silence between us

as i dropped lyrical bomb after bomb

a first class comedy act that i made up on the spot

christ, you could hear a pin drop

between me and these critics before their time

those bold queens

who turned their noses up at me and walked away

in an effort to save themselves a little face

in a way they were foreign beasts

that i struggled to fully understand

because most times later

i’d catch those very same girls in close quarters

with some well-polished blank of a boy

dropping his ten-cent words into their ears

dull lines, for certain, that had the girls

laughing and laughing like lithe hyenas

i’d watch them dance around each other

as if observing some sick science experiment

the graze of the arm

the brush of the hair

wondering how in the hell they did it

with such little effort, while i sweated and toiled

before sulking off wounded and confused

knowing less and less about the way the world worked

then i did only moments before

except that what you looked like on the outside

meant anything and everything

and what was inside of you, baby

didn’t really count for shit



AND.....Wine Clerk is out! my 2nd novel. published by the legendary, yes, FUCKING LEGENDARY , Six Gallery Press. You can order a copy here. I'll even have someone
else come to your house and sign it for you!

                                                

poem of the day 07.14.16....and my NEW NOVEL IS OUT!!!

hello all

while we still live in a world where Donald Trump could actually become president
of the United States, a few good things do squeak by. My new novel, Wine Clerk, is
available to purchase on Amazon.com. This is a follow up to 2013's The Librarian,
with good ol' Rand Wyndham still in as main character. It can be purchased HERE

in honor of the novel's release today's poem is based on some of the true-life
experiences in the novel. so...i give you The Wine Clerk:

the wine clerk

i remember

needing a job in buffalo

when there were no jobs

sitting in some half-empty frat bar

while the college chick bartenders

got drunk on white wine and watched tv talk shows

scanning the local rag

and coming up with nothing

i remember needing rent money

and gas for a car that ran when it wanted to

arguing with my wife

because i felt impotent and dull

sitting in the apartment all day

or hustling it out on the streets to no avail

the temp agencies couldn’t find me anything

they could only test and test and test

and shrug their shoulders when i failed them all

i remember not taking a job for bath fitters

because the boss thought that writing, listed on my resume

would interfere with me working the warehouse

because he was afraid i’d leave the job

if i ever sold a book

because he asked me if i liked kayaking

how i couldn’t work for someone who liked kayaking

and how i’d leave the job for less than selling a book

i remember seeing that ad for a wine clerk

in the midst of my fourth pint of the day in that frat bar

while the college chick bartenders got sloppy

and started spilling their plastic cups of purloined white wine

thinking that a man shouldn’t shit where he eats

but i remembered the rent and the car

and the testing and the temp agencies and kayaking

then i thought how hard could selling wine be?

i remember that warehouse as big as a car dealership

the shelving a silver and red metal skeleton city

reaching up toward the sky

my clumsy, hungover ass carrying cases

of wine and booze down ladders

hoping that i didn’t fall to the concrete

and die in a hail of wine and scotch and glass

i remember feeling sore

the pain of hauling boxes for a solid eight

watching kids ten to fifteen years younger than me

do it with such ease

laying on the couch at home listening to the classical station

because i thought i was some kind of bukowski

wondering where all the decent jobs in buffalo were hiding

getting hauled into a wine testing center

being told that the varietals tasted of black currant

or grapefruit or cherry or blackberry

that you could taste the dirt of france

the stone sea sides of italy

thinking how i’d never get to france or italy or anywhere

making the kind of money i was making

thinking that it was all bullshit

and forgetting to spit the booze into the sink

after each sip as my only revenge

i remember

drinking wines that cost more than my whole paycheck

and the irony in that

i remember not shaving, not bathing for days

going a month in the same clothing

my pants stained in wine from asshole customers

dropping bottles every hour on the hour

and i remember that little man

that little napoleon of a boss

who hauled me into his office every day

so that we could talk about the state of my wardrobe

so that we could talk about why i hadn’t shaved

so that he could tell me the customers paid my salary

and put his kids through school

so that he could give me a routine psychological evaluation

but never once giving me the gentle mercy of firing me

i remember sitting in my car

in the parking lot of the wine store

drinking half a six pack or two tallboys

just glaring at that building

before i found the courage to walk on in

and start the retail horror show all over again

i remember getting drunk on my lunch

at an old man bar across the street

spending saturdays drinking wine samples

until i couldn’t see

only i don’t remember how i made it home most nights

luck

my wife

the rent

our life

the chance to one day maybe see france or italy or anywhere

and i remember them working us nine til nine

every day for over a month

when thanksgiving and christmas came

how i grew to hate christmas carols

how i still can’t hear them

how that little napoleon watched me work for twelve hours

building booze display after booze display

hauling case upon case, as customers crawled up my ass

how he then pulled me into his office

to tell me what a shit job i was doing

how i needed to be more of a people person

be a little ray of sunshine, he said

to remind me about the wine-soaked pants

and the dirty shirt and the facial hair i refused to shave

i remember thinking

how i could commit murder if i put my mind to it

i remember drinking vodka

straight from a mag bottle in my car on my dinner break

watching the customers stroll into the store in santa hats

not a goddamned care in the world

how they must’ve worked better jobs

found the buffalo, new york that had alluded me

i remember how the months moved

like dragging anvils across broken glass

how the want ads still held nothing for me

the hopelessness in a saturday night driving down delaware avenue

too tired to fuck

too tired to sleep

too shell-shocked from the hoi polloi to even go out to dinner

another month of nine to nine shifts

for inventory in that metal warehouse city

the christ wound i received on my side

cut from a nail on a case of french wine

that cost two-hundred dollars a bottle

i remember suicidal thoughts

thinking that i didn’t want to be bukowski or anybody

how i was sick of being myself

nothing but a wine clerk in buffalo

on eight bucks an hour

and i remember the sinking stench of failure

when i woke up the next morning

hungover immaculate

the scent of stale beer and wine in my nostrils

having to rise up out of that warm bed

to do it all again.

                                               

poem of the day 07.13.16

another side of the sun

people care

more about video games

on their cell phones

than cultivating empathy

and the cops will kill at will

as the masses press buttons of joy

hoping to not get caught in the crossfire

of this neoliberal meltdown

democracies fracture

empires end at the will of buffoons

and somewhere

something as simple

as an obscene hand gesture or a flat tire

will drive another person to murder

as i sit on the couch

burning in the embers

of another lost day

sucking at this second

tumbler of cheap vodka

staring out the window

looking for the answers to it all

hoping to catch a soft breeze

witness another side of the sun

than the one that burns

so hot and unholy

in the pale blue sky.

                                                

poem of the day 07.12.16

the night my old man

talked to the television

i don’t remember

if my mother was out with her girlfriends

or if it was just one of those summer nights

after my old man worked the day shift

and my mother was off pulling overnights

so that someone was home with my brother and i

back during those counting the change

for a loaf of bread days

i don’t even remember the name of the movie or show

that was on the tv

just me and my brother sitting in the living room

having a coca-cola burping contest

with the old man asleep on his side on the couch

the ashtray full of kool milds resting on the carpet

that we kept daring each other to take and smoke

whatever was on the screen was loud

loud enough to block his snoring

and the people in the movie or show were fighting

some man and a woman

domestic drama crap that we’d quickly tired of

and the woman was flailing and yelling up a storm

while the guy stood there defiant and dull

like all men and women on television

when she finally stopped and screamed, i’m leaving

to which my old man responded from his slumber

fine, then get the hell out

as if my mother herself had come

tearing into the living room from the kitchen

ready to go another round with him

over their own domestic shit

before turning on his other side

the old man’s back to the television

snoring anew

                                   

poem of the day 07.11.16

not dead yet

she’s

all ass packed

in brown shorts

has that cell phone

american sway

sauntering down 4^th avenue

in this blistering morning heat

the goddamned

dog days for sure

he must be saying

passing her

at least double her age

triple maybe

as big as a city block

a beached whale

hobbled

with a cane

knock

knock

knocking on heaven’s door

but that doesn’t stop him

from spinning like a ballerina

to get one last look

after she passes

an ass walk for the ages

his last great summit

of libido

almost sprawled out on the pavement

before he rights himself

wipes the sweat from

his brow

looks nobody in the eye

as he continues on

with nimble

unsure steps

down this rank

and sweltering block.

                                               

poem of the day 07.08.16

imagine paul ryan

in his d.c. office cum apartment

three miller lights into it

spit shinning his portrait of reagan for the third time

making the sign of the cross

a chunk of wisconsin cheese in his hand

after a hard day of obstructive legislative work

if only the democrats understood the benefits of privatization

that rubber-faced frown almost etched

into his face these days because of donald trump

sad blue puppy dog eyes

barbells at his feet, he looks into the mirror and says,

clinton, clinton, clinton

as if wishing a terminal disease away with words

eddie munster widow’s peak frayed

his tie slightly askew

the suit coat already on the back of his wooden chair

american flag pin button upside down on the lapel since lunch

but damn if mitch mcconnell would tell him so

paul, he shadow boxes obamacare

then slowly undresses in the sad sunset of a humid d.c. night

maybe there’s dead silence

or the sound of interns as they scatter down the hall

toward lobbyist banquets with all the free booze they can drink

maybe there’s a little hootie and the blowfish playing

to remind him of those old college days

when newt was all the rage

and his only thoughts were of jennifer aniston

or that chick in his poly sci class

man, it’s too solemn tonight for the ac/dc or the led zep

four black men dead in 48 hours

protests scattering across the nation

five cops killed in dallas by snipers

the NRA wondering when we’ll hand out guns to kids

on the first day of school to kind of stop this shit

and, of course, the brewers are in fourth place

his presumptive republican nominee

an orange-faced, baby-dicked

bigoted, sexist, xenophobic, anti-semite

and good christ that’s just the stuff he knows about

tired from the talkin’ email blues all day with the FBI

our kid slips on his aaron rodgers jersey

stares as his brett farve poster

and wonders what’s next for this fractured, violent america

paul sits in his favorite chair brought straight to the capital

from good ol’ janesville

thinks no on that fourth miller light

takes out his phone and stares at a picture

of him and mitt that time they went fishing

on the fourth of july

was 2012 really four years ago already?

but mitt won’t return his calls these days

fucking trump, paul says

then he calls janna, dear, sweet, reliable janna

but it always takes her three rings to pick up

something with the kids

something he’s missing in between the cracks

of his floundering political career and pushing that GOP agenda

and when the call goes to voice mail

he doesn’t even say hello

it’s me, it’s paul

but just starts crying into the void

tearing at his jersey

falling to the floor like a petulant child

paul somehow gets himself together

thinks what would ayn rand do

then whispers into his phone

oh janna

oh baby

i just wanna come home.

                                                                       

poem of the day 07.07.16

ninety degrees in brooklyn

with writer’s block

on my way

to work

a wasted morning of no words

a sweating

blob of pasty

white privilege flesh

with no discernible talent

dying in the dog days

feeling

like a hard turd

stuck up

a rank and festering

hemorrhoid ass

oh how

this city stinks

come july

my balls itching

my soul floundering

and ready

to burst purple

i watch

a thin

stray tabby cat

licking open

garbage bags

spilling rice

and rancid meat

onto the wet pavement

like he’s found

a pot of gold

like he’s

the goddamned king

of brooklyn

this hazy

ugly morning

with all the answers kept

locked and away from us slaves

in his wide

and almond

eyes.

                                    

poem of the day 07.06.16

hello all
had too much fan at the Noel Gallagher show here in NYC last night
to drag myself out of bed at 4:45 a.m....so here's a "best of" poem recently
published in the great Carcinogenic Poetry

poem of the day 07.05.16

the hypochondriac

i used to keep myself

up so many nights thinking about sickness

about dying in my sleep

about being the only twelve-year-old boy

who was going to have a heart attack

every growing pain that i suffered

was proof positive that my body

was failing me from the inside

i couldn’t sleep as a result of my worry

so i added insomniac to the list

all i could do was lay there in bed

listen to my brother snore across the room from me

my mother snoring in my folk’s room

the old man downstairs asleep

where we’d left him since he passed out at eight o’clock

with the television on as low

as we could secretly put it in our small home

and i’d think this is it, the end

i’d stop breathing the minute i drifted off to sleep

suffocated by i have no clue what

or that headache from yesterday was a brain tumor

the scratch from the cat would get infected 

and poison my blood

i’d stare at the clock knowing tomorrow at school

would be a long fucking day

if i didn’t get those thoughts out of my head

and get some sleep

but i couldn’t help it, it was all there in me

cancer, HIV, pneumonia, the plague

the black death, latent chicken pocks,

the mumps, the measles, that heart attack lying in wait

all of it coming to get me

sometimes all at once

while i laid in that bed terrified

until morning or sleep would finally come against my will

or i’d start thinking about something else

instead of all of that rot

something like the front door being unlocked

my old man’s cigarette still smoldering in his ashtray

set to burn the whole house down

or that my dear old snoring mother in the other room

had left the gas range going

and the goddamned oven on.

                                                           

"best of" poem of the day 07.04.16

independence day

she tells me

to come in for the fireworks

while i’m

wondering if i’ll still have

a job by july

the fireworks are beautiful

she says

as i’m shutting the blinds

and cursing the sun

they come in red and blue

and purple and green

they light up the city

she tells me

while i think about piercing

the tips of my fingers

with a rusty

bobby pin

just for the hell of it

the fireworks will take

care of everything

like the job and the bills

you just need to see

some kind of beauty

in this life

pray and believe in god

she says

while i drink warm beer

wipe away broken glass

and try to untangle the noose

she tells me that the fireworks

spread for miles

they make kids laugh

the adults feel young

all right, all right

i tell her

you’ve won this time

but the next time you call

i’ll be in the closet

wrapped up in a blanket

soaked with gasoline

wondering where

i put the matches

                                    05.05.10

"best of" poem of the day 07.01.16

in july

ten firecrackers

a roman candle

charcoal smoke from a grill

and two whores laughing

in the alleyway

while i’m trying to read

saroyan

late

on a wednesday.

this neighborhood

is like a microcosm

of the world:

self-involved

inhuman

loud.

i can indict it

just by looking out

my bedroom window.

it doesn’t make me

feel

any better,

just

at the mercy of all

of you,

the same as

i always

am.

            07.06.06