On The Return of WineDrunk SideWalk

Hello all

Well….I had myself a nice long week….how about you?

First and foremost let’s remember that we’re still alive, that we’re still here, and that that motherfucker Donald Trump better be ready for one hell of a fight…because we are. There will be no unity after this election. This isn’t your typical winner loser here (of course we actually WON the election). Instead of the standard, lying bullshitting Republican in the White House we get a racist, sexist, xenophobic, rapist, illiterate, orange-faced, baby-dicked thousandaire, reality TV con man. If Donald Trump wants unity in Trumpland he better buy a dictionary and look up the word.

I didn’t intend to bring WineDrunk SideWalk back. YES I SPELL IT AS SUCH. I had intended to spend 2017 editing and revising my novel, The Poet, and basking in the glow of the first female presidency. But that didn’t happen. Instead America revealed itself to be the same racist nation that it always has been….thanks White Folks. For the first time in my life I’ve been having a hard time looking people in the eye: women, minorities, etc because I know what people who look like me have done. I know how people who look like me have betrayed years of progress. At a time like this you just have to wonder at how cruel and vicious of a race you belong to. You wonder what it is that you can do to somehow make the insurmountable right again.

In some small way WineDrunk SideWalk will be that for me. I plan on spending the next four years, EVERY GODDAMNED DAY, posting poems ( and other stuff) on this blog that reflect not only to doings of the deplorable human beings we will soon have running the United States government, but the violence and hatred that Donald Trump has helped unleash here on the streets.

….but I NEED your help. 

It’s simply not possible for me to write 1460 poems, no matter how much material Trump will give me…at least until he unleashes the nukes or rounds all of us up. So I need all of the poets and writers and photographers out there to help me. What I want/hope is that you will send me your poems etc. that reflect the impact of the Trump presidency on America and the world. On days where I simply have run out of Material I plan on posting the work of others in order to keep this thing going daily. Of course you will be credited for the work. I will also need some gatekeepers for this blog. Because I do intend to have a life with the requisite vacation days and whatnot I will need trustworthy people to run this blog in my absence. I’ll be reaching out to you folks in the coming weeks.

You can email me your work the following address: winedrunksidewalk@gmail.com

NO ATTACHMENTS!!!!!  even if I know you…..put the writing in the BODY of the email!

So…WineDrunk is back. Our first post will be on January 19^th, 2017, the day BEFORE Inauguration Day. Or as I’m calling it: The Last Day of America.

Hope to see a lot of you in the fight.  Anyway….here’s two new poems.

obama shook the hand of a bigot

obama shook the hand of a bigot

in the white house

in front of the press

obama took the hand of the bloviating

half-senile, orange-faced, baby-dicked,

racist, sexist, xenophobic, short-attention spanned

thousandiare, groping, child raping, man-child

and gave it a hearty shake

for peace

for unity

for america

obama shook the hand of a bigot

with over four hundred years of racism hanging over his head

with his legacy in jeopardy

with all of the progress of eight years disappearing in the dust

with fuck niggers written on manhattan walls

with black lives don’t matter and your vote doesn’t count

echoing through this once promised land

obama shook the hand of a bigot

while flags with swastikas flew proud over sand diego

and white nationalists planned inauguration parties

while hajibs were ripped off the heads of muslim women

and a black co-worker of mine said,

i knew they hated us, but damn i just didn’t know how much

obama shook the hand of a bigot

as old white men wrote american obituaries in the press

and left us hanging to go off to tend their gardens

as white kids went on twitter in black face

with the confederate flag hanging behind them

as middle school students shouted in lunch

build that wall! baby, build that wall!

as four trans people killed themselves

because they saw no other way to salvation in america

obama shook the hand of a bigot

who will be the president of these united states

who called the deaf retarded

who mocked a handicapped reporter

who said to treat women like shit

who said women should be punished for having abortions

who has fourteen sexual assault accusations against him

who advocated killing terrorist families

and a registry or a ban on muslims

obama shook the hand of a bigot

who advocated shutting down mosques

who thinks climate change is a hoax

who wants to sue the news media for reporting the truth

who has been endorsed by the KKK

who praised putin and kim jong-un

and now has his hands on nuclear codes

who has a list of atrocities so long and gruesome

they could be a poem in and of themselves

obama shook the hand of a bigot

while online some inbred, hick white dude told me

to stop acting like a fucking baby and get in line

as latino churches opened services

with hate written on their walls in maryland

as black baby dolls wear nooses in buffalo

as cops shoot and pepper spray protestors

for the last five days and counting

as seig heil 2016 rears its ugly head in philadelphia

and all over the country

obama shook the hand of a bigot

in the white house

in front of the press

for peace

for unity

for america

and the coward couldn’t even look him in the eye.

comply flee or die

rafael says

these days you either

comply flee or die

leaving el salvador was the hardest thing

he ever had to do

where he and his wife had a livestock business

and two kids on track for college

leaving their home, their family and their friends

because the local gang

wanted their son for a drug mule

then beat him up when he refused

because the local gang

wanted their ten year-old daughter for a wife

because they said they’d kill them

if they didn’t turn over their kids

rafael says,

the gang put the dead body of a boy

in front of their home to show that they weren’t joking around

so they went north with only what they could carry

hit the packed migrant shelters in tapachula

near the guatemalan border

but still the gang tracked them down

so they moved on toward the boarder

rafael says,

these days you don’t go it alone

you travel as families

sometimes up to fifteen at a time

these days you’d rather put up with america

and its racism and its walls and its donald trump

and its patriots waving flags at busloads of your kids

telling them to go back home

because back home to what?

police informants and the violence

your boy turned into a drug mule or killed

and your daughter gang raped in a metal shed

your spouse shot dead in the street

like it just happened to fatima

rafael says,

this is a refugee crisis

and you don’t migrate to america now

for the dream, man

rafael says,

you do it for your kids

you do it for your life.                                                    

                                                                                                

Return of WineDrunk SideWalk.

hello all

I'll save the real info for tomorrow
but....WineDrunk SideWalk is coming back on January 20, 2017

national poetry day poem of the day 10.06.16

in celebration of National Poetry Day.....an original.

paddle me party

i don’t remember

what i’d done
some first grade infraction
that had pushed it too far with the teacher
but there i was in the principal’s office
with all of the other bad boys and girls
from grades one through six
crowded around the old nun’s desk
her images of mary and jesus
benevolently looking down
at all of us from the walls
blessed porcelain white saint francis statue in the corner
periwinkle rosary beads hanging like a noose
there was one boy bent over the desk
i could barely see him from behind all of the older kids
just his waist, his horse-brown belt
where the dress shirt tucked into navy blue slacks
but i could see sister laurentia
her pale, virginal face calm and poised
her black habit and cat glasses and puckered un-kissed lips
a true bride of christ
with her golden crucifix around the neck
the wooden paddle held aloft
like some sacramental offering
i couldn’t make out what she was saying either
those nuns talked with such holy softness
even when clutching a child’s arm to black and blue
pulling a child’s hair as they frog marched one down the hall
but i could hear the paddle when it went SWOOSH!
hitting that kid right on his ass
the way he cried as the SWOOSH! SWOOSH!
came two more times
before she sent him back into the crowd
humbled and humiliated and sobbing
our pre-pubescent savior
our martyr, our sacrificial lamb
because sister laurentia let the rest of us off
with just a warning that afternoon
after we recited one our father
promised her at least three extra hail marys
the next time we went with our class to confession
and that we’d always be good
from now until god the giver of this life
gave us our last earthly breath.                                     

Drunk Monkeys: Writer of the Month

Hello All

Drunk Monkeys has it's awesome Election 2016 issue up right here: HERE.
They've been kind enough to make yours truly their Writer of the Month, so
do us a solid and check out the issue....oh, and vote...unless it's for Trump.
FUCK TRUMP

jg

Beatnik Cowboy

hello all

have poems up at Beatnik Cowboy.

jg

Stay Weird and Keep Writing

....which is not a motto or creed but the name of a poetry journal
that recently published a batch of my stuff....they can be read and ridiculed
here.

poem at Your One Phone Call

couldn't even stay away a week.
I have a new never on WineDrunk SideWalk poem over
at Your One Phone Call

the last poem of the day 08.29.16

Well…we’ve come to the end of it, folks. The true and honest official end to WineDrunk SideWalk. Today’s post is going to be the final “poem of the day” post for the blog. I will maintain WineDrunk until the end of 2016, and post links when poems and short stories (should I ever write one again) get published in a journal or zine or whatever people call these literary dumping grounds these days. I do plan on coming back in 2017 with a new blog and I will post a link to that as well, thus officially ending good ol’ WineDrunk SideWalk 1.0 for good. I’m also planning to start putting out my own poetry books, hopefully by my 43^rd birthday in April, as well as maybe doing an online or print poetry journal to showcase other writers. I started taking photographs this year, not very good as of now, but I may try doing something with that as well.

I started this blog in 2008 as….hell, I don’t know. If you go back 8 years I have picture and a blog post about Sarah Palin for Christ’ sake. But I soon developed WineDrunk into a poetry site, mostly to keep me writing regularly. I think I’ve achieved that. And it’s been really wonderful to have had people read and comment on the blog. I think of WineDrunk as a fine piece of digital art. But this year I’ve gotten rather restless with the whole thing. Concentrating on writing a novel while revising another novel lead to a lot of frustration on my part in having to post a poem daily and to try and have that poem at least maintain some quality, some shred of artistic value. I don’t think I failed but, more often than not, I was rather disappointed by a lot of what I put up on the blog in 2016. I don’t take disappointment easy and I don’t want to post poems that I’m not at least somewhat proud of. So I made the decision to stop the blog in order to work closer on the fiction and to give the poetry the actual time it deserves. Will it make me a better writer? I don’t know.

Again…I thank all of you who have read the blog and have participated in this little art experiment of mine. I hope when the time comes you’ll follow me along to the next adventure, and I can follow you along as well.

jg

so here's to getting a little WineDrunk one last time.

needing a job

it was buffalo

and i hadn’t worked in over a month

and all i did was sit in the apartment

and eat bologna sandwiches and drink labatt beer

when my wife got home from her job

i was sort of drunk

my wife always managed to find a job first

in whatever city we moved to

it was always me sitting at home

eating cold cuts and drinking beer

or going to temp agencies

or filling out applications in big box stores

always me needing a job

and it was buffalo in may

but it felt like march outside

but i walked the city looking for work anyway

i drove up its empty drags searching for help wanted

and there were no jobs at the temp agencies

and the big box stores weren’t hiring

neither were the non-profits and the cold offices

it looked like it was going to snow in may

and i thought at least that would be something

i found this job in a bath and shower warehouse

and i sat in front of bald man

who was doing interviews

and he had a goatee because he was bald

and he asked me if i wanted to work in the warehouse

as if he and i had been searching for each other

our whole lives

and he showed me pictures of the team

on their kayaking trips

he said, do you like to kayak?

and i had no answer for that

he said, just one thing,

on your resume it says you write

he said, what kind of writing do you do?

the occasional wrong-headed, misguided rant

on someone’s blog, i said

and when he didn’t laugh at that i said

poetry…and fiction

he said, hmmmm….well….i really want to hire you

but what happens if you write a novel?
will you just up and quit?

and i wanted to tell him how hard it was to write a novel

how much harder it was to get a novel published

i wanted to talk to the bath and shower warehouse man

about literary agents and editors

and marketing and the whole whoring business of writing

but instead i just looked around the office

and said, i need a job

because my wife and i were on our third city

in as many years

because i was getting fat sitting alone at home

eating bologna sandwiches and drinking

all of that beer

because a savings account can only go so far

and the bills were due and the landlord wanted rent

the warehouse guy said you’re hired

and i told him great

even though i hoped to drive the car

over one of those highway embankments on the way home

he showed me the warehouse

it was full of bath and shower parts

and people walking around looking like they’d

needed a job at one point in their lives

and this was the best that they’d gotten

for being born against their will

the bald, goateed warehouse man handed me paperwork

and i walked out of the squat building like a zombie

and i sat in the car and watched the sun droop in the sky

i thought about spending the next thirty years in there

and by some dark magic i didn’t drive over an embankment

but instead went home to where my wife

was already back from work

making spaghetti and drinking a labatt blue

and i kissed her on the lips

and got a labatt blue out of the fridge

and i sat at the kitchen table looking at the paperwork

as food was being cooked

and my stomach rumbled

and outside our little kitchen window

i swear on christ’s wooden cross

i saw a snowflake fall.

                                              

poem of the day 08.25.16

american poem

so many flags
....so little time

poem of the day 08.24.16

ode to the loud guy on the B4 bus

eighteen months

i haven’t had to take this bus home

now, i don’t want to suggest

that things should get better over time

life is cyclical

some mornings i get the feeling

that we’re slipping slowly back

into some new kind of dark age

but do you really have to shout to your friend

about going to dinner at buffalo wild wings?

i don’t want to get into your cuisine choices

but the man is sitting right next to you

at best you need only talk above a whisper

why do we all have to know how much you enjoyed

your screamin’ nacho burger and buffalo chips?

i’m not trying to suggest

that what i’m doing on here is better

than what you are trying to do

though i am reading chuck kinder

poems about richard brautigan

by the looks of us we’re both trying to go home

from our fucking jobs

i just don’t care that target has all their star wars shit on sale

and how cheap the batman/superman blu-ray combo is

even if i did like the film

or that the target is right next door to buffalo wild wings

which was good because you really

needed the bathroom after that meal

i’m sure the other two dozen people on the B4 bus

don’t give a shit either

but it doesn’t matter to you, does it?

doesn’t matter that the bus driver had

to make an announcement telling you to shut the hell up

you didn’t even hear him

just went right on babbling about bowel movements

and stars wars and batman and target

and screamin’ nacho burgers and buffalo chips

i don’t want to say that there was a genuine sigh of relief

when you got off at thirteenth avenue

i’ll just say the bus got a ton quieter

and the driver no longer looked like 

he wanted to careen the bus into a wall

that is, at least until sixth avenue

when some asshole teenage girl got on the bus

blasting taylor swift songs from her smartphone

singing off-key for everyone

like she thought she was

going to be america’s next big shit.

                                                                       

poem of the day 08.23.16

an artist

matty doesn’t like

to be called an artist

don’t call me that! he shouts

markers in hand

a page full of rockets

and robots and monsters

the other kids say

but you are an artist

looking down at their lackluster flowers

and dogs and cats and flaming suns

and other scrawled banalities

matty says, stop it!

like they’re calling him fat

or a geek or a loser

i’m not an artist!

even the adults get into the act

oh, but look how good your rocket looks!

look at how real the airplane is

adults who have squandered their lives

in public schools, in colleges, in traffic

in conversations that are circular and go nowhere

at jobs that have belittled and bedeviled them

at every turn

who waste days online in social networks

or buying things that they don’t need

just to satiate the hunger of a failed existence

adults who would stone an artist

above the age of eighteen just for sport

because all beauty has been sucked out of them

you are an artist! they tell matty

much to his chagrin

pestering him about his talent

about having to do something with his talent

until he slams down the marker

tosses the crayolas in a pile

rips up his latest masterpiece

and throws it in the trash

before storming off into the afternoon

because matty already knows 

that people are liars

he knows what a load of horseshit

being called an artist in america

really is.

poem of the day 08.22.16

the lady exiting through the basement

the lady

exiting through

the basement

of the apartment building

gussied up

for a friday night in america

catches me

wild haired

unshaved

scratching my ass

dumping wine bottles galore

and six plastic vodka jugs

into the recyclable receptacles

stopping short

she stares at me

like i’m some strange

and unknown beast

then walks her tight little ass

out into the night

her perfume choking

the atmosphere

i think

i’m sure

she thinks

she knows me

better than

i think

i know

myself.

                                   

poem of the day 08.19.16

yet the sun doesn’t have

the courage to die

102 years old, she says to no one

my aunt, she says

she shakes the big picture she’s holding

only this isn’t her

this is my great-grandmother

she shows the whole bus her picture

my aunt died, she said

so i get this picture of great-grandma

wasn’t she beautiful?

didn’t we look alike?

a group of mexican day laborers

shake their heads in unison

muy hermosa, one shouts

before he goes back to sleeping in drywall dust

i’m sorry if i’m bothering you

she says, but i don’t know to who

but i’m very depressed

it’s hard going through somebody’s things

even if they died at 102 years old

even if you get to have this wonderful picture

she shows great-grandma around the bus again

and i got a jacket, she says

i got an old fur coat

i have it right in this bag here

but i’m very depressed, she says

it’s very depressing when someone dies

even though she had the courage to live 102 years

not many people can do that

how many people on this bus will see 102?

she looks around at the screaming kids

at the day laborers and tired mothers

at the girls singing along to songs

coming loudly off their cell phones

at the people trying to make it home from work

at a still reasonable hour

people who already look dead

didn’t we look alike? she says to me

she shows me the picture of her great-grandmother

of course she never saw 102, she says

not like my aunt

imagine that, she says to me

as i nod and turn away from the photo

to watch the sun as it starts to sink

behind one of the dull gray buildings lining the avenue

housing people who must

endure the rudiments of the day

for reasons they no longer understand

maybe for the few small moments of bliss

that come their way and make up a life

imagine 102 years and what that must feel like

all those years, she says to no one again

oh, it’s very depressing to talk about

oh, but this life, she says

it’s also such a miracle, right?

                                                

poem of the day 08.18.16

as if lucifer rose

 

sometimes getting drunk

in the middle of the day in a bar is all right

 

but instead i’m in the grocery line

the scent of last night’s vodka sniffing through my nose

 

stuck behind another cotton-headed abomination

 

someone’s mother yes

someone’s grandmother

 

far off into the cold, carnal distance of the past

maybe the erotic love of someone’s life

 

though i doubt it

 

she’s standing in the middle of the lane

questioning the cost of every item to the cashier

 

why does the yogurt cost so much?

why the lemonade?

give me back those apples

i’m going to have to think about them

 

i can’t even get my groceries

on the little conveyor belt because she won’t move

from her incredulous consumptive perch

 

this is a small problem, true

 

there are wars

there is suffering

 

somewhere a thirteen year old girl

is being forced into the submission

of an arranged marriage

 

how we have an orange-faced

racist maniac running for president

 

but this is my problem

 

and i think about bukowski and the shoelace

how it’ll be the small stuff that gets you in the end

not nuclear war or authoritarianism

 

or about how i’d still need to buy

toilet paper in the event of national socialism

 

this woman is my shoelace

 

checking the expiration on the milk for the third time

complaining about the cost of butter for the second time

leaving the line to go and get a bigger bag of rice

like she left the line to go and get some new apples

 

this is no bar in the middle of the afternoon

hiding in the dark, getting drunk

as assholes make their way outside in the sun

 

she is no human being

 

she’s a beast, standing there examining her receipt

so that the cashier can’t even ring up my shit

 

as if lucifer rose from hell

this fine summer day

to buy coffee on sale and some rotisserie chicken

 

or to screw with a guy like me

hungover and in need of seltzer

so he can go home and hit the bottle

 

make his world’s suffering end.

 

                                                           

 

 

poem of the day 08.17.16

bad ass bros carry beer cases up the street

bad ass bros carry beer cases

up the street

and i feel like death warmed over

sitting on a stalled bus in the sun

smelling my own stink

i watch them as they strut

with that confidence of youth

like they have their own soundtrack playing

shouting their bullshit at women

turning for the last glance of ass

swinging beer cases

like they’re filled with air

cigarettes dangling from their mouths

slapping five when they get a smile from some chick

bad ass bros carry beer cases

up the street

like wiry gilded gods in a city that was made

just for their pleasure

they don’t know about sitting on stalled buses

feeling like death warmed over

useless and aging

in the reflection of the hot summer sun

as kids cry and people shout into their phones

about wasted time in a wasted life

man….i hope they never do.

                                                           

poem of the day 08.16.16

the fans

there they are

disrupting the solace

of a pre-noon D train

bud light cans

wrapped in brown paper bags

like badasses

american flag wife beaters

and yankees jerseys

reflector shades and board shorts

their hats all on backwards

talking smack before the first pitch

their girlfriends

already bored and playing on cell phones

texting each other

over the cacophony of testosterone

in five hours

they’ll all be drunk

before the sun goes down

one will have vomited in a garbage can

outside of yankee stadium

green beer and processed meat

the girls will have run to the bathrooms

at least six times

tear streaked and accused

of sleeping with some guy behind

one of the bros’ back

they will have fought

or tried to have fought

a pack of dude who look just like them

but only in the other teams colors

no one will remember

what happened in the game

they’ll read the box score online tomorrow

before their 1 p.m. brunch

bacon and eggs

fruit cups for the girls

but mimosas all around

then plan on doing the same thing

next saturday afternoon

if the weather is nice

and the yankees

are still in town.

                                    

poem of the day 08.15.16

what was so important at the petco

that you had to almost mow me down

was it a last minute run on biscuits?

a new chew toy for fido

or some cheese flavored treats for the cat?

i’m curious, lady

what was so important at the petco

that you had to almost mow me down

right through that intersection

like you didn’t even care

i could see if you were on your cell phone

a dick move and highly illegal in these parts

at least that would make sense

but you were staring straight ahead

eyeball to eyeball with me

as if we were up on some telepathic shit

did you even see me jump?

what was so important at the petco

that you had to almost mow me down

a job interview? a rescue pet seminar?

a social justice protest giving it to corporations and the man?

at least the lady six blocks ago

was trying to make the yellow light

when she almost nailed me from the side

and the guy this morning, he didn’t even blanche

when i called him a miserable fucking fuck

for rolling through a four-way stop sign and almost drilling me

he knew what was up

maybe your favorite song was ending on the radio

but that still doesn’t make this right

you could say maybe i’m the one who

should’ve been more careful

but each time i was paying attention

who would’ve thought a tuesday

the perfect day for a veritable hat trick

of possible motor vehicle death for yours truly

christ, with people like you it makes one think

they’ve beaten the odds just by getting home and going to bed

so what was it?

what was so important at the petco

that you had to almost mow me down

make me step back on my toes and spin

like a fucking ballerina?

i’ll take anything at this point, bitch

20% off dog and cat food

a yankees jersey for rover and spot

a rabbit cage or a reptile for the kids

a murder/suicide pact that we’d

drunkenly made at a bar some time ago

anything

what was so important at the petco

that you had to almost mow me down

on a hot and humid august afternoon

like you were the only person

who mattered in the world

the only one with cash to burn

barreling through the dregs

of this scorched and stinking earth

almost upending both of our little lives

for good.

                                               

"best of" I hate summer poem of the day 08.12.16

last of these...next week we get back to the new and always mediocre

august blooms

as

august

blooms

i sit here

going mad

fighting

with

everyone

by

just trying

to keep

the peace

it’s

this city

the stink

of garbage

and sweat

driving

us all

to murder

i

need

something

verdant

like mountains

like a field of grass

oh

i need

something

to

sooth

this asphalt

heart of mine

                                                08.05.11

"best of" I hate summer poem of the day 08.11.16

nyc summer

hopscotching shady sides of the street

that i know better than train times

the sidewalks a mess of garbage strewn

the smell of rotten bananas, stale beer

dog shit, moldy cardboard and rancid meat

zigzagging fat tourists taking pictures

of ISIS landmarks and over-priced

dirty water dogs and pizza

tossing their trash to the pavement

because it seems like the thing to do here

new york, new york, like a sinatra song

times square lit up like a belligerent drunk

another nyc summer in the shit

where murder seems entirely plausible

the idea of spending years in corporate prisons

pounding ass, pounding patties for mcdonald’s

seems preferable to one more day on these streets

sweating for five hours straight

sweating from sun up to sun down

packed on work trains like cattle trains

singing the millennium blues to the homeless

waiting for the climate to change completely

burry all of this madness in the deluge of salt water

then nothing left to do here in gotham but

swim swim swim swim swim for the dollar.

                                                06.24.15

"best of" I hate summer poem of the day 08.10.16

it’s just summer coming again

the old bitch on the front stoop

playing her hate talk radio

into the humid air and sun

the neighbors talking on and on

about neighborhood gossip and the weather

their ugly dogs barking

into the infinite ugliness of the city

the basketball boys

rapping and laughing

telling basketball stories

about all of the pussy they’re getting

on a thursday night

while i sit in this room

hungry and alone

sick from work

nursing a bad stomach

stress and stale wine

sucking on a diet beer

to pass the time

it’s just summer coming again

like the shits or a bad flu

i tell myself

it’s just summer coming again

the way summers always come

it’s nothing

it’ll be over by september

that’s when the autumn rolls in

like hitler invading poland

with a smile on his face

                                                05.20.10

"best of" i hate summer poem of the day 08.09.16

hating the lawn chair people

they get on the bus

an old couple

followed by an ugly woman

and her ugly daughter

they are all holding lawn chairs

i watch them pay their fare

and find seats near the front of the bus

feeling an intense hatred for these people

pink fleshed

casual summer clothes

i wonder why

was i not raised right?

had i spent too much time

fat and alone as a child?

these are good citizens after all

an extended family out for the evening

taking in a free concert in the park

or a ballgame

they are doing what millions

of other americans are doing

passing these final summer days

but i cannot see that

i am some kind of repulsive man

a greasy-haired cretin with a hard-on

carrying two magnum bottles of wine

hoping to finish them that night

trying to forget the job and everything else

i look at these people

such dull expressions on their faces

such blank stares

the kind who participate in the current zeitgeist

the ones who feel an obligation to attend

every civic event

the ones who find it their duty to barbeque

every weekend between memorial day

and labor day

the ones who only have sex one way

the ones who vote republican or democrat

the ones who like to eat outside

with the sun setting in the sky

the ones who attend church

the god fearing

or the ones who are too hip for god

the ones who cannot go out without ten

of their closest friends

walking in tandem

the ones leading an un-examined life

the ones who watch thanksgiving day parades

the ones who drink imported coffee

the temperate ones

the ones who never go mad looking in the mirror

the ones satisfied with forty-hours a week

fifty-two weeks a year

one beer at the bar on a friday night

the ones who go to disneyland

on their only two weeks of salvation

the best seller readers

the ones who watch stand-up comedy and laugh

the reality television watchers

the ones who eat balanced meals

and go to bed before ten o’clock

the blockbuster movie watcher

and the art museum hags

these lawn chair people infesting the atmosphere

with carbon dioxide

polluting the earth with their smiles

there is no cure for them

they walk this rock like roaches

and the best that you can do is sit there watching

hating

your soul rotting into a black goop

that these psychos will one day use for oil

or energy to run an electric car

late for a picnic by a lake

of crystal blue water

smelling oddly of piss on a nice spring day.

                                                08.17.10

"best of" poem of the day 08.08.16

hello all

taking the week to put in some work on my next novel, which will hopefully
be the follow up to both The Librarian and Wine Clerk. so it's looking like a
"best of" week, but a thematic one. I hate summer and have written quite a few
poems expressing my displeasure at being sweaty and sick feeling while everyone
else seems to run around like a slap-happy asshole. so this week's "best of" will
all be about my long and abiding hatred of summer....and maybe i'll even sneak
a new one or so in.

as always thank you for reading.

jg

summer fair people

there they are

the bored and the dull

they come out every year at this time

to suck on fried dough and undercooked italian sausage

to listen to terrible bands playing bad cover jams

the fat mothers and fat fathers munching kettle corn

their fat children bouncing around

in inflatable rooms that look ready to burst

teenage boys ready to pop the cherries of teenage girls

the dozens of happy young couples

eating dripping ice cream cones

pushing around wailing children in the humidity and heat

the old soldiers with their wwii and vietnam frocks

stumbling down the dirty block to drums that are off beat

the locals drunks coming out of local watering holes

leaning into corners to watch the action

they are all here sweating and dying

taking a respite from work and each other

watching the hot dog and pizza eating contests
that still bear witness to american gluttony

and the tepid might of our ever-dwindling spending dollar

laughing as their children vomit

from ancient spinning rides that look more

like torture devices than amusement

all of these slap-happy summer fair people

with this month’s catch phrase

plastered along their wide bellies and wide asses

the good citizens eating more shit that they

can shove in their faces

the good neighbors buying more shit

to sell to everyone at next year’s yard sale

the whole community walking around like grinning zombies

with balloon animals strapped to their heads

taking photos with corporate fast food mascots

and politicians who are just as swarthy and deceptive

be careful or you’ll end up just like them

waddling around drinking two gallon sodas

farting and burping and pissing the american dream

mad slow and stupid on fat sugar and salt

as the pigeons and rats and the homeless look on

waiting for it all to end again

so that they can finally feast

on all of this seasonal bounty.

                                                06.05.14

poem of the day 08.05.16

the robbers

my wife and i joke sometimes

about what would happen

if our apartment got robbed

of course, this is no laughing matter

but what would the robbers think

if they waltzed into our place with its 26-inch tv

that you can’t even watch foreign films on

because the subtitles are so tiny

the vcr/dvd combo for christ’s sake

cd in stacks like ancient roman ruins

and books…goddamned books everywhere

the tech: a pc and laptop, both six years old

little jewelry on hand and clothing fraying at the seams

t-shirt and socks heading toward a decade

no cash on the premise

and a seventeen year old cat

who’s random shit piles they might step on

as they case the joint

what would these thieves even take?

expired light beer and jug vodka in the fridge

half-empty ice cube trays and questionable sour cream

original art in yellowing stacks on cardboard desks

that the shitty poetry mags don’t even want

the action figures taken out of the packages

those poor burglars

picking the one apartment in all of brooklyn

whose whole life is one obsolete technology after another

all of that expert criminal activity wasted on this?

sitting here now, feeling like a luddite, a relic

i wonder how it is that we even live here

how maybe we should go out and get the latest technology

smartphones and ipads and fitbits

and watches we can talk into like spies

devices that will wash us and brush our teeth

a sixty-five inch LED smart television

that tracks what we watch

a blue-ray combo that streams like a mighty river

go top shelf and buy prepared meals online

update the wardrobe and go name brand

stuff some cash in between the couch cushions

get a boutique pet or even cable

go on a real, honest to goodness

credit card bloating, downhome american shopping spree

get drunk and go to bed with the doors wide open

to this crazy sweltering city

and see what happens

a vile purloining of all of our new fancy possessions

or just waking up the next day

feeling hungover and  hollow

like something else much more dear to us

had been lifted and taken

                                                

poem of the day 08.04.16

percy shelley never did this

i’m sure at first

the doctor thought that it might be a v.d.

the way he asked me what it was

that i’d been up to down there at the beach

i was eighteen and in massive testicular pain

but i still felt suave and virile at the suggestion

i wasn’t a complete eyesore i hope you know

but alas i’d come home a wounded soldier and a virgin

the only action i’d gotten down there

was madeline kahn’s cleavage in young frankenstein

as i rolled around on a dirty couch in agony

wondering what in the hell was wrong with my nuts

while my friends slept soundly in their beds

dreaming the kind of ass they’d try and get the next day

or maybe a vein is twisted, doctor feelgood said

it happens to some guys your age

a little procedure and you’ll be good as new

i didn’t like the word procedure

it was an old person’s word

and i felt ungainly and impotent at the very idea

but he put me under anyway

and they had the devil’s time trying to wake me back up

i could feel their slaps, the tugging on the eyelids

john…john…john….until i drifted out again

when i finally came to

it was only me and the parents in the recovery room

took your one testicle, the old man said

like it was matter of fact

and i felt sickened and emasculated at the notion

but you can still have kids, my mom added hopefully

you know, with the other one

like that was some kind of comfort

like half a set of balls were being chopped off all the time

i wanted to spring from the bed and get the hell out of there

just in case they started removing other body parts

the butchers

but i was still too doped up and sore to flee

as my parents talked to me

about treatment and the nice weather we were having

i laid there trying to think about sunsets and sand

the soft curves of tanned flesh

instead of doctor frankenstein somewhere in the hospital

tossing away a suddenly useless body part

from this new monster that he’d created.                                

poem of the day 08.03.16

that guy

maybe

i want to be that guy

just like you are

the one who bursts into the room

breaking the cultural malaise

shouting into the cavernous zeitgeist

look, people, we’ve got real problems here

but i lost a writing morning to a bad hangover

or i was still drunk, you can’t tell sometimes

the presidential race has given me the blues, man

that reality tv star with the big ass

got a new haircut and i can’t stop reading about it

or looking at her naked on the internet

the sports team that i used to like

just dropped three to the fourth place team

all the food that i eat is bland

all the music that i hear is dull

and last week the weather topped out at 90 degrees every day

there’s nowhere good to travel

the bars have failed me for the last time

the job has got me by the balls again

and some nights i lay there in bed

and wonder what could go wrong next

like more sickness or even death

the cat keeps shitting on the floor

signing her own death warrant with each stringy pile

and the maid must be on strike

because the vodka glasses were left sitting

on the coffee table again, stuck in the dark circle of a wine stain

i can no longer remember my dreams

i no longer have dreams

just a series of hours, days, weeks, and years

and the gray hair keeps coming by the bushel

yeah i’d like to be that guy

just like you, buddy

the complete and total altruistic consciousness

the one who runs into the room

cutting people off in the middle of some complaint

to shout look, we’ve got real problems here

then start going in about climate change and war

the economy and international terrorism

as if we did not know

as if we didn’t know

but both of my knees hurt all of the time

and i got this rash on my chest that won’t cease

i’m out of creamer for my coffee

and the milk has expired

plus i never liked a guy like that anyway.                                    

poem of the day 08.02.16

upon watching bruce conner’s

breakaway video for the third time

still i stand there and think

toni basil at age 23 in 1966

and where in the hell did she come from?

having only known her from the mickey video

when i was a kid being weaned on MTV

toni basil in black bra in black pants

cut suggestively in ovals of flesh all over her

she winks then preens for the camera

fingers on lips, wide-eyed with heavy mascara

a mop of raven hair nesting on her head

her mouth an “o” of suggestion

as if wondering how you’ve come across her

in this shadowy room

and when the dance comes on

it’s this cyclone of northern soul

toni basil at age 23 in 1966

the way she moves

now in nothing but a white slip

spinning and gyrating

pirouetting herself into nausea

the camera slowing for her to look smoldering

but vulnerable too and dizzy into its lens

the mark of suggestion gone

the raven hair a wet mop, the mascara running

before we are gone again

dancing into the thunder of music, drums and bass

the slip becoming panties and tits then suddenly naked

toni basil at age 23 in 1966

jumping in and out of the camera

her cunt a jungle of black hair untamed

i blush like a high school boy

this time machine from fifty years ago

get thee to a nunnery

get me to a room of one’s own

as the film begin in reverse

toni basil at age 23 in 1966

moving in backward motion

jumping back from jumping forward

redressing the scene until we are back and preening

and innocent together almost once again

toni basil at age 23 in 1966

she winks at the camera

but i fool myself that she’s breathing just for me.                      

poem of the day 08.01.16

if i remember

if i remember

what book it was that i was reading

that can symbolize a good night

or what movie

what tv show my wife and i were binge watching

call it a success

then it means the drink

hasn’t gotten to me too much

a rabbit hole i have yet to fall down completely

although i’m always dangling over

that soused ring of hell

if i remember

what we had for dinner

that the door is locked

the oven off and the windows closed

the goddamned lights off

then i can rest easy in bed

with the scent of vodka and wine

lulling me to sleep

subtly underneath the mint of toothpaste

if i remember

what it was i was thinking about

proust or maybe a nude actress

music my wife and i were obsessing over

if we fed the cat

gave her the meds that she needs

to keep her alive and crying and shitting on the floor

and slipping us slowly into madness

then i’m solid

no rehab ala amy winehouse for me

no intervention with the folks and old friends

just another round on the house

if i remember that we did not fight

that peace has reigned

or if i can recall the argument

point by point by illogical point that i made

then it’s all good in the hood over here

if i remember

that i didn’t not shout out the window at neighbors

at people sitting in cars texting and blasting bass

that there is art in this world

away from all the bloodshed and strife

and noise and disease

the violent malaise this country

is perpetually caught under

that there is beauty

that i have yet to discover

what does it matter

if i lay bleary in the dark after doing the damage

eyes wide open and booze-soaked

my wife asleep on my chest

me trying to make out the figures

of inanimate objects in our room

like celestial bodies

hiding beneath the pink night of city skies

if i remember

that i am human

that i will die soon

that everything in this world that i truly care about

will one day turn to dust

or just be gone

then what is there to fear?

hangovers and jobs?

thermonuclear explosions in the sky?

surely not this blank page staring back at me

6:10 in the morning

waiting to be filled with words

that are harder to find the more i age

that i have stuck somewhere in my back pages

blocked back like a clogged sink

or

if only i remember

what they are.