Monday, September 26, 2011


WineDrunk SideWalk will be on a little boozy break
until Monday, October 3rd.


Thursday, September 22, 2011

poem of the day 09.22.11


from the
slice on my thumb
from the
dying cat’s nose
on the floor
blood on the wall
of the cockroach
on a paper towel
blood in the food
blood on the couch
of the housefly
smeared on the window
on the dusty sill
blood on tv
blood at the movies
on the internet
blood in the great books
blood in the dirt
in the history books
on the sport’s fields
blood dripping
from this drunken pen
centuries of blood
on human soil
war blood
senseless blood
nationalistic blood
running through
the veins
blue blood
un-oxidized suffering
for the masses
blood in my eyes
for you baby
i got a knife right here
just waiting
for the first

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

poem of the day 09.21.11


on her nose
the window sill
the kitchen
and crimson
my wife
under the light
in order
to wipe away
the red
and snot
while i
such a
tough man
pet her head
cry torrents
of tears
remember her
a kitten
out of the carrier
all of those
years ago
that seem
this animal’s eyes
that we’re losing
this battle

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

poem of the day 09.20.11


i tease my co-worker’s
little girl

draw pictures
with ugly faces
and tell her

that’s you

then i get all
w.c. fields on her
and say

go away kid
you bother me

which makes her laugh

she says to me

i want more pictures

i’m going to tell
your boss
that you called him

the f-word

unless you draw
me more pictures

this little blackmailer

they start them so young
i think

as she walks toward
the boss’ office

making me sweat

until i realize
that he has
today off.

Monday, September 19, 2011

poem of the day 09.19.11


the cat is mad
because i won’t let her lay on me
she paces back and forth
wailing and wailing, waiting for her comeuppance

the wife is mad
because i yell about poetry
threaten booze soaked suicide
and ruin the few hours that we get together
on these hurried weekends

the mailman is still mad
about not getting a christmas tip last year
so the bills and magazines arrive wrinkled
and torn

the cockroaches are mad
because the floor is mopped
of food and old wine
because the walls have be caulked and sealed
from their constant barrage

the cable box is mad so it stopped working

old friend
in old cities
mad because i won’t accept their kind of god
because their idea of country
has never been good enough for me

the american flag is mad at the world
so it drops bombs and bankruptcy

the bar drunks are mad
wasting sunday afternoons
talking to old ladies perched on rotten wood stools
instead of slinging salted insults at each other
in between downs of the game of the week

the president is mad at his sagging approval ratings

the poetry rags are mad too
because the word is not up to snuff
because they have to sift through mountains
and mountains of bullshit for one decent line

the landlord is mad
because the rent check got lost in the mail

the garbage men are mad
at their big salaries and ample pensions
so they leave trash strewn all over the street

the co-workers are mad
at the ceaseless hours revolving
on the slowly moving cock

the teachers are so mad that they cannot teach

the children are mad
because they are learning that there is
really nothing to look forward to
because they will ultimately become their parents
and suffer the insults of adulthood

the ballplayers are mad at another losing season

and the artists are mad
because there is nothing there
for them to paint

the people are mad
because there are no jobs
because they are losing homes and bank accounts
because there is no one left to lead

they are mad because the dream has failed them

days like today
where the sun shines the brightest in this hell
it seems as though the whole world
is mad about something or another

you’re mad at me
and i’m mad at you
as we sit here on the common couch
with four walls staring back at us

searching for a different kind of anger
to crystalize our hatred anew.

Friday, September 16, 2011

poem of the day 09.16.11

if i were this bus driver

if i were this bus driver
i wouldn’t be standing here now

coming home late from work again
carrying two bottles of wine
on another packed, rush hour cattle car

smelling some fat woman’s crotch sweat
as she screams into her cell phone

or i wouldn’t be dodging
little mexican day laborers
as they fight each other for seats

if i were this bus driver
i wouldn’t be looking at that tired woman’s legs

the one who knows that she’s getting older
but still seems pretty well put together

the one who keeps looking around
thinking that some single man
is going to give her his seat
whenever she shakes her ass

(okay maybe i’d give her my seat
provided i ever got a seat that is)

if i were this bus driver right now
i’d be sitting in the front of the bus with the radio on

telling people to get behind the white line
unless they wanted to crash through the front window
if the bus is forced to stop

i’d be in charge of this whole motherfucking thing

wearing reflector sunglasses
so that all of these plebeians knew who was boss

of course, i’d still be at work
and i’d be dealing with brooklyn traffic

i wouldn’t be on my way home
to drink this wine and sit on the couch
with the radio on

but if i were this bus driver
i wouldn’t be here now dealing
with loud teenagers fighting over phones

or being forced to listen to this man’s metal music
coming out of the asshole’s earbuds

i wouldn’t want to strangle that kid
who keeps kicking my bottles and crying

i wouldn’t be late for this or that
but would keep to a schedule that mostly works for me

i’d have a better salary and pension

maybe an apartment where the bugs
didn’t come through the cracks in the floor

and the flies didn’t come through
the rips in the screens

if i were only this bus driver
i think that maybe my life would be
a little bit better

even if i had to wear that stupid uniform

or work third shift

or put up with all of these people
sweating and angry and crowded together

if i were this bus driver
i’d be a separate entity from the hoi polloi

i’d rise above it


Wednesday, September 14, 2011

poem of the day 09.14.11

but she looked like my mother

it seems like forever and always
that i’m getting on this bus
after having my ass kicked by the day
having gnats and other bugs circling
waiting for the flaking skin to fall off

a man grows tired of a life like this
especially with so many more of them to go

she was in the back of the bus
on the edge of her seat
just waiting for someone like me to sit down

she looked like my mother

of course she starts talking to me
the minute i put my tired bones in a seat

told me that she was lost in brooklyn
after a day of september 11th events in manhattan

someone had told her to take the r train
but the r train led her down here
into subterranean new york

so someone else told her to take this bus

it was a long story and i didn’t really feel
like listening to her
because i’d been listening to people
since nine-thirty that morning

but she looked like my mother
so i let her talk to me as the bus carried us
along the potholed brooklyn streets

i could tell by the accent that she wasn’t
from around here

she was from rochester, new york
she was wearing a one piece floral outfit

with a red cross visor full of world trade center pins
and had her blonde gray hair in a ponytail
which made her look just like my mother
which got me to thinking about if my mother
got lost in brooklyn after some 9/11 rally

because that’s just the sort of thing she’d come to
if she came to new york city in september

this lady talked to me about rochester
and 9/11 and the new terrorist threats
how they were checking cars on all of the bridges
checking bags in the subway

i’d grown so tired of hearing about
this stuff in the last ten years

but she looked just like my mother
so it was fine if she wanted to talk about such things

i kept telling her that we were getting closer to her stop
i told her to get off of the bus when i did

it was the most conversation that i could make
after another work day

after having some old asshole friend delete me
on his social network page
because i made fun of his god and country again

and i thought, shit, if he could see me now
helping this lady who looked just like my mother
maybe he wouldn’t have been such a douche about the jesus thing

maybe he would’ve realized that you didn’t have
to plop your ass on a church pew every week
of fly flags just to prove that you were a decent human being

but then i decided fuck him
who needed a cocksucker like that in my life anyway

besides i had this lady now
who really looked just like my mother
and she was my responsibility

so when the bus got to our stop
she started looking around the street
more lost than she seemed only moments ago
i knew that i couldn’t leave this lady
just stranded there on 4th avenue

so i started walking her down to her hotel
and, christ, if she didn’t move slowly

she started talking to me about her hip replacement surgery
and about the doctors in rochester
about how tired she was walking manhattan
with a bum hip
doing all of that 9/11 stuff while hobbling around

i felt bad because over the years i guess
i’ve become a new yorker

i walk pretty fast

i was about half a block ahead of this lady
telling her not to worry about how slow she was moving

i told her that it was all right
even though i knew my wife would be getting worried

but she looked like my mother
so i figured when i got home, i would tell my wife this
she would see that i didn’t die in any terrorist attack
that i wasn’t mugged or murdered
on these ever desperate streets

that the work world hadn’t swallowed me whole

but that i was just being a decent human being for a change
taking time out of my life to help someone

someone who happened to look just like my mother
find her way somewhere concrete

in this city full of questions without answers
and broken, battered, beaten down
old dusty dead dreams.

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

poem of the day 09.13.11


this kid
for blocks on end
as his mother
does nothing to stop it
has no clue
what he’s
in for
when he
one day
grows up
and steps into
ever sobbing shoes

…provided i
don’t turn around
and kill him

Monday, September 12, 2011

poem of the day 09.12.11

got god

they’ve got god
so there’s no talking to them

they’ve got the moral high ground

they’ve got god
and country on their side

so there is no discussion
there is no debate

not with god in their corner
not with those wheat fields waving in their eyes

these weak and foolish people
these human wastes
these flagellating dogmatists

the ones who used to eat, drink, and be merry
the ones who used to sit side by side in strip clubs
putting dollar bill promises
down the front of golden g-strings

the ones who made
early morning runs to porn shops
for drunken jackoff sessions
before they went to bed

they’ve got god now
so there are no more prostitutes

there are no more midnight blowjobs
in church parking lots
with statues of jesus looking down

there are no more drugs
no more glorious beer hangovers

just must see tv

because they’re hanging out with god
congregating with the like minded

they’ve shit out a few kids
and now they’re pledging allegiance

getting angry protests together
taking out anyone with a dissenting opinion

they’ve been brainwashed

but it’s all right
because they’ve got god

they’ve been damned
and they don’t even know it

but it’s okay
because they put out a flag
every independence day

these poor pious idiots
these humorless sycophants

the ones who are on the highway
every morning like you and me

the ones praying for you
with their corrupt words

the ones sweating at the brow
waiting on the next life

those blessed jesters
who’ve got so much god on their side

they no longer have to think.

Friday, September 9, 2011

poem of the day 09.09.11

could’ve been a todd

you could’ve been a todd
my old man tells me from time to time

like it’s a threat

i wanted to name you todd, but your mother….

i find this bizarre
knowing that i could’ve gone by another name

for better or worse i’ve grown accustomed to my own
and at times i’m happy to respond to it

but todd?

i’ve known a couple of todds in my day
both were rather bland, lifeless blobs of flesh

i wonder if i would’ve been the same way
as if a name had something to do
with the shape of my character

or i’m curious if, as todd, i would’ve
handled things differently in my life

like not have overeaten too much as a child
to compensate for some deficiency resting deep inside of me

made more friends instead sitting alone in my bedroom
constructing my own walls and abject hell

todd seems like the kind of guy
who would’ve gone out for every kind of sport
made the honor roll
had a lot of girlfriends and gone to the prom

maybe as todd
i would’ve gotten a better job right out of college
and paid my student loans back on time
instead of running from responsibility for years and years
working the most mundane of jobs
letting the interest accrue on my life

i think that todd would’ve bought a car with a sun roof
and a house in the suburbs with a two car garage
two plus kids, couple of dogs, and big ass swimming pool

he sounds the kind of guy who’d happily
spend his sunday afternoons
writing monthly checks for such creature comforts
instead of killing cockroaches
and thinking of putting a gun to his head

or would todd have bounced from city to city
from job to job and apartment to apartment

just like i did

honestly believing that a change of scenery
would really make things any better in his fucked up mind?

todd sounds like the kind of sturdy guy
who would’ve stayed in one place
sucked in his chest and made the best of it

maybe he would’ve seen a shrink
or joined a bowling league

would i have even met my wife with this kind of name?

she seems too awesome to be married to someone named todd
tethered to some khaki pants wearing douche bag
who wants to barbeque with the neighbors
on a saturday afternoon
instead of lay in bed all day and drink wine

shit, if were todd i probably would’ve ended up
with some materialistic bitch
fucking her boss behind my back
while i blissfully turned my cheek
and watched television every evening

would i have become such a drunk if my name were todd?

certainly anyone named todd has good cause to drink

except for todd moore
because he was just fucking cool

but as todd would it really make sense for me
to spend each night pouring liters of poison into my system
trying to dull the pain of existence

cutting away at years that i haven’t had the privilege to spend yet?

would todd have lost weekends to wine and beer
because he just didn’t give a fuck anymore?

he just doesn’t seem like the kind of guy
who’d have gotten intimate with too many toilet bowls
after a weeklong bender
brought on by staring into the abyss of his own personal disgust

i don’t think i’d want to wish that kind of fate
on a guy like todd

a guy with a soft handshake
who has a smile for everyone

no, that fate belongs to someone else

to the guy sitting here writing this

to someone certainly tougher than a guy named todd

Thursday, September 8, 2011

poem of the day 09.08.11

west nile blues

he comes in from the rain
from some city organization
that he has plastered on his t-shirt
says that he has to put nets up
on the fences
checks his clipboard
and tells me that there have been
reports of a high concentration
of mosquitos in the area
which means what? i ask
but he just looks at me
he tells me that he’ll come by tomorrow
to take the nets down
the nets, he says, will give him
a good sample from some unlucky bug
and then we’ll see
about our little problem
this fucking city, i think
bed bugs and mosquitos
cockroaches and flies
piss and shit floating down the river
garbage lining the sidewalk
seven days a week
the apocalypse is happening right now
under our noses
it is no longer human to live in this city
then he goes back out into the rain
the rain is almost biblical today
driving sideways and flooding the streets
he gets into his van
and lights a cigarette
while i stand there
looking out into the gray
he keeps his windows closed
while i stand there
starting to itch all over
trying my best to think
of somewhere else other than
new york city
and the continent of africa

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

poem of the day 09.07.11

precious little girl

precious little girl

precious coal-eyed niece

fire child
sun goddess


hello, i’m your
stubborn uncle

aries to the max

soaking wet
from the rain

drunk and alone

in a brooklyn bar
that’s playing songs from when
i was young

strung out
and tired

done with this world

on the stormy night after you
were born.

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

poem of the day 09.06.11

cockroaches hide the sun

there are cockroaches
all over this place
coming in through the cracked walls
moving across the dirty bathroom
bloated on the soap scum in the shower
hiding in the rusty bowels of the sink

there are enough
cockroaches in here
to start an army

there are cockroaches
swinging on the dark curtains
lingering on illuminated computer screens
waiting by the cat food
getting the daily paper and mail
and shoving them under the front door

there are enough
cockroaches in here
to blot out the moon

there are cockroaches in the coffee
doing back flips in the sugar
listening to their favorite song on the radio
cockroaches not paying the rent
using up my watercolors and acrylics
for their silly little art

there are enough
cockroaches in here
to have a quorum and vote me out

there are cockroaches
cozying up the ants
whispering to the flies
lining up the water bugs in an old bucket
calling up the dust mites and maggots
betting on the bed bugs to strike

there are enough
cockroaches in here
to hide the sun.

Monday, September 5, 2011

poem of the day 09.05.11

mandatory meeting

sitting in an
redundancy trap
i look out the window
just beyond the dull
of the speaker
and watch
the new york trees
sway green and brown
beneath the iron and concrete
thinking of all of those
that i’m leading
waiting for me to get free
and safely
back to them
once this
of repetitious
and falsely

Thursday, September 1, 2011

poem of the day 09.01.11

bag of bones

she is a bag of bones

i touch the hard nodules
on her spine

a bag of bones

but she is mine

and she is dying
as the summer is dying

sneezing and losing weight

becoming less and less of a cat

her hair frayed
her eyes pink and watery
her teeth rotting

snot drying in her nose

her brittle body resting by the warm
engine of the refrigerator

she is a bag of bones
and she is mine

but there is nothing i can do for her

except run more tests
and more tests

done only to satisfy myself
done only to keep her
in my gray world a little bit longer

so there is nothing left
but to love this bag of bones

this sweet kitten

my old girl

rub her ears
bless the nodules
clean the snot
and comb the hair

keep her safe and warm

full bellied
as best as i can

as the life seeps slowly
out of her

taking a small part
of mine too

with each passing
expectant day

that we still have together
on this incomprehensible