poem of the day 07.24.12

welsh pub, sunday afternoon

the guy sitting next to me

looks a little bit like the last president

only he has a moustache

he’s a good old boy though

in his stained white t-shirt and shorts

sucking aluminum bottles of bud light

while shouting invective

at the mets game on television

he can’t be the last president, i reason

that nut gave up the drinking and carousing years ago

found god and war for all of us

and set the national dial back fifty years

what would he be doing in no man’s land brooklyn

on a boring sunday afternoon?

watching the mets no less

but i’ll be damned if it isn’t him

that same wave of stiff gray hair

those clueless, squinty eyes peering at the idiot box

maybe if i played hail to the chief on the juke

he’d come to

drop the everyman act and stiffen

his sense of duty in these trying times

overwhelming his being incognito

or maybe he’d at least buy a round

but why take the chance?

there’s no point in get him all worked up

it never ends well when he gets nuts

plus i have a wallet full of money

so i don’t need his charity

if it is ol’ dubya isn’t he better off in this joint

where he can’t do any more damage to the country

than he’s already done?

two wars that are still raging

recession and debt that have lingered

the federal ban on assault weapons ending

under his watch

and another shooting on another american weekend

taking up the national consciousness

i think it’s best to just let him drink

the poor guy is probably racked with guilt

going a bit heavy on the conscience

but then one of the mets hits a single

mr. president screams

shoots down the rest of his beer

in one gulp

he shakes his bottle at the bored bartender

and says, hey sweetshit, how about another?

and i know

that he’s just as clueless

about this country

as he’s always been.

                                               

poem of the day 07.23.12

standard american tragedy

it happens like clockwork

after every standard american tragedy

a group of faceless tough guys line up

to tell everyone how different

it would’ve been

had they been there

there is really nothing one can do

about these types

except ignore them or let them talk

hope some lunatic with a gun

finds out where they hang

the next time this shit

comes around.

                      

poem of the day 07.18.12

the rich fiction writer

the rich fiction writer

has written another novel

it’s been six years since his last one

oddly enough the world has managed to spin on

the rich fiction writer

writes careful, boring prose

he writes like he has decades

in order to finish a sentence

reading one of his books

is as exciting as walking down the street

to fetch the sunday newspaper

there’s no rock and roll in his words

but the rich fiction writer

doesn’t need rock and roll

he’s won both the pen/faulkner award and the pulitzer

and one time he spit on a crtic

to some, he is rock and roll

it doesn’t matter to him

that a guy like me has to read his books

with a bottle of pepto and a garbage can by his side

i’m not his target demographic

yet the rich fiction writer

sits on my coffee table

peering at me through steel blue eyes

and a denim work shirt

i struggle with him as i would

a tough morning shit

ready to cry out mercy at the end of each page

only i can’t think of anything better to read

on another hot and muggy july night.                             

poemS of the day 07.04.12

the american flag is ugly

the american flag is ugly

and so am i

sitting at this work desk

surrounded by everyone dressed

in red, white, and blue

they love to antagonize me with this shit

really think that it gets my goat

they start singing

oh beautiful

but can’t remember the words

show me search engines decked out

for the holiday

smirk at me and say

well, what do you think of that?

i tell them that it simply confirms so much

of what i already believe

i stop short of calling them

ugly americans

after all, i have to put in forty hours a week here

so i hum some woody guthrie instead

still they keep it up

don’t you like hot dogs? they ask

hamburgers?

cold beer and good old american barbeques?

i tell them when it rains on the fourth of july

i get a happy feeling in my heart

i shut the blinds

drink chilean wine and eat indian food

watch films with subtitles colored blood red

but all they want to talk about are fireworks

the pretty colors exploding in the sky

and shattering across the landscape

killing thousands of birds

just like back in 1776

they say

equating a call for independence

with the end of the war

that ancient battle

the struggle that the french won for us

only no one here

seems to want to talk about that.

booze cruise

he was a nothing

a bit player in this place

before the new owners gave it the once over

and changed its name

he sat around with puppy dog eyes

clutching a sweating bottle of bud

looking for a conversation

he could weasel his way into

but now none of the old drunks come in here

he’s got his big boy pants on

and he’s the king of the bar

stuffing his fat ass into a prime seat

playing the star-spangled banner on the jukebox

a lackluster version of a lackluster song

sung by some nashville princess

with blonde hair and a botox face

when we sit down he swills half of his bottle

and gives us the once over

the nod of recognition

points at the chalk board behind the bar

says, are youse guys goin’ta tha booze cruise

on the fourth of july?

i don’t even know what the booze cruise is, i tell him

hoping that’ll end it

but it doesn’t

you pay eighty-bucks, he continues

get all of the free booze you want

take the boat right into the harbor

get so close to the fireworks and the other action

that you can almost see right up lady liberty’s skirt

he stops talking and smiles at us

checks to see if we’re taking it all in

then says

now tell me something more american than that?

before he waddles off of his stool

to play god bless america on the juke

turning back to wink at us

i look at this true blue slob and think

you, buddy,

nothing is more american than you.

                                                                        

                                                            

poem of the day 07.03.12

under the tuscan sundress

she looks like one of those cinematic

raven haired italian chicks

created to stop the heart

but she’s speaking pigeon english to the boy

across from her

pressing her purple sundress

talking about the university

as he rubs her ankles

kisses her feet

occasionally she’ll look over to me

and smirk in an unkind way

frown or furrow her brow

it’s okay, i think

i know she knows that i’m the ugly american

on this train

spoiling the tuscan landscape

with my baseball cap and mcdonald’s bag

but i’m too tired to try and act like i belong

it’s too taxing to try and hide oneself in europe

all of the time

to not be so american on these ancient streets

when that poison oozes so easily

out of every pore

let her look

let her talk that college talk to her boy

as vineyards

and homes tucked into green mountains

roll by the train window

let this girl think what she wants to think about me

anything she wants

just so long as she doesn’t put her knee down

because this chick isn’t wearing

any underwear

and i’ve been staring at her cunt since rome

memorizing its twirl of hair

its every contour

the way an art scholar would

the david

the sistine chapel

caravaggio’s the calling of st. matthew

or any of that other shit

that i came to this country

to see.