Friday, October 31, 2014

poem of the day 10.31.14


a nightmare before christmas

jaws kept walking around
the front of the store

he said, you missed a spot…there
….and….there

then i’d have to bring the mop back from the stockroom
and do the whole section over again

jaw said, don’t look so angry
there are tons of kids who’d like your job

he sipped his coffee
jaws drank coffee all-day
talked close with his coffee breath

he said, besides we’re paying you for this
and with the holidays coming
i have money in the budget for over-time

you want over-time dontcha?

when i didn’t nod or answer
he leaned over the counter and said
that section could use a good mopping
…and….that section back there
which he couldn’t even see from where he was

so that was the night
that was halloween

me mopping and sweeping for some asshole
after chasing costumed thugs around the store
giving candy to crying brats
and having a fleet of scantily clad girls saunter by
in cat suits and maid uniforms
to look around while jaws harangued me
for the way that i looked

pull up your pants
shave your face
cut your hair

his haiku of complaint chasing the chicks
who wouldn’t even take a snickers from my hands

and outside in the world my friends were somewhere
with girls they’d met in the food court
waiting for me to get out of this hell

do you think the jerseys need to be steamed? jaws asked
while i continued silently swabbing the deck

he looked at his watch
should i have you steam them or not?
then he stared off into the distance
of a lane bryant across the mall
as if contemplating some great philosophy

to steam or not to steam?
that was the question

but good old jaws kept me like he always did
a good ten minutes after my shift
but not enough to pay me for it

and as i walked out of the store and into the mall
men who had it worse than i
were taking down the halloween decorations
and were putting up the christmas ones

for a moment
it was a sea of orange and black
and red and green and white

a spectacle of commerce so ugly i couldn’t find the words

but just went out to the car
disgusted with everything
deep down inside of me knowing that jaws
would be the first of dozens of bad bosses to come

i had a cigarette
and thought about the friends that i wasn’t going to meet
and those pictures of jaws’ wife in a bikini
the ones he had posted in his locker from their trip to aruba

while three kids dressed as devils
kept pulling on the cat lady’s tail
as she screamed
stop!
stop!
while the maid hit them with her candy basket

and the month of october died again
like it always did for me
with a bit of sadness and regret

making its way for the yuletide
eventual thanksgivings and christmases

black friday america
full of a bunch of bloated, spirited pricks
in santa hats

ready to kill each other
over a premium parking space

and a dollar off
some ugly sweater
made for them with love

from the good folks
in bangladesh and china

                                                            


Thursday, October 30, 2014

poem of the day 10.30.14


they got their man

caught him
lying to the FBI

up to eight years on two counts

just a dumb kid in the wrong place
at the wrong time

a twenty year old high on weed

as his friends hauled out the computers and firework tubes
of the two clowns who blew them all away down in boston

he could’ve helped the feds out, they said

played ball
cried uncle
when they stormed his dorm room

except he lied to some of the biggest liars in the nation

concealed when he could’ve assisted
committed the cardinal sin of having no grace under pressure

but now he’s giving them so much more

that mendacious little prick
with the a foreign sounding name

who picked the wrong kind of friends
who got high at the worst of times

eight years of his life on two counts

another scapegoat
in a long line of scapegoats

locked away so that the rest of us
shining examples of sincerity

can continue to sleep
comfortably at night.

                                                           

Wednesday, October 29, 2014

poem of the day 10.29.14


homophobe in the night

bored
with the bar scene
bored
with the clubs
and the women who never
talk to you
unless they’re
asking you to buy them drinks
you and calvin
and steve
racing down liberty avenue
toward the
all-night porn shop
hoping to select something
good
to give yourself
your own happy ending
when you get
home alone
and there she is
by an alleyway
six foot tall
gold mini-skirt
hiked up to her crotch
thick thighs
a mound of unruly hair
black as the goddamned night
and when she says
any of you looking for a good time?
the three of you stop
consider her for a moment
see that she
has an adam’s apple
think
but, still, it’s been so long since i…
before you say no
as calvin and steve
continue running
and you
slink off toward the porn shop
with a little less
spring
in your step.

Tuesday, October 28, 2014

poem of the day 10.28.14


almost throwing a beer bottle
at the famous hockey players head

it was another night of no action
the bar, the clubs in pittsburgh giving me no quarter
toward my helpless desire

we were out with steve’s sister, elena
at some over-thirty joint on the allegheny river

she’d been prick-teasing me all night
because steve told her that i had the hots for her
because she was newly divorced and newly blonde
and wanted to feel good about herself for a change

come dancing with me, elena said
we went onto the floor and she shimmed her ass to me
giving me a wink and a taste
before slinking away into the crowd

her thirty-five to my twenty-two years of naivety
just standing there under the purple fluorescents
wondering what the hell

watching boob jobs and face lifts and hair dye mingle
with men still sporting earrings

george rubio had a bottle of goldschlager in his car
so we went outside to drink it

the dead of winter and three slugs in
we were already taking off our coats and hats
telling tall tales about elena
you know, if either of us ever got the chance

back in the bar we ordered two over-priced beers
to chase the booze

it seemed like half the place had cleared
but really almost everyone was packed into one corner
where the hot-shit hockey player and his entourage
we standing with drinks
pointing around the room like conquering romans
as if taking their pick of the women

george and i went over and i killed my beer
that’s when i saw elena slink up to the hockey player
and start whispering into his ear as he smiled

her thirty-five to his twenty-five, his talent, his wealth

i had the perfect shot
a clearing in the crowd

i held the bottle up to my ear
like a molotov cocktail and was about to let loose
on the club, the night, those two stanley cups
the hockey player had helped bring to the steel city

my own brilliant act of terrorism

i felt someone grab my arm
i turned and it was steve
he took the beer bottle out of my hand
and said, dude, that’s my sister over there

i know motherfucker, i said
you think i honestly don’t know?

then i stalked off to vomit in the bathroom
just me and the attendant who kept spraying cologne

thinking that there was still some night left
to go somewhere else in the lonely city

meet a nice young girl
who was into poetry or baseball

maybe tell her all about myself
and how a hero ain’t nothing but a sandwich

                                    

Friday, October 24, 2014

poem of the day 10.24.14


the accidental racist #1

we’re running on half a sick day
pushing it forty-eight hours before vacation

riding the slowest 6 train uptown
to drop off a set of keys to my wife’s parents
at the cancer center

because they’re staying with us
for three days or five days
or we don’t know how many days

until the doctors give her mom the okay
to go back home

my wife is a goddamned wreck with all of this

their doctors’ appointments
other shit, her shit, work shit
the shitty small apartment we spent the morning fighting over

neither of us want to be on an uptown 6 right now

there’s never room to breathe on these trains
no matter the time of day

the girl between us is hugging the pole like a stripper

she’s draped on the thing
a lollipop in her mouth
playing on her cell phone and teasing with her boyfriend
getting the slime of millions on her clothing

she weighs maybe one-hundred pounds
but she won’t give us an inch

new york, new york in the late summer blues
it amazes me that there aren’t more murders committed here

my wife finally gives up and pulls her hand away
she goes somewhere else to stand

the girl looks at her, rolls her eyes at her boyfriend

he says, she don’t want to stand next to you
because you ain’t white

like that’s it, asshole, i think

as his girl continues to hug the pole
spinning around now and knocking into everyone

because a bitch like her, she owns the 6 train

yeah, she don’t want to get your brown on her, he continues
if you was a white girl she’d probably be all huggin’ up on you

white people too good for the train, the girl says
she laughs, keeps sucking her lollipop

i look over at the boyfriend
he’s got that clueless cro-magnon look
tattoos up and down the arm because he’s a bad ass

he’s glaring at my wife
who maybe does or does not know
that’s he’s talking about her

all i know is that she looks scared shitless
and more tired than her thirty-seven years should allow

fucking honkeys, he says under his breath
as i take a step toward him

his girl goes, shush

while i start to fantasize about smacking
his fat face off of the glass doors of the train

taking that big mouth of his
and wrapping it around that pole

sliding him to the train floor
one tattooed arm behind his back
pulling it up toward his thick tattooed neck

as his girl screams and tries to bat me off

whispering in his ear like a lover
tell me all about your racism now, my friend
please tell me.           


the accidental racist #2

we’re running on half a sick day
pushing it forty-eight hours before vacation

riding the slowest 6 train uptown
to drop off a set of keys to my wife’s parents
at the cancer center

because they’re staying with us
for three days or five days
or we don’t know how many days

until the doctors give her mom the okay
to go back home

my wife is a goddamned wreck with all of this

their doctors’ appointments
other shit, her shit, work shit
the shitty small apartment we spent the morning fighting over

neither of us want to be on an uptown 6 right now

there’s never room to breathe on these trains
no matter the time of day

the girl between us is hugging the pole like a stripper

she’s draped on the thing
a lollipop in her mouth
playing on her cell phone and teasing with her boyfriend
getting the slime of millions on her clothing

she weighs maybe one-hundred pounds
but she won’t give us an inch

new york, new york in the late summer blues
it amazes me that there aren’t more murders committed here

my wife finally gives up and pulls her hand away
she goes somewhere else to stand

the girl looks at her, rolls her eyes at her boyfriend

he says, she don’t want to stand next to you
because you ain’t white

like that’s it, asshole, i think

as his girl continues to hug the pole
spinning around now and knocking into everyone

because she owns the 6 train

yeah, she don’t want to get your brown on her, he continues
if you was a white girl she’d probably be all huggin’ up on you

white people too good for the train, the girl says
she laughs, keeps sucking her lollipop

i look over at the boyfriend
he’s got that clueless cro-magnon look
tattoos up and down the arm because he’s a bad ass

he’s glaring at my wife
who maybe does or does not know
that’s he’s talking about her

all i know is that she looks scared shitless
and more tired than her thirty-seven years should allow

fucking honkeys, he says under his breath
as i take a step toward him

his girl goes, shush
while i start to think about what to say back

how to make this train blush
with a whole dictionary of epitaphs
that can gush like a volcano from any willing mouth
in this hard and foolish land

me and cro-magnon boy going toe to toe
slapping tongues of hatred that we’ll never escape
keeping us both stuck in the mud only less than pigs

with america shining down
whispering in our ears like a lover
saying tell me all about your racism now, my friend
please tell me.                                                                                                                                      

Thursday, October 23, 2014

poem of the day 10.23.14


did it leave a mark?
            --after hosho mccreesh

it seemed all the boys in school had bb guns
as if they were going through a gun toting phase

in the era of reagan, rambo and the terminator
they were the closest those boys in the suburbs
could get to actual violence
without fists and blood

i didn’t have a bb gun
i had baseball cards and baseball gloves
and beatles records instead

my old man told me
with your luck, son, you’d find a way to kill yourself

which was probably true

and no one wanted to become an anecdote
to a soon-to-be-classic christmas film

so i indulged my violent tendencies whenever i could
hanging around the lucky
shooting targets in the dirt or taped onto trees
aiming at squirrels or winter birds

ray hardy had old baseball cards
that he’d line up on a pool table in his basement

we’d shoot at them
putting holes in pete rose and nolan ryan
and the other cards we’d never kept in good enough condition
to one day retire on

ray’s bb gun was one of those pump guns
or they were all pump guns

again…i wouldn’t know

one time when it was my turn to fire
i pumped that mother the full ten pumps

and like the idiot that i was
i fired it right off while ray was still setting us up
a field of von hayes cards

i got him right in the ass cheek

then i stood there
a clueless john wayne on a vast wyoming range
while ray danced around his basement
screaming and crying

shit, i hoped his parents wouldn’t come down
i was happy that they listened to their television loudly

when ray finally calmed
and came over to me wiping his eyes
i thought that he was going to take the gun
and beat me with it

shoot me right in my ass too

but instead he hopped on an edge of the pool table
and pulled down his pants

ray showed me his bare left ass cheek
with one amazing red welt plastered on it

looking at me so sad and expectant
before he said

jesus christ, man

did
it
leave
a
mark?

                                   

Wednesday, October 22, 2014

poem of the day 10.22.14


it is what it is

maybe it is what it is
you stop counting the drinks
and let it ride
because when you count the drinks
at least after a while
you forget who’s keeping tabs
you think
well, fuck them
then you crack open another one
or pour another tall one out of contempt

it is what it is
your old man visiting from pittsburgh
talking about his cancer
telling you, you’re forty now
you need to start thinking about the prostate
some doctor’s finger up your ass
telling you that this might be uncomfortable
manana, manana, you tell him
like a lettuce picker in salinas with the sun going down
waving a beer filled hand
or maybe when i’m fifty

it is what it is
the daily abuse of this life
internet trolls with literary ambitions
giving you shit because they can’t handle their own
and everyone pays on credit
or with their cell phone
the girl at the grocery store
who lets you stand in her line for ten minutes
with the food you need for dinner rotting
flipping a glossy tabloid with her razor-like fingernails
before telling you
that the line is closed
then laughing into her little gadget
out of spite

it is what it is
this life
that death
beheadings by the week
and drones galore
the infect of government
endless anniversaries of bloodshed
a dead kid laying on the street
in the hot missouri sun for four hours
while the cops scratch their chapped asses
and play at being macho
america being enthralled by another sports hero
beating the shit out of his wife

the internet abuzz
like a brain tumor
over starlets with their tits hanging out
while you sit on the couch
listening to a symphony of sirens
car alarms, and barking dogs
crying over john lennon songs
telling yourself that it is what it is
that nothing will change anything
save the sun burning out of the car exhaust sky
forgetting to count
how much
of the poison
it was
that you put down again
today.

                                               

Tuesday, October 21, 2014

poem of the day 10.21.14


unintended pleasures of signing off
using an automated time keeping system

just sit back and watch the time click

it’s easier this way if you don’t resist
or think that now you’ve become some clockwatching
product of the american work force

reject personal autonomy until your shift is over

take comfort in the fact that millions of us
are doing this all over the great nation

maybe even the world

think of these quiet moments
as a chance to take stock of your day

plan tomorrow or negotiate the evening
play another round of solitaire as you ALT TAB these blues

remember something you might have forgotten on your grocery list
a birthday that has slipped your mind
a red-letter date in american history that needs celebrating

contemplate the vodka and cans of beer left in your fridge
because you may need all hands on deck tonight

wink at the security camera bearing down on you
give them a smile and a thumbs up

do not look at the computer screen too intently

you’ll find that time has gotten you nowhere
and that the radio is still playing the same bad song
as when you set out on this endeavor

imagine the sick day you’ll take
when the office is short staffed

or if you do look
wow in the corporate color scheme of the web page
only in your head you are looking at picasso and matisse

imagine that it’s a countdown to lift-off or a great voyage
outer space or around the world in as many days

the first of your ilk going where no man/woman/child
has gone before
because you are a pioneer and you know it

not some sad piece of excrement sitting on the edge of your chair
with your coat and your bag in your hands
tupperware from another unsatisfying lunch resting on your lap

a hat on your head and your legs shaking with anticipatory angst
watching second after second after nauseating second tick by

you are neil armstrong, buzz aldrin, columbus
megellan, vasco de gama, lewis and clark
and robert falcon scott all rolled into one

think of the unintended pleasures of signing off
using an automated time keeping system
instead of the bitter taste of a life wasted

cherish these moments of solitude and personal reflection

remember them for future reference
when the walls of this life start closing in again.

                                                                       

Monday, October 20, 2014

poem of the day 10.20.14


walking around naked

the young movie starlet is online
she told a reporter how great it is
to own her own home

how wonderful it is to walk around naked

it’s liberating, she said

maybe it is for her
she’s twenty-two but she looks fifteen
with her black hair and almond eyes
her perky tits and tight latin ass

the paparazzi are always trying to get
pictures of her naked

they follow her to clubs and to the beach
hoping for a nipple slip or something good between her legs

this morning i’m thinking about her
but not in a sexual way

i’m just out of the shower
naked, pale and bloated as always

i can’t find my watch or my goddamned glasses
i’m practically blind and i don’t know what time it is

stumbling around this place
with my fat belly and man boobs
my chicken legs and ball sack to my knees

my hair soaked and mussed like a madman
unshaved with red blotches on my face from hard water

every blind and window here opened
showing flaccid cock
and pimpled white ass
to the masses scrambling to work in the rain

forty years old and i look like death
like i should be on a coroner’s slab

walking around as naked as a jaybird
like that little starlet in hollywood is doing right now

only i don’t feel so damned liberated

but thankfully
no one is across the street hiding in their car
or in the bushes or stalking outside my window

trying to get a picture
of this impossible mess.

                                                

Thursday, October 16, 2014

poem of the day 10.16.14


her shitty red car

she had taken to creating drama
between the two of us

she hardly came by to see me
when she did it was for a minute or two
just to make sure that i was alive

where she left me drinking beer on my bed

she looked me over to assess the damage
that she was doing

and like god she saw that her work was good

it was hard to think that only weeks before
we had been holding hands and fucking like bunnies

but now i stormed out of her shitty red car
more than i cared to count

frustrated, defeated, and done with all women
i always tried to get it so that we were closer
to my apartment before i stormed out of her ride

a few times i had to go the distance
because i just couldn’t take her anymore

she’d always show up the next day
to see if i was still breathing

finally we had it out in a church parking lot
where i’d sometimes go with a bottle of beer and sit

she said she cared for me but there was someone else

i wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction
of getting nuts over it

hell, i wasn’t even going to storm out of her car
because that was his job now

i sat in her shitty red car saying nothing

i fiddled with her radio and laughed
until she told me that it was time for me to leave

it pissed her off that i was so placid

when i didn’t go as fast as she demanded
she started shouting and honking her horn

a priest came out of the rectory to see what was going on

i got out of her car with my hands up
and like god he too saw that it was all good

i started walking back toward my apartment

but not before she and her shitty red car
burned by honking her horn and smirking at me

giving me that universal symbol
of peace and courtesy

that one finger to rule them all.

                                               

Wednesday, October 15, 2014

poem of the day 10.15.14


sunday night tough guy jamboree
at the old root down tavern

one tough guy comes into the bar
he starts pacing back and forth and then he leaves

my wife says, i don’t like the look of him

all people look bad when you give them
more than a glance, i tell her

the tough guy comes back with two tough guy friends
making three tough guys pacing
at the old root down tavern on a sunday night

he goes over to the bartender
and says, hey man, who was your bartender on friday night?

the bartender is reluctant to answer
but in the end tells the tough guy that it was seth

why do you want to know? he asks

because he man-handled me, man, the tough guys says

his two tough guy friends start nodding
they look around the bar just in case people start getting any ideas

look at my neck, man, the tough guys say
he puts down his collar and the bartender barely looks

did you see it?  did you see what he did, man?

i don’t see shit, the bartender says

see, i told you that i didn’t
like the way he looks, my wife says

you have a very keen eye and discerning taste, i tell her
as the tough guy continues arguing with the bartender

i’m pissed, he says
i want that motherfucker fired

the tough guys looks around the bar
his eyes meet the row of mugs and pints drying on the rack
man, i could’ve smashed this place up, he says
i could smash it up right now

that’s when some of the tough guys
who are regulars in the bar get up

they stand behind the tough guy and his friends

the bartender has his hand underneath the bar
there’s a bat under there, a knife

at one time seth told us there was a gun

it’s a regular ol’ sunday night tough guy jamboree
at the old root down tavern

are you threatening me? the bartender asks

i’m just saying, the tough guy say
as his tough guy friends start pulling him out of the bar

he heard what you said, the bartender says
he points to a regular

and so did he

i heard what he said, too, i tell the bartender

and so did this guy, the bartender shouts

on his way out of the bar
the tough guys leans in and screams in my ear
i don’t give fuck what you heard!

as his buddies carry him out in to the sopping wet night
but not before he leans back in the bar and shouts

faggots!

like all tough guys have
down throughout the centuries

when they are finally safe and free
in the open air.

                                    

Tuesday, October 14, 2014

poem of the day 10.14.14


a grand gentleman

they are in a fury in this place
the customers and the staff

she turns to me and says,
well, he’s been in the bathroom
for almost an hour

some things take time, i tell her

people are piled up around the door
every minute or so someone keeps knocking

occupied, is all he says

the supervisor of the place
asks him if he needs help

no thank you, he says

still they wait
more and more staff and customers line up
they’re waiting for the man to come out of the toilet
they want to be a part of the great reveal

i think i heard the toilet flush, a kid says
and anticipation abounds

she turns to me
it’s over an hour now, she says

one customer tells another customer
this is outrageous

as if there aren’t bombs in iraq and gaza
murder on the streets of missouri
hungry, illiterate kids in housing projects
a block or so down the street

as if the other bathroom isn’t ready for use

someone pounds on the door again
come on, he shouts

just a minute, the voice says from behind the door
it opens a crack and then it closes again

there is a residual sigh throughout the place

pervert, she turns and says to me
he has to be a pervert

the building stays captivated by this
for another fifteen minutes
as they keep knocking and knocking on the door

suddenly it opens and an old bald man
comes walking out into the fluorescent fanfare
as if nothing has happened

everyone in the place stares at him
like he’s a deranged celebrity

he puts his hands in his pockets
and smiles at the angry hoi polloi
like a grand gentleman on his way to the opera

when he leaves the building
the pack of them descend on the small space
looking for traces of degradation

they look for piss in the toilet
sniff the air for traces of his shit
they check the floor for blood or semen

only they find nothing

and another whole hour in all of our lives
has been gambled on the hope
of something different in this life

what a waste of time, she says to me
before going back to her video of a two-headed dolphin

as the supervisor puts the bathroom key
back in its place

and the rest of the people in here
go back to searching
for a new and improved meaning of life.

Friday, October 10, 2014

poem of the day 10.10.14


ode to a pen that doesn’t work
when i need a pen to work

you stupid fucker
you could’ve been immortal
there’s a kid who won’t stop farting on this bus
and a brazilian chick in a mini-skirt
put the two of them together somehow
and i could’ve made us both famous
or at least a couple people
would’ve read about it on my blog
but you had to crap out on me
you cunt
pilot g-2 .05 tip of nothing
and there’s nothing worse for a guy like me
than a pen that doesn’t work when i need a pen to work
you’re like my heart giving out
or my will to live
you’re a six-day work week with only one day off
a flaccid penis at the end of a woman’s period
the final dreg of wine that won’t make a proper glass
and that kid keeps on farting
i think the dude sitting next to me is going say something
start a fight with his mother about manners
that brazilian might be a tranny
this ain’t manhattan this is brooklyn
do you know how many trannies we get down here?
you blue tipped albatross
and to think i chose you over your .07 pointed brother
i’ll bet he would’ve worked
with him i’d be writing about flatulence
and chicks with dicks right now
the scribbles of the gods
but instead i’m sitting here huffing someone else’s gas
with the guy next to me ready to pop
a blood vessel
trying to see if i can see
the bulge between that brazilian’s legs
another shit writer
on a shit work day
abandoned
adrfit
without the tools of his trade.

                                                            

Thursday, October 9, 2014

poem of the day 10.09.14


another dog barking
at five in the morning poem

i’m up
i’m sure they’re up over there
half the neighborhood is probably awake
especially after
the amount of invective i spat out
into the black morning

i should probably go on over
introduce myself
try not to strangle them
or the dog
maybe bring them a copy of the novel
a book of poems or two
show them what i’ve been up to each morning
while their beast barks
into the waking dawn

i’ll even sign a copy
people like having signed shit
even from nobodies such as myself

maybe if i let them see
that there’s flesh and blood in this neighborhood
they’ll try and keep the mutt quiet
at least until
the joe and joanne workers of the world
start hoofing it up the street

of course
what about those folks coming home from night jobs
the ones who have to contend
with their dog
and the unforgiving sun
it would be unfair to exclude them
after all
we’re all in this together
and if one working man can’t help out
another working man
then what good is a civil society?

i doubt they’d even care
if i came over
i mean here it is five o’clock in the morning
and that goddamned dog
is going crazy again

they’d probably call the cops on me
they look the type

and the cops never understand
the plight of the working man
it’ll be all on me if they show up
i’ll probably get cited for disturbing the peace
it would be a cold irony
to get frogmarched back over to the apartment
when i was only trying
to do the general public a favor

fuck it

i’m just going to sit here and hope that animal
howls himself into cardiac arrest
let some other neighbor take care of it
get back to writing
another horseshit poem
more prose that only a dozen people will read
bite my nails
see what’s going on in the world
of internet porn
close the window
turn on a fan
blast the radio

mediate

on the true meaning
of what it means to be
man’s best friend.

                                              

Wednesday, October 8, 2014

poem of the day 10.08.14


in response to car horns
and hammering before 8 a.m.

america
the industrious
megalopolis

america
so loud and self-important
on a weekday morning

forever advancing

progress for progress sake
except
where it counts

in response to car horns
and hammering before 8 a.m.

i refuse to work another
eight-hour shift

or to shower
or to pay taxes

support the arts
or my local congressman

i won’t vote
or eat red meat for a year

america
i’ll lie in bed
and think bad thoughts about you

i won’t have fun on saturday afternoons

i’ll stop masturbating
to your celebrity women
and teenage girls

i plan on cancelling my cable
if this doesn’t stop

i won’t watch this year’s football season
or give two shits
who wins the world series

i might kick
a dog or a small child

i won’t give up my seat on the bus
for your elderly and the infirm

or buy girl scout cookies

maybe
i’ll cancel christmas the year
and tell people that jesus
wasn’t born in texas
but the ebola virus was

oh you america!

the industrious
the diligent
the hard-working

the busy
the assiduous

america
the tireless demigod

the world’s aging hipster

just stop
the goddamned hammering
and lay off the car horns
before a man is ready to face you yet again

would ya?

                                   

Tuesday, October 7, 2014

poem of the day 10.07.14


billy knuckles

he tells my wife
his name is billy knuckles

he says that’s what
the black dudes in prison called him

of course he’s been in prison
everyone in this joint has a prison story

they changed the name of this place
classed it up with more tvs and fireplaces
raised the beer prices
and sell coke out of the bathroom instead of weed

still you can put lipstick on a pig….

anyway billy knuckles probably went to jail
for not paying his taxes or writing bad checks
just like the rest of them

but it’s enough for him to tell the story

we’ve been drinking beer with him
for two hours now
after he started eavesdropping in on our conversation

we’ve pumped too many dollars in the juke
we’ve listened to too many good and bad songs

billy knuckles loves nirvana and pearl jam
i’m a grunge baby, he tells us

i think better him than me
because nothing good came out of the nineties
in my opinion

but billy knuckles bleeds that decade

before prison, he says
then sucks down some more guinness

he’s an ex-con with refined tastes

when he stumbles back over to the juke
to play another golden oldie from the bush/clinton era
my wife leans over and says
if nothing else at least you’ll get a poem out of this evening

but i tell her i’m bored
with writing about guys like billy knuckles

it used to be fun drinking with guys like that
but now he’s just an impediment

he cock blocks the evening’s joy
with his nostalgia and his opinions
the oral history of cell block four

i’d rather be in prison
than listen to this guy, i say

as billy knuckles screams from the jukebox
because a staind song came on

my anthem, he says, coming over with his hands raised
ready for our seventh high-five this hour

we should try wine bars, i tell my wife
i think i’m ready for the wine bar crowd now

he’s just lonely, she says

so is everyone else, i say

as two new beers appear before us
slapped down by the bartender
with the suds going all over the glossy wood

courtesy of billy knuckles
our new best friend

tonight’s benevolent warden

                                                           


Monday, October 6, 2014

poem of the day 10.06.14


jack and the giant jukebox

jack can’t get the jukebox to play
goddamned digital….he says

people are laughing at him
because they’ve been laughing at him for years

i just want to play a little grateful dead

he says it
it sounds like begging

we watch jack and the giant jukebox
that takes up half the wall in this place

it turns into a camera
white light is flashing throughout the bar

on the screen there are pictures of a frustrated jack
trying to put dollar bills in the machine

pictures of him squinting
pictures of him in a half-curse
jack’s jack daniels hat cocked sideways
his fat, red winedrunk face illuminated

it’s a status update, hashtag bonanza

jack says, if i wanted this kind of abuse
i could’ve gone home to drink

a few of us look at the glass of white wine
that he left behind for what seems like days now
then go back to singing summer wind

jack puts another dollar in the jukebox
it spits it back out
plays a song from its archives

as the telling pictures fade from the screen
and turn back into images of half-naked pop stars
puckering up for all of us saturday evening drunks

i don’t get it, jack says
i worked in computers for twenty-five years
but this….

my wife gets off of her stool to help him

last week in the liquor store
i paid for the rest of jack’s bottle of white
because he didn’t have enough change on him

when we see him on the street
we laugh and point and say, there goes good old jack

my wife gets the jukebox to work

a little grateful dead, jack says
sitting back down like a twenty-first century master

he takes a pull on his white
begins drumming on the bar

i can’t tell if it’s a jerry song or one sung by bob weir

but things are suddenly looking up
for us in here tonight

as the bartender sets two shot glasses in front of us
and says, the next round is on me.


                                                           

Friday, October 3, 2014

poem of the day 10.03.14


getting poems rejected
by a writer you don’t respect

there’s really nothing to do
but stare at the email that says

thanks….but i think i’ll pass

after all, this is your fault
you sent the poems to him
against your better judgment

you remember back two weeks ago
to when the submission was just hanging there
as you finished a last coffee

you checked your watch and still had minutes to kill
before you had to get ready for work

i believe your exact words were
ah, fuck it, mine aren’t any worse than his

then you attached a batch to him
with a little note saying:

hope this batch does something for you

because you wanted one more shot
at having your name in lights

and now here they are back in your possession
like you thought they’d be

this isn’t the first time he’s rejected you

the first
thanks….but i think i’ll pass

you remember the one time he solicited from you
and he still rejected your poems

it would almost be laughable

if you weren’t right in the middle
of what is shaping up to be
two bad writing weeks in a bad writing month
in an overall bad year

maybe the worst year you’ve experienced on this planet

you didn’t need this dickhead’s rejection
but there you have it

and to make matters worse
here you are committing the cardinal sin
of writing a poem about being a fucking poet

christ

you go on his web site and read his bad poems
just to fuel your anger

they all look the same
they all sound the same

three words to a line
that snake along like a river of shit
for a page or two

until they die like common houseflies

with the comments from a bunch of sycophants
egging this literary abomination on

you think the whole world
must be crazy

then you load up a new page on the machine
to type your next immortal dung heap

take a sip on the scalding coffee

thinking that you’ll wait at least six months or so
before you try that asshole again.