poem of the day 02.27.15

dog shit

there is dog shit

scattered all over this crooked landscape

a guy looks at me

points down and says, poop shrapnel

before i almost step in a patch

that already has some poor sap’s boot print in it

i say, thanks pal,

and the two of us continue on

in a serpentine around the rest

dog shit is the plague of this neighborhood

there are signs everywhere

telling people to curb their dog

microsoft words docs in bold letters

telling the offending dog owners

WE KNOW WHO YOU ARE

WE KNOW WHAT YOU’VE DONE

threating sonnets claiming to have the police involved

but, still, every morning

new and fresh steaming piles of dog shit

for everyone on the block to walk around

my wife and i once had a dog

back when we were dating

it was coon hound mix

that no amount of training could tame

the dog destroyed pillows and vhs tapes

boxes of tampons and record sleeves

i used to walk the beast in the morning and after work

three long circles around the block

to try and get him to shit

wondering why in the hell i had a dog

as the beast bit at me and its leash

attacked other dogs and finally let out the worst of dung piles

i used to carry the turds in a plastic container

that looked like a shovel

i’d toss the dog shit in bushes or in flower beds

always feeling like i was giving back to the earth

on weekends we’d chain the dog in the backyard

so that we didn’t have to walk him

or clean up shit so early in the morning

we let him run in circles and bark the morning away

shit all over the backyard

while we slept off another friday night at the bar

when i woke up i’d go outside to clean the dog shit

while the coon hound pulled on its chain

and tried to get at me

often there were notes from concerned neighbors

instructing my girlfriend and i

on the proper way to take care of a dog

once one of the notes was in crayon and in a child’s hand

mornings like that i usually tossed the dog shit into the next yard

just to send a message back

then i went back to bed and let the dog sleep between us

we had to dog maybe three months

before we had to give him back to the rescue league

my girlfriend took him back while i sat in the apartment

crying over an animal that i didn’t even like all that much

drinking beer after beer

i felt like such a damned failure

until i finally went out into the back yard

to collect his chain and the few toys we had for him

walking around the yard like a lost man

while the neighbors watched me from their windows

searching for any last piles of dog shit

that i might’ve missed.

                                               

poem of the day 02.26.15

bathroom man

i see myself

getting pulled into your web

every time you walk

into the men’s room

i gotta run a stopwatch

like i’m a track coach

to measure how long you’ve been in there

at twenty minutes

i’m supposed to knock on the door

and give you a warning

at thirty i’m supposed to threaten to call the cops

i want you to know

that most nights i give you

forty minutes to an hour

before i even bother

i don’t know what you do in there

and i don’t care

rumor has it you take off all of your clothes

sit there like a rodin sculpture

on the cold, white toilet seat

to each his own, man

i mean we gotta do something

to pass the time here

but it’s when the four year olds

are on the verge of pissing their pants

and their mothers are bitching at me

that’s when i’m forced to care

hey, at least

i don’t go into the bathroom

when you walk out

to smell the damage

i save that detective work for the others here

that are forced to monitor you

i just wish there

was somewhere else that you could go

to get your kicks

a mcdonald’s

a pizza hut

the gas station down the street

maybe try the museum of modern art

and tell their security guards that it’s all

a performance art piece

when they come to kick you out

find anywhere but here

because this act is getting old

and you and i, old chap

we’re hitting the top of the hour again

                                                           

poem of the day 02.25.15 NOW NSFW

the walls at the high school dance

the walls at the high school dance

were always humid and sticky

old gym walls embedded with the sweat

of a thousand basketball games and dodgeball

but i clung to those walls at every dance

they were my only refuge from a sea of hormones

the clique of a hundred teenagers

who would not let me into their set

from the walls at the high school dance

i watched girls that i’d been pining for

make out with lesser men

low-browed philistines who couldn’t

talk their way out of a lunch line

they looked so hungry for each other

during those slow songs

star-crossed lovers with chapped lips

forcefully separated by christian brother chaperons

waiting for the hand of god to leave

and go bother another indulgent coupling

before diving into each other again

christ, how i wanted to be one

of those boys kissing one of those girls

on an autumn friday night in america

instead of being suck against

the walls at the high school dance

wishing that i’d just stayed home.

****have some poems over at Ben John Smith's Legendary Horror Sleaze Trash. It came to my attention that corporate bully boys over at Google have changed their policites in regards to adult content. While giving a platform for writer bums such as myself, a site like Horror Sleaze Trash is being threatened with being block/deleted simply bc they have pictures such as these on their site:

And....

but it's not just the pictures. according to the link i provided above.  the new rules also apply to:
"Blogger blogs marked as "adult" include LGBT and "outsider sexuality" diaries, erotic writers, transgender activists, romance book editors and reviewers, sex toy reviewers, art nude photographers, film-makers, artists such as painters and comic illustrators, text-only fiction writers, sex news and porn gossip writers, LGBT sex activism, sex education and information outlets, fetish fashion, feminist porn blogs, and much, much more."

 WineDrunk SideWalk itself has been blocked on numerous occasions from public libraries and other institutions. This is insane. This is what happens when upstarts become coporate back, become corporations in and of themselves.  it ends up hurting a lot of small folks out there putting art/porn/activisim into the world.  The final result is a bland world of corporate music, corporate literature, and yes, even corporate porn:

   
happy searching.





                                                      

poem of the day 02.24.15

ants

telly kept all kinds

of fast food bags in the office

he had the bags full of free trinkets

that he got at trade shows and other events

one of them held several hundred pens in it

although the bags still held the odor of food

the office smelled of rancid meat

and french fry grease whenever telly was there

in the spring the fast food bags attracted ants

some days there were just a few

but on most a line of thousands of ants

went single file behind computer stands and desks

to reach the fast food bags on telly’s side

instead of doing my job

i’d watch the ants scale the height of a bag

they looked like mountain climbers working in tandem

then they’d fall off the edge into the bag

as if committing a mass suicide into a volcano

there were many days where i had to take a broom

and get rid of hundreds of the ants

i felt like a grand executioner

killing entire colonies in one sweep

i knew i’d never be a buddhist doing this business

i felt for the ants

they were only doing what came naturally to them

at my worst

i’d have to take several

fast food bags and squash them

to the ants i imagined

it was like a bomb going off

one second fast food bliss

the other second mass annihilation

by the time telly came to work

both the bags and the ants were gone

he’d put his things down and then circle around his desk

looking at all of that negative space

where are my fast food bags?

he’d ask me, in that lispy way of his

but i’d just shrug and turn back to my computer

or i’d get up and go to the bathroom

to stare at my sinister self in the mirror

a mass murderer if ever there was one

before turning on the hot, brown water

trying my best to wipe the blood from my hands.

                                                                      

poem of the day 02.23.15

television blues

the two women on the train

are talking about reality television shows

they are acting as if they know the people

the real housewives of…

keeping up with the kardashians

the women are shouting over the din

of train cars and century’s old tracks

but you don’t know her like i do, one of them says

she just needs a good man, the other shouts back

both women have their dinners

waiting for them in fast food bags

i’m listening to them because i can’t read

i think about television

how back when i was a kid i probably

watched more television than was good for me

my old man used to walk through rooms shaking his head

my mother would say, is this what you’re doing with saturday?

as if it had to be savored or labored through

weekends were never precious jewels to me

they were another brady bunch episode

a monkees marathon on dubbed vhs tapes

cosby and family ties and growing pains reruns

i used to imagine that i was on those shows

not like an actor or anything

but like the shows were real

i was the brady’s or the seaver’s neighbor

the other member of the monkees

or the guy taking mallory keaton or denise huxtable out for a date

i loved the episodic nature of the shows

how the characters problems never seemed to last

they were better than listening to my parents

argue about bills and housework

telling me to go outside and play

worrying about some kid on monday

calling me a fat ass at recess again

or the girl that i liked laughing at me in homeroom

i didn’t have to work at anything with the tv characters

just insert myself into the background of any scene

take it from there

and while the women on the train

argue about their respective shows

dip into their fast food bags for an appetizer

as one of the women throws

a french fry at her friend

and they laugh and laugh over some outrageous plot line

i find ryan adams waiting

on my music machine

turn and watch brooklyn fly by

thumping soundtrack and in full technicolor

and think about how i don’t really watch television anymore

that i’ve sort of just learned to live with this life

my one and only long running mini-series

with its tragic and final finale

a show i’ll never be certain that i truly enjoyed

or fully got the plot.

                                                

poem of the day 02.20.15

a most elegant man

a most elegant man is walking behind me

on this cold-as-hell winter morning

he’s got a little snow cap with ear flaps

a thin scarf and a big red beard

he’s keeping pace so that he’s right up my ass

and when i stop on the street, he stops

in new york city this is grounds to commit a murder

but it’s maybe five degrees outside

the wind off the estuary making it worse

i’m carrying ten bags of groceries

five in each hand

and i forgot my goddamned gloves

my fingers look like strands of red pulp

so i couldn’t strangle this man if i wanted to

the guy behind me, he’s got one little bag

and his cell phone

i wish he’d kick it into gear

just pass me or something

when i stop to let him go

he stops to check something on his phone

the wind goes through me like i’m made

of plastic grocery bags

i look back and say, hey, buddy, what the fuck?

but he’s got his earbuds in

i start up again

he starts up again

i can see the apartment building

but it still feels a million miles away

with the wind and this asshole keeping pace

when i get to the door

it makes sense that he lives in the building too

six floors of strangers

living petty little lives

i put the five bags from the one hand in the other

struggle to get out my keys

while the most elegant man waits patiently

for me to unlock the door

i even hold it for him

ten bags and swollen red hands

a smile on my face and murder in my eyes

as the most elegant man passes me

with nary a head nod

or a discreet thank you to boot.

                                                                        

poem of the day 02.19.15

jimmy vs. technology

about once a week

jimmy comes down from the adult group home

he’s always got his guitar slung over his shoulder

like he’s come back from rehearsal or a gig

his long, gray hair is held back by a sea foam bandana

that has seen better days

it’s like jimmy

every time he’s in its reinventing the wheel

he can’t remember his password

can’t figure out how to make the internet work

doesn’t remember his yahoo! mail account

i say, jimmy why are you still doing yahoo!

i want to be up to date, man, he says

jimmy once asked me if i played guitar

because i have long hair like he does

and it’s kind of going gray

no, i told him…i chose a lesser art

jimmy has the worst trouble with the copy machine

i can’t blame him

the thing can email and fax and send text messages

it’s a bit daunting for a guy who just needs to copy

his legal and medical papers

when he’s in the building i know it’s only a matter of time

before jimmy and i will both be at the copier

testing our technological limits

that’s usually when jimmy

will go on about the adult home

how bad the food is

how horrible it is being locked inside and incapable

they treat you like

you’re nothing there, man, he says

i try to picture jimmy in the adult home

grateful dead t-shirt and hendrix on his turntable

faded jeans and the green field jacket he’s always wearing

nurses checking to make sure he’s taking his pills

the baby boomers have instilled such an image of youth

it’s hard to imagine them getting old and feeble

that all of that 1960s idealism is rotting

in institutions made for assembly line death

but jimmy is walking talking proof that life is moving on

once i’m there we get the copies made quickly

it’s usually jimmy’s social security card and his benefits i.d.

you always help me out, man, he says

like he’s surprised

like i’m not getting paid for this

i wish i could give you something, brother

like a bag of barbecue chips from my illegal stash

because jimmy is still sticking it to the man

do you want some barbecue chips?

jimmy pulls out a half-eaten bag of wise

no, i say

i settle for a handshake instead

then jimmy leaves because he’s thirsty

i watch him go across the street to the bodega

a moment later he comes out with a 20oz. coke

bends his knees like he’s playing a guitar solo

when he takes his first sip

wipes the caramel color from his mouth

before he walks off toward the promised land.

poem of the day 02.18.15

telling a twelve year old

that my wife is the incredible hulk

because he’s always around me at the job

hanging on my every word

he wants to know what my favorite color is

why i wear my hair long

he points out daily that there’s gray in my beard

because i can’t have an adult conversation

when he’s in the building

last week he heard me call my supervisor

an incompetent ass and threatened to tell him

because he heard me tell another co-worker

about my wife’s radiation

i had to tell him that she was the incredible hulk

it made me feel somewhat better to tell this tall tale

because it made radiation not seem so bad

of course he’d never seen my wife angry

while i have some vivid memories of her ire

maybe she is the incredible hulk and i just didn’t realize it

i think about last week

when i told her we should just buy a gun

and put a nice exclamation mark on this year

but he brings me back to earth

he wants to know why my wife is getting radiation

he wants to know if this is why i’ve seemed angry all summer

because he’s always around me at the job

listening to every goddamned word that i have to say

reading my emails when i’m not looking

catching me in the office when i’m looking down

or staring off into space

he can tell that i’m lying

about this and about how i feel all of the time

because tall tales are just great big lies

and besides what twelve year old

believes that the hulk is real?

                                                            10.07.14

okay...so this is the last of the cancer-related poems that i've had backlogged. tomorrow is back to the typical...well...whatever it is i've been wasting my time doing here since 2008.

poem of the day 02.17.15

feeback from our trip

to ford’s theatre

i’m sure we would’ve loved

to have seen where lincoln’s legacy lives

we had plans to do the whole tour

high noon

every single event

after a good breakfast at some renowned

washington d.c. diner

coffe eggs bacon history in that order

i was looking forward

to showing my wife where lincoln had been shot

the theatre museum

the home across the street where they took him after

is honest abe’s blood still on the pillow?

but see we never made it to d.c. that week

no momuments

no national gallery or air and space museum

no smithsonian or side trips to georgetown

and no long walks along the mall

they had to move my wife’s radiation appointment

you know how that goes

and her parents stayed with us for five days too

shuttling back and forth

to their own cancer treatments in the city

they don’t know about

my wife’s breast cancer

so…you can pretty much guess how the week went

but we did get back our money on the hotel

all twelve-hundred bucks

my wife played the cancer card

she told them that she was just diagnosed

it really wasn’t a lie

and who’s going to judge a thirty-seven year old

with cancer anyway?

we didn’t cancel the tour with you guys

i mean what’s forty dollars when we were given

so much back

besides the guys at ticketmaster can be cocksuckers

we took the hit on that one

to be honest i almost forgot that we’d booked

a tour with you

because things have been so busy lately

until this feedback email showed up

in my google account

for obvious reasons

i’m going to have to pass

on giving you any feedback

so there’s nothing to tell your tour leaders

and it would be silly

of me to do the survey

still, thank you guys for thinking about us

we’re thinking of trying for d.c. again

once the radiation is over

or maybe next year once the weather breaks

do the whole national capital thing

when the cherry blossoms are in bloom

and our luck seems on

the up and up.

                                    10.06.14

poem of the day 02.16.15

margin

is a type of financial

collateral to cover a credit risk

it’s the white around the edges of this page

a continental margin

separates ocean crust from continental crust

but don’t quote me on that

because i got straight Cs in science class

in iran

there’s a village called margin

in your right breast there are margins

that we need to get to

this is called a surgical margin

or a tumor free margin

plain free margin

normal skin margin

normal margin

your surgeon calls them good margins

and it’s taken three surgeries to get to them

that’s way different than a gross margin

which is the difference between revenue and cost

before accounting for some other costs

(i looked that one up)

but it might be similar to a machine margin

the distance between

a decision boundary and a data point

quite unlike a gross margin

a profit margin or a contribution margin

or this margin of safety

we’re clinging to in this office

right here and now.

                                                                        09.18.14

poem of the day 02.12.15

driving through pittsburgh in june

heading back to the suburbs

to my parent’s home

from kris and anna’s place

where there was beer and poet talk

driving through pittsburgh in june

you and i

like we used to do all of the time

when we lived there

when it was home

all of those many years ago

three days before the doctors in brooklyn

would find the cancer in your breast

i wish maybe we’d taken it slower

not been in such a hurry to go back to my parent’s

maybe gone around to some of the old places

that we used to hang out

the streets that we’d filled with love

and a lot of other things

instead of me having you make wrong turns

because i no longer really knew the city of my birth

we could’ve had a late bite

at that old chinese restaurant

that we hated and loved so much

lingered outside your old apartment

the way i did right before our first date

done something starry-eyed in the city

where our romance bloomed then turned solid

oh honeybee

if only we had known

                                                            09.05.14/09.18.14

poem of the day 02.11.15

our first fight

okay

so this is it

this is the night

where we finally take the shit out

on each other

our first fight

our first cancer fight

you with your web sites and statistics

your lists of the damned and dead

your recovery books and odds

me with my denial

my inability to look a damned thing up

thinking that tomorrow morning

like every morning

i’ll wake up and this’ll have been

just another bad dream

we were bound to duke it out at some point

sweetheart

it might as well be tonight

a simple monday in a six day work week

that we’re both dreading

your old man in the hospital

your mother sick on chemo

MRIs and biopsies falling like rain

8p.m. and still ninety degrees outside

too hot for us to eat anything

but cold cuts and barbecue chips

too depressing to do a thing but have this fight

so let’s start this, shall we?

let’s get this over and maybe get past this

have a beer or some more wine

a shit ton of scotch if it’s okay

you tell me once again

how insensitive and mean i’m being

and i’ll tell you how fucking crazy you are

for reading those books

instead of talking to your doctor

i’ll say shit like

if i were you….

if it were me….

even though i don’t know

up from down these days

we can throw things

and shout at the top of our lungs

rattle the walls of this old apartment

that was once so inviting

but seems so sinister now

with its orange walls and cracked blinds

its years of love and loss

its two most famous occupants

facing each other ready for a duel

neither of us with the guts to tell each other

how goddamned scared

we really are

                                                            07.09.14/09.17.14

poem of the day 02.10.15

name in lights

the doctor has got his name in lights

behind a desk in a glass structure

in the posh part of park slope, brooklyn

it must be costing him a fortune in lives

it’s not even his own name

it’s his father’s but he’s inheriting it

when he takes over the business

the doctor has got all of his papers spread out on his desk

you can barely see them with all of these lights

he tells my wife

oh, most doctors without their name in lights

will tell you that you don’t need chemo for a cancer like this

but me?

i want to give you the full blast of it

hair loss, pasty skin, mouth sores,

low white cell count, possible heart problems

the future fear of bone marrow cancer and leukemia

all for the sheer joy of staying alive another thirty or forty years

and letting them work you until you’re dead

a lot of doctors won’t do that for you

but i will because i’m pro-chemotherapy

i wonder if the doctor has ever had the poison himself

has he ever taken a drink of anything that tasted like gasoline?

the doctor’s got pictures of his kids on a shelf

a picture of his wife but no wedding ring

just in case a hot cancer skank comes waltzing through the doors

i look at the ceramic doodads on his desk

multi-colored bowls and mugs that say, world’s best dad

he looks at me and smiles through the glare

he says, if it were my wife or if it were my family….

the doctor says his patients are like his family too

that’s why he’s recommending the full-on chemotherapy

all of the poisons he can push through my wife’s system

i try to forget about his name in those big lights

his posh office and his expensive suit

my wife still kind of crying in the seat next to me

as he rises to shake my hand

and tells me that everything will be fine

with a smile as wide and white as those light

as big and heavy as ahab’s motherfucking whale.

                                                08.28.14

poem of the day 02.09.15

cancer is everywhere

it’s on the billboards on the subway cars

on billboards on the highway

this morning i was flipping through the stations

and at least three channels had cancer

the mailman has it but he’s still doing his job

the deli clerk and the bartender have cancer too

cancer just walked by me in the grocery store

and didn’t even bother to say hi

there’s cancer in the airport sucking down another drink

before she has to get on board a transatlantic flight

there’s cancer in the ocean

or in the bottom of the sea

the news anchor has cancer but she’s still smiling

and so does my favorite writer in my favorite book

my dad has it, her mom has it, your aunt has it

and even his wife got it too

there’s cancer in all of us just waiting to rise and shine

there’s a cancer in afghanistan called the u.s.a.

cancer in the gaza strip

that van gogh painting has some cancer

although its non-aggressive nor insane

i think i heard some cancer swirling around

beethoven’s third and mahler’s fifth

there’s cancer in the air

cancer in the trees

they say the food you eat will give you cancer one day too

cancer in a soda pop and fried chicken

cancer in the crumbs in your car

dogs are shitting cancer on the sidewalk

some kid just stepped in it and now he has cancer too

there’s cancer up in central park

having a picnic and throwing frisbee on the great lawn

cancer in the movie theater taking in a blockbuster flick

cancer in beer

cancer in wine

cancer in those pills we’re all stuck sucking down

there’s cancer in the stars

cancer in the lines of shakespeare

they found cancer in my love

and i just want the doctors to get it out

but there will still be cancer lingering everywhere

cancer in the grass

cancer in the water that we drink

cancer in the waiting room and in your home

cancer sitting in your favorite chair having a smoke

there’s cancer in your bed

shaking you when you’re trying to sleep

cancer keeping you up at night

cancer keeping you scared

there’s cancer in your soul

and it’s yapping at you

cancer like the bark of the rabid dog

just across the cancer in the cancer street.

                                                            08.08.14

poem of the day 02.06.15

on the board

they have this digital board

in the waiting room of hospitals now

it lets you keep track

of your loved ones surgery

instead of bothering the ladies working the desk

the board has the doctor’s name

the status of the procedure

and everyone that you love is given a code

instead of the board using their name

it’s very modern and chic

it’s like the boards in airports

that let you know the status of your flight

i imagine you’d find it funny

that is, if you weren’t the one

having your breast sliced open right now

it is a little bit funny

or maybe it’s just one more way

in which humanity is losing touch with each other

ten years ago when you had that gall bladder surgery

the lady called me to the desk

and told me that you were out

she told me that it was going to be all right

right now she’s playing candy crush on her cell phone

while i stand here with the other nervous wrecks

checking the change in status on the board

hoping that i even got your code right

i could use a kind word right now

some encouragement

if not for me than certainly for you

but i’m not going to get it here

so i try to imagine that you and i

are in the airport

that you’re off on one

of the one thousand bathroom trips that you take

we’re waiting on a flight to san francsico

no, new orleans

where we’ll spend the week on frenchman street

drinking and eating

fucking and listening to jazz

like two american pigs on the loose

but to be completely honest

my imagination isn’t that good today

and your status hasn’t changed in over an hour

i’m getting nervous

i need to ask someone for help

i need to tell them that this system may be modern

but what’s listed there on the board

is far from a mercy

in fact

it offers no solace at all.

                                    07.18.14-7.29.14

poem of the day 02.05.14

if we ever get to albany again

i think maybe we’ll take in a show

at the palace theater

or find that fantastic burrito that i had

on washington avenue

maybe take a stroll

outside the state capitol building

protest some injustice

to find out what my liberal friends

are always going on about

or maybe we’ll go to one of the museums

read a book in washington park

or hop aboard the USS Slater with the other tourists

we could get some ice cream

i’m sure albany has a ton of places for it

then sit next to the tomb of chester a. arthur

and run down that list of presidents

i’m always teasing you about

albany is probably pretty beautiful in the fall

i got it

we can visit the SUNY building

and demand we stop payment

on our student loans right now

buy a boat, go up to canada

and sail it down the albany river

we could make it a theme, baby

scale the corning tower

and sip martinis at the schuyler museum

if we ever get to albany again

i promise we’ll do all of these things and more

it’ll just be you and i

without cancer covering the sheets, the walls

and blocking all the doors

you crying on the bed or in my arms

until will fall asleep to the sounds of i-87

rumbling outside our window

the one overlooking the bus stop

some four hours and light years

from home.

                                    07.15.14

poem of the day 02.04.15

sobriety is

my wife isn’t drinking during the week

while she’s getting her biopsies and MRIs

i cut out the hard liquor

and am relegated to the abyss of wine and beer

oh, poor me

afloat on two drinks a night and nothing else

sobriety is a motherfucker

but the first thing the doctor harped on

was how much that she and i drank

she said one drink a night is fine

but there might be a link

between excessive drinking and…

i didn’t hear the rest because that’s when i started crying

it’s strange to reevaluate your life

while some doctor is feeling your wife’s breasts and armpits

looking for lumps and swollen lymph nodes

five scotches a night

five scotches and a magnum bottle of red

friday through sunday

and rivers of beer at the ready at all times

sobriety is a hard concept

but so is discussing lumpectomies and mastectomies

as if they were curtains to buy or next year’s vacation destination

taking a break from reading that novel

only to find that your wife has been crying on the couch

for the whole hour

and it is your job to make her feel better

when you have a headache and can’t even feel good yourself

sobriety is an illusion

it is me thinking that we’ll just go back

to the same behavior once this is all said and done

cancer like getting a tooth pulled

or a car inspected and road ready

it’s me telling my wife that she’s going to survive

sobriety is a noose

because there will be no vacation from this

it’ll end but it’ll always be there looming in the background

for the rest of our lives

shit cramps and kid fears

with every mammogram coming down the line

these nights of tea sipping to symphonies

it’s the new norm

we might as well join a bowling league

or make friends with the new neighbors

sobriety is a black hole

that i’ve been trying to escape for years now

and it’s brought us nowhere but here

under these fluorescent lights

in this tan examining room

drained and tired and shot to shit

waiting to hear what that the prognosis is

                                                                        07.10.14

poem of the day 02.03.15

foot in my mouth

i put my foot in my mouth

i say the wrong things all of the time

and here we were

it was pretty innocent and pretty normal

like a regular day off at the bar

you and me and manhattan like always

seth telling us his stories

in between pulls on pints and vodka shots

as jukebox music rumbled the grassroots

in my defense, it was the kind of day

where i tend to forget myself

and jobs and bills and the hundred sundry problems

the kind of day where i get on my sudsy pedestal

and go on like the last great american orator

the kind of day that seemed de rigueur

to the spirit of our existence only a month ago

but how could i forget cancer

and say a thing like that to you?

it wasn’t even about you

but about me and my old man and his prostate cancer

only i knew that i put my foot in my mouth

as soon as i said it

if i have prostate cancer at forty then obviously

i wasn’t meant to be on this planet anyway

as sure as your eyes filled with tears

i knew that i fucked up with that one

and i practically begged seth to get us another pint

i should’ve realized it before i said

been more proactive than the beer in regards to my thoughts

because it’s always there

cancer cancer cancer cancer cancer cancer cancer cancer

like some wilted, gray beacon in the night sky

there aren’t enough pints to take it away

enough saturdays in manhattan

to make it pack its bags and go beach itself

on someone else’s couch for a while

and leave us be.

                                                07.07.14

poem of the day 02.02.15

in a quiet living room in vermont

in a quiet living room in vermont

we are drinking coffee instead of beer and wine

the hoosac range of mountains sits behind us

it is very idyllic

you are on the couch talking to your father

about your mother’s impending cancer treatments

it is a necessary conversation no one wants to have

but here we are in a quiet living room in vermont

having it anyway

until your father stops talking to click his tongue

holding back the tears

he says, at least she’s still alive

then goes back to clicking his tongue

as you move closer to comfort him

i watch the two of you, father and daughter

the way that you’re stroking his hand as he stares forward

jesus christ, this is the one of the saddest things

that i’ve ever seen

i feel like i don’t belong here

in this quiet living room in vermont

that this is just a moment for the two of you to get through

maybe i should get up, i think

go get myself another cup of coffee

go outside and stare at the wind turbines atop the mountains

but then i think about the cancer inside of you

how i’d rip it out with my bare hands if only you’d let me

how i want to take your hand as well

and i’m paralyzed where i am

this cancer that we can’t even tell your parents about

because it’ll kill them

i start to well up at the thought of everything

this world is putting you through

my wife, my lover, and my very best friend

when your father looks at me and smiles

he says, it’s all right

it’ll all be all right

just as a pack of teenagers come in from outside

breaking the melancholy

of sitting in a quiet living room in vermont

with all of their welcome noise

their boundless life and their dumb humor.

                                                                        06.25.14