poem of the day 11.30.15

i was thinking about nashville

                        --for dan fante

i was thinking about nashville back in 2007

when i was looking for a word or two of wisdom in your emails

something that told me how to survive it

a little tip from the years of hard boozing and bad jobs

some tidbit from those novels and poems

that i sucked up like cheap wine

and you wrote atta boy, atta boy keep going

like blind faith would save and anoint us all

i was suffering in nashville in the grand opulent library

almost nine hundred miles from new york

traveling coast to coast on unsubsidized student loans

and the embers of a savings account

no job prospects no home a future on hold

over a decade out of college and my own sketchy resume

that made me look like a career drifter

but all you could ask me was if i had an editor

and, if so, could i give you his email

i was dying in the library trying to find a cheap hotel in memphis

writing shitty haikus next to budgetary woes

in notebooks that weren’t bound for glory

thinking about the honky tonks on broadway

full of blonde southern women shaking their asses

at men who weren’t concerned with poetic immortality

as i sucked down pabst blue ribbon at layla’s bluegrass inn

feeling less like a gin-pissing-raw-meat-dual-

carburetor-v8-son-of-a-bitch from pittsburgh

and more like a complete failure

with thousands of miles left to go

thinking that if you were still hustling for the word

how in the hell was i going to make it in the writing game?

i was thinking about nashville last night

half drunk on vodka when i heard about you being gone

another shooting star  another outlaw

no longer spitting raw juice on this scorched earth

guts and blood and brain turned into dust

i was thinking about nashville

how bright light builds only to fade away

oh, dan, i think that i was thinking about you.                                              

"best of" poem of the day 11.27.15

black friday 1991

seventeen years old

pressed against the wall

in a sports retail store

to try to shield

yourself from the masses

a hangover from pilfered beer

on thanksgiving

it seems that these customers keep

coming from out of nowhere

demanding hats

and jackets

trinkets to shove into stockings

on christmas morning

discarded items marked down

treated like gold found in a pan

packs of teenage girls

who don’t have to work

coming in to give you a look

or to laugh at you

arm in arm with your wealthy classmates

who don’t have to work this shit either

as the store manager runs around

targeting you and only you

pull up your pants!

tuck in your shirt!

you better shave tomorrow!

why aren’t you selling anything, you bum?

knowing that he’ll be

cutting your hours come january 2nd

as he roams around

his little kingdom

kissing ass

and taking names

an inept drill sergeant

fifteen years older than you

but in the same clown outfit

and you’re supposed

to take orders from this guy?

as the old beer beer

and turkey dinner

rises in your stomach

like a harbinger of doom

you wade through the crowd

past the t-shirts

and sweatshirts

and sweatpants

that have fallen from their racks

trampled on

mounds of goods you’ll spend

your twilight steaming

so that they are as good as new

tomorrow

before another day of this hell

to reach

the staff bathroom

needing sweet vomitus relief

but finding it occupied

with another fallen soldier

so you have no recourse

but to head out into

veins of the mall

secret gray corridors

smelling of rotten food

from the food court

echoing silver bells

silver bells

sil-ver bells

it’s christmas time

and i fell shitty

finding

an open garbage can

outside a taco bell

into which you hurl

bile and turkey

and mashed potatoes

and beer

like a roman

wiping your mouth

as some pimple-faced

slave-wager

pokes his head out a doorway

shouts at you

hoping that he didn’t see

the logo of your brand

on your right breast

as you

start to run away.

"best of" poem of the day 11.26.15

my niece in her thanksgiving dress

looking at the picture of

my niece in her thanksgiving dress

fifteen months old

and smiling without a care

i think she looks

just like my soon-to-be

ex-sister-in-law

which somehow

softens the blow of not seeing my niece

in over a year

but really

only just a little bit

                                                11.26.12

poem of the day 11.25.15

all i like to do is drink

which might be true

otherwise you wouldn’t have said it

i mean i don’t like many people

and i most likely don’t like children or dogs

i don’t like saying good morning or have a nice day

i don’t like going to work

or paying bills or paying rent

or spending over ten dollars for anything

i don’t like how low the minimum wage is

but i’m too lazy to try and change it

i don’t like restaurants with happy waitresses

hungering for a tip

and i no longer like going to bars

i don’t like the infirm

and i get nervous around the mentally handicapped

i don’t like car horns and traffic

i don’t like people walking up my ass on the street

construction work blocking my path

i don’t like parades and picnics

going to parks to stroll around on so-called beautiful days

i don’t like christmas or thanksgiving

and i fucking loath the fourth of july

i don’t like texting, the internet and cable tv

smartphones and video games and men that say bro

i want to strangle people who talk about art in art museums

i don’t like religion or the tenants of eastern thought

so you can have your jesus and allah and buddha and mickey mouse too

i don’t like capitalism, america or american flags

i don’t like exceptionalism and vanity and red states vs. blue

i really don’t like war all of the time

because while it makes some rich it just makes most others dead

that means i don’t like politicians talking like politicians

and i don’t like fascist charlatans telling me

that they’ll make america great again

so this means that i don’t like being lied to

you know that i don’t like racism or xenophobia

but i’ve had my dark moments of thought

i don’t like the sun and summer

and pop music blasting out of some asshole’s car

but i hate a fucker who’s pretentious about music

i don’t like warm weather when it’s supposed to be cool

or people who deny climate change

i don’t like watching football, soccer or hockey

or, for that matter, any millionaires playing games like kids

i don’t like onions on my pizza or anything else

light beer or coffee that’s too weak

i don’t like umbrellas or scarves

i don’t like genocide or murder

but i have a mental list of people i’d take out

i don’t like being a hypocrite

i don’t like alarm clocks or blockbuster films

the upstairs neighbor who’s always dropping shit

i don’t like a lot of poetry

but i’m a sucker for a great line

i don’t like him

and i don’t like her

i don’t like the mailman

and the kid who works the deli

the one who sighs when i want a pound of meat

all i like to do is drink, you say

well, i love you more than you know

more than you could possibly imagine

still i don’t like lulls in the conversation

and i hate to interrupt

but i don’t like it when my vodka glass is empty

so if you’ll excuse me for a moment…

i’ll be right back

because i don’t like it

when people don’t keep their promises

and i never like it

when i’m going to be late.

                                               

           

poem of the day 11.24.15

some panic

there are mornings

where i wake up wondering

less about my own day

than maybe the end of someone’s life

there’s some panic in my heart

but little fear

the noise of a city will wake you up into reality

the way some civilizations are just meant to rise and fall

like lumbering giants or explosions in the sky

each one of us a cog

a galaxy stretching itself to the end

disengaged and ignorant by their ease

tethered more to little failures than the big picture

but still playing their game

one pitted against the other

make the other man fall

it’s very hard to look around

and in the brief moments that i do

it might just be better to shield my eyes

avoid the ideologue chewing up oxygen

at the end of the bar

the abject racist who lives up the street

on the news the bloodshed can be tremendous

it can look like a film set if you let it

really, you don’t have to face anything at all these days

no matter what’s coming in the end

this life can be for getting lost

amidst the shattered bones and charred flash

the endless war and animosity

live online and prosper

or it could be best that there are people out there

trying with violence and rhetoric to suck up all the gray

forcing us to pick a side

but which one when they both seem so the same?

there’s some panic in every decision

in moments like this

i’m anxious for the very next line

but it will get written

as this history of alienation gets written

murder upon murder

tragedy heaped upon tragedy

genocide around every corner

a whole love-starved world of us

waiting only to drown.                          

poem of the day 11.23.15

grand opening

there is never a customer

in the liquor store when i pass

two months and they still have

the grand opening banners

going across their marquee

people in this neighborhood

maybe they don’t drink

i was in there once when it was under old management

the russian woman who owned it

sold bottom shelf vodka that tasted like water

so i never went back

they’ve got the place fancy now

this young asian couple

full shelves and wine tastings on the weekend

but they have no customers

save this one dark skinned chinese dude

who tried to steal from them

they have his picture taped to the window

with the word theft written at the bottom like an autograph

people in this neighborhood

maybe they need to steal more than drink

still i feel bad for them

i’m empathetic at odd and random moments

every day when i walk by

to go to the other liquor store closer to my home

i watch them sitting in there

two lonely people on their cell phones

trying to make something for themselves in this world

i wonder if they’ve noticed

that the grand opening signs are starting to fade?

well, yesterday i finally went in there

thought i’d be the good samaritan

and throw a little hard earned money their way

they really have improved the place

they don’t even sell that bottom shelf vodka anymore

they’ve got wines from france

with write-ups telling me they’re bold and juicy

with write-ups that make me want to believe

i grab a cab-heavy bottle and take it to the counter

try to hand it to one of the young entrepreneurs

but he waves me off

starts screaming at his wife who’s playing on her cell phone

she pulls the bottle out of my hand

rings it up like she wants to go twelve rounds with the register

slams the bottle on the counter

tosses my change like it’s infested

then goes back to playing on her cell phone

while he keeps shouting and i gather my things and leave

thinking, gee, i hope this wine tastes as good

as they made it sound

otherwise i might have to go back

to the place i usually go

where the guy doesn’t even acknowledge my existence

and he’s been around for at least eight years.

                                   

poem of the day 11.20.15

talking travel with the verizon man

i watch the verizon technician

set up my new internet behemoth

a large router and cords galore

this upright console that looks like a video game machine

all this machinery

just to send out poems and look at porn

he tells me that i can get cable through it

looks suspect when i say i don’t have cable

well, you can stream movies anyway, he says

with all of this increased mbps

but all that i notice is that this set-up

has taken up an entire outlet

and i have nowhere now to plug in my fan

new york city apartments in late autumn

and you still need a fan most days

i want to tell the verizon man

that new york city is depressing in the fall

that it’s not like in the movies but still too warm

i want to ask him about climate change

point to my fios that’s lit up like x-mas lights

and ask him

how many of us really need this shit?

but instead i sit there and watch him work

like everyone else who has nothing to do

he talks about the mets, the war,

and how expensive it is to pay for college for his daughter

the verizon technician looks at the pictures on my walls

he says, christ, you sure travel a lot

which embarrasses me

makes me want to show him the broken windows

and the student loan debt

prove to him that i’m still the salt of the earth

but when the verizon man points to a picture

of the leaning tower of pisa and says,

hey, the eiffel tower

i nod and say yep

then like an asshole tell him

that it looks even better

when you get the chance to see it live and in person.

                                                                        

poem of the day 11.19.15

i am the great unknown

len

built this beautiful

marble countertop

for this dickhead in a big home

in the buffalo suburbs

it took two of us to carry the thing

me and len

not the dickhead in the big home

who walked next to us sideways

his arms outspread

like we were carrying his first born

a man without the decency to tell us

that there was a step up

from the driveway to the garage

and when i tripped

fell

landed so hard on my knee

that i heard it pop

but still held on to that motherfucking

marble countertop

that len made

for this dickhead in a huge home

who said

jesus christ, who are you guys hiring these days?

a man who wouldn’t even take

an end of the counter

so that i could grab my knee

and roll around on his garage floor

in immense pain

which is exactly what i did

after len casually set his end down

came over and took mine

laughed

said

i don’t know, jer

man, i just don’t know

while i writhed and writhed

and knew as good as i knew

that i was heading straight to the bar

with the want ads

not the emergency room

and that i most certinaly

wasn’t getting a tip

that miserable afternoon.                                                          

poem of the day 11.18.15

the poem in which i wonder

just how many

current chicken-hawk

congressmen

those newly minted allies

of our so-called friends

the french

were sitting

self-assured in the capitol cafeteria

chomping down

on freedom fries

back in the year

of their lord

2003.

poem of the day 11.17.15

winning the war on terror

the douche bags

eating pancakes at 3pm

at a sidewalk café

they’re winning the war on terror

better than i am

with every sip

of a mimosa they know they’ve

got god on their side

today i had a banana

some chicken and i watched a lackluster film

i almost died running five miles

almost hit by an ice cream cone truck

careening down the road in the bike lane

trying to drum up business in november

okay, so i guess i’m

winning the war on terror too

mornings like this when the radio doesn’t work

and my head feels like someone is pressing down

i wonder if i’ve drank up

any and all inspiration

i should’ve asked the ice cream cone truck driver

what he thinks about climate change

instead of spitting in his window

although i’m sure he thinks it’s good for business

i should’ve asked him

if he thinks a seventy degree day in mid-autumn

could be construed as winning the war on terror

or i should give up the poems

this silly novel that simply won’t write itself

use the better part of the grocery money

to start drinking top shelf

fund some rebels in the middle east to support

or i could become one of those dudes

who sleeps in until noon on sunday

sunglasses and a permanent five o’clock shadow

the dude forever in sweat shorts or pajamas

who proudly reads less than one book a year

who meets his douche bag friends

at some café in manhattan for brunch

talking about how great the weather is

how much i love pancakes with syrup or jelly

while everyone around me talks about how bad war is

and how the mimosas here

are simply killing it today.                                                        

poem of the day 11.16.15

her world

she shouts across

the comic book store

to her husband/boyfriend

cisgendered plutonic maybe special someone

he just yelled at me because i was sitting on the floor

although everyone within earshot

knows that’s not the case

how he politely leaned over and said

miss, you can’t sit on the floor

as if he were saying excuse me for belching

like it was him not her

sitting there in the middle of the crowded comic book shop

queen of her own little world

feet stretched out like she was getting ready for a run

knock-off louis vuitton bought in chinatown bag scattered here

red starbucks cup with no discernable holiday symbol

empty and upturned there

playing on her cell phone like a good automaton

but maybe she’s tweeting something

heartfelt about paris

telling everyone on facebook that terrorism

happens in beirut too, you know

while changing her profile pic to blue white and red

perhaps she’s instagramming a photo

of homelessness run rampant in new york

starving kids….that kind of pull at the heartstrings stuff

i mean you can’t just stand somewhere and post that shit

being profound i.e. equals sitting the fuck down

be it a comic book store

or the curb round the block

most likely she’s posting something mean

about her boyfriend/husband/cisgendered

plutonic maybe special someone

dragging her ass into a comic book store off all things

on their one and only trip to the big apple

so he could pick through batman comics

instead of going to the top of the rock

times square or the 9/11 memorial

and this effete, bearded maybe gay/bi/poly

wispy, bearded, big glasses, plaid shirted geek

nerd, looks french, probably knows where

beirut actually is know-it-all with his soft voice

picked the wrong time to tell her to do anything

save go and find someone to kiss her ass

who then has the audacity to apologize

and tell her that sitting on the floor is a fire hazard

i mean, what the fuck, she says

to her friend

who says, just stick out your belly

and pretend you’re pregnant

because america loves expectant moms

as she crawls up from the floor

yoga stretch pants showing the top of her pale ass

clutching knock-off louis v bag

yet somehow still playing away on her cell phone

like some kind of anatomical anomaly

leaving boyfriend to his comics

leaving comic book store employee to his measly salary

and leaving the red starbucks cup behind

in silent protest

as if to say simply

i am