Tuesday, December 15, 2015

poem of the day 12.15.15


smirking abomination
standing outside of our kitchen window
drinking a twenty-four ounce bottle of bud
in a brown paper bag
like some kind of teflon tough guy
basking in this climate change pseudo-december slop
who just told my wife
hey, babe, maybe you shouldn’t live on the ground floor
eight in the evening
screaming outside of our window
for fifteen minutes
wonderful, ecstatic white boy woo-hoos into the night
dude, dude, but duuuudde permeating the air
killing my vodka buzz
drowning out beethoven’s ninth
i’m going to throw him into the estuary
strangle him
i don’t know but what
storming out into the night
he must think me a madman
the way i circle, point, jab at his beer
ask him how much of a tough guy he is
you a tough guy? you a tough guy?
just like that
but what the fuck am i?
really i only want to be back inside
with my wife
with the vodka
with the beethoven
instead his friends go, bryce, yo bryce
maybe we should go because this dude looks pissed
bryce, i spit, because of course he’s bryce
bryce who can drink a twenty four ounce beer
in front of anyone’s apartment
bryce who thinks he can talk to my wife like that
of course your name is bryce, i say
he says, we’re just chillin
because bryce owns america and can chill
wherever the fuck he wants
he can talk to women however he wants
he can scream and shout and dude
and none of us can do a thing about him
bryce can interrupt vodka and beethoven
and hard-working people’s nights
you look like a bitch, bryce,  i tell him
a pampered little bitch
who can’t even do drinking in the street right
yo bryce yo bryce, his friends say
they’re already half-way down the block
i’m just chillin, bryce says
just chillin dude just chillin dude just chillin
like a fucking mantra
but bryce doesn’t know that i’ve been waiting on him
for months
for over a year
since my wife got diagnosed with breast cancer
and i wanted to fight the world
i say but tonight i’ve got you bryce
and your little bottle of beer
but he doesn’t know what the fuck i’m talking about
my wife watching me in the window
i don’t know what the fuck i’m talking about
the beethoven playing low
all i feel is sadness for this mess
i wish sometimes life handled things differently
i wish i did too
just chillin dude
bryce says, one more time
slipping past me
he hurries down the street
while i stand there neighbors watching
my wife saying, honey, come inside
but i can’t move
can still feel my worried heart
beating inside this hollowed-out chest.


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