poem of the day 02.29.16

all american pig heads

pig heads

hanging from sweaty windows

on fifth avenue

like the two fat italian guys i’m watching

eating pizza and watching hoops in their NYPD t-shirts

this is what passes for sightseeing around here

this is what passes for heroics

cop t-shirts or millionaire athletes

i watch them sucking cheese and processed meat

i can tell the way this country is going

by the way their eyes flicker toward ESPN

instead of the truth

i shouldn’t hate these men upon sight

but i do

i don’t know their politics

i don’t know where their hearts are

but i’m willing to take an educated guess

based on two hundred and forty years of crooked history

we’re from the same mother i understand

the same industrial beast bleeding from the center

but we’re not the same kind, right?

still, we must have a common loneliness at times

the same dissatisfaction seeping from our all-american pores

or have our souls been shipped overseas?

come on, i mean even i have sucked down a slice or two

ravenously over a game

as if this little democracy was going to end

on a hail mary touchdown or a missed goal

i hate myself

when confronted with such an obtuse throne of judgement

hate myself underdressed in the winter breeze

watching these two men slap five

over every nuance of the knicks game

despising them and their simple afternoon splendor

up the street from me

the empire state building glows crystal white

down here the verrazano-narrows bends toward infinity

moving away from the window

i’m jostled by a strong gust

just a pig’s head here on third avenue

a cog in the colossus

swaying in the slop

looking for the quickest way

home.                                                              

poem of the day 02.26.16

all apologies vincent smith

i ask my wife how he does that

she says, it’s sand

red paint and sand

moves her hand like

she’s rubbing it over the grainy canvas

like jean dubuffet , she says

all these years and i still know nothing about art

we walk around the small room

looking at the work

four large canvases on four white walls

the grainy redpaintsand makes tenement walls

distorted african faces looking out of windows

vincent smith was basquiat before basquiat

i announce

suddenly enlightened

i also know where to find the apartment

where the heroin took jean-michel too soon

i think we’ll go there next

when suddenly there’s a clatter in the quiet gallery

the redpainflesh gush of fat tourist faces

filling up the small room

taking up seats on window sills

exasperated and worn-out

from walking one new york block

they text and take pictures of trump tower across the street

fifth avenue like a parade route of mammon

glance at the paintings

snap a bored shot for posterity

all these years and america still knows nothing about art

all apologies vincent smith

for the rude interruption upon our time

my wife and i try to get in a few more glances

redpaintsand and this edvard munch motif by way of harlem

but we’re being backed into a corner

by the hungry wolves of capitalism

as the room continues to fill up

a flood water of knock-off louis v bags

and t-shirts that falsely declare “i love ny”

i look at my wife

squeeze her hand

tell her i want to go home and get drunk

i tell her these tourists, baby

they make me want to scream

poem of the day 02.25.16

the stalker

mary keeps

showing up at my house

with her mom

showing up at my job

with her friends or her new boyfriend

she threatens to go to my bars

she threatens to go to my clubs

steve has heard from her

how do they even know each other?

calvin has heard from her

he says i let a good one get away

colby said she sent him two letters

mary keeps

calling almost every night

but i won’t pick up the phone

my old man says he’s tired of hearing her voice

someone sent a basket of flowers to my job

i just know it was mary

last week kris and i saw her at barnes and noble

yesterday a six page letter showed up in the mail

on pink paper with blue script

in mary’s bubbly handwriting

she keeps

trying to get us back together

despite the boyfriend

despite the months we’ve been apart

despite one year and nine months of bullshit

mary finally get me on the phone

i tell her please

that this just isn’t in me

i tell her please

for the sake of my sanity

i’d sacrifice job, career, family

friends, love

happiness, she added

for my one goal to be a writer

mary keeps

hanging up on me when i tell her this

she says she’ll leave me alone for good

but driving home from calvin’s last night

i swear i saw her

lovelorn and crazed

a sad clown grinning in my rearview mirror.

sort of "best of" poem of the day 02.24.16

deep in the novel writing...so poems coming slow.
this isn't a best of poem...i don't think i ever put this up here (there were reasons at the time)
so here goes:

my enemy

i have an enemy

he’s been sharpening his hatred for me for years

keeping it all stored for a later date

he is the simplest of pronouns

he claims that i have family issues

that i never got along with daddy

that mommy never loved me

that i’m so negative because i didn’t  grow up right

he has a degree in psychology

that’s decades old

my enemy claims to be freud

but i feel like machiavelli whenever he’s around

he’s a pretty big failure all the same

failed at being a spouse

failed at being a human being

he used to piss himself

and once he shit his pants on the way to the movies

everyone says my enemy is harmless

he’s just jealous because his life didn’t pan out

and now he’s facing the tattered end of the line

i don’t know if i believe them

i can see the murder in the man’s eyes

the perverse joy he takes in hating me

plus people have caught him shouting about me

into his cellphone

kicking at walls as he spewed invective and threats

he once claimed to want to kill me

i believe his hatred for me gives him a purpose

and a reason to wake up in the morning

everyone is somebody’s villain

everyone is somebody’s asshole

i’m his

my enemy

what can i really do about him?

he keeps my poems and stories

in a crisp manila folders

as evidence of my cruelty toward him

and the rest of humanity

he wants me hung for making art

out of my scrap heap life

i had no clue that he was such a fan

i’m thinking of dedicating my next book him

giving him a signed copy

the next time that i see him

with an inscription that’ll read

dear enemy,

thank you from the bottom of my heart

for all of your time and energy

for all of your dedication and support

for all of those sleepless nights

for the sad and pathetic troll of a shit stain that you are

on this old world

and for the strong man that your weakness

and petty resolve

have forced me to become

i couldn’t have done it all without you                            07.25.12/08.06.12

poem of the day 02.23.16

portrait of the artist

on the cusp of forty-two

3:20 a.m.

at least that’s what the clock tells me

sweet after scent of vodka

mixing with morning breath

we have had heat again for five hours

in this shithole

but the pipe is already going cold

the bright bathroom lights

causing epileptic eye flutters

as i try to clean cat shit

off the bottom of my right foot

cursing the blind, deaf beast

as she circles the shaded apartment

whining or whatever it is she does these days

that passes for meowing

looking for new and improved places

to vomit to defecate to spread snot

sixteen years old to my way over forty-one

we should probably both

be taken back to bed or put to pasture

my long trying-to-stay-young hair

keeps getting in my face

as i retch and wipe the tar-thick excrement

with wet toilet paper scented with bathroom soap

for a knockout punch of disgusting

and i still have to piss

oh, the things you find yourself doing

on the cusp of forty-two

at 3:20 in the morning

a witching hour lifetime that has spanned

pill-fueled poem writing

soliciting prostitutes

and falling asleep drunk in diners

to cleaning crap off of my bare feet

i wonder what the next twenty will bring

other than cirrhosis of the liver

and turning completely invisible to the young

3:20 in the morning

as i sit on the cold ceramic of the commode

feeling every bit the gray color spectrum of my age

the sound of water running

somewhere in the building

as the cat stares but does not stare at the joke of me

trying to remember what i was dreaming about

what it was socrates said about the unexamined life

or if i should go ahead

and wander fresh footed into the kitchen

to dance with the cockroaches

over one last immortal drink.

                                               

poem of the day 02.22.16

matchmaker

my mother

bless her soul

thought the girls

should all love me

all two-hundred-forty pounds of me

triple-chinned

glasses barely fitting on my fat face

pants specially tailored xxxl me

if she saw me talking to some girl

oh, you should ask her out

she had friends at work

who had daughters my age

co-workers just a couple of years older

it was easy to forgive her

mom wasn’t with me on the school buses

when high school girls laughed at me

until i turned scarlet and bitter

she never sat in english class

and watched  jamie johnson play

duck…duck…COW!

when his hand landed on my head

or looked into the sad disappointed eyes

of the other girl

as we both played wingman to our friends

mom just wanted to play

matchmaker for me, i guess

to see me stroll around the mall

like all of those other healthy young couples

instead of watching me

put back three helpings of spaghetti

before attacking an entenmann’s crumb cake

usually i just felt bad

for the girl in those scenarios

like this one blonde cutie

courtney

she worked my brother’s birthday party

at this video store

where they showed 2^nd run movies

i was helping her set up chairs

and maybe we were talking about movies

or music or some thing

being the only teenagers in the place

i made her laugh a few times

if nothing else i could always make the girls laugh

being a fat clown came as easy to me

as clearing away a bag of potato chips

but when mom heard the girl

in the throes of laughter

she came over to us and said

you two seem like you’d be real good together

because it’s good to see people

who can make each other laugh

oh, man

the look on this girl’s face

i’d seen it dozens of times

red

nervous

sorrowful

mortified

humiliated

self-conscious

caught

embarrassed

deer-in-the-headlights

get-me-the-hell-out-of-here

she excused herself to go and get the

cake and soda

the stuff i was really there for

and came back ten minutes later

switched from a blonde

to a brunette

nametag switched to a guy named jeff

who called me bro

and said this year was the penguins year

to take it all

man

as i craned my neck

catching courtney’s eyes stocking action films

just before jeff shut the door

and the room

went

celluloid

blue

then black.

                                                

poem of the day 02.19.16

selfie nation

there are more

than a dozen pictures

on her phone

each one

bright red lipstick

kardashian face

sunken cheeks allure

a fine example

of what she’s done

with her afternoon

pretty boy next to me

on the d train

is doing his best to rival her

frosted greasy tips

chin up

brooding eyes

each snap a quitter

or a keeper

which one will make

instagram

snapchat

facebook

twitter

oh, i got the millennial blues

i look around the train

there has to be

at least half a dozen others

of these vain swine

every race

every gender

doing the same thing

young dimwits

reasonably good looking

but so what?

all ready for their close-up

wouldn’t know the president

from a pop song

so don’t ask me again

what’s wrong

with america

these days.

                                   

poem of the day 02.18.16

i thought i daydreamed the sunset

the taste of excrement

on my tongue

from a sewer blown in a storm

you can’t have it seventeen degrees one day

fifty-five the next

without a little bit of rain falling

without pipes bursting

rivers of shit

waterfalls of piss

microbursts of vomit etc.

pouring out from under doors

filling hallways and closets and kitchens

a flotsam of serving bowls

and christmas tree boxes passing by

the intestinal track of this whole neighborhood

gurgle-swirling in the deluge

turds like driftwood on the mighty mississippi

such a beautiful stink

i think i might die in this wicked failing infrastructure

standing here on the edge

of the basement steps

like a dumbstruck tourist on a dock

waiting for the sun to set

watching brown icebergs melt into putrid slop

telling two girls that it’ll be all right

helplessly trapped on a tabletop

holding their noses

they are so pale so white

i doubt they believe me

as the foul circles around them

splashing so childishly

so careless like fun on the beach

creeping inch by inch

going into refrigerators

contaminating water bottles

sneaking up toward electrical outlets

our own little FEMA disaster

if it keeps on rainin’ the levee’s goin’ to break

we watch the garbage can tip over

and sail around the room

slow like the steamboat natchez

spilling trash as it bobs along

i declare

oh, this south will rise again, man.                                            

poem of the day 02.17.16

love poem to yulia tymoshenko

yulia

i sit here drinking cold coffee

wondering where the time has gone

for both of us

remember the days when there wasn’t

all of this global bullshit?

yeah…me neither

we’re both a bit weathered now

only you wear these trying times better than me

a bit of the ol’ golden goddess still in your step

but i don’t think i hate the russians

as much as you

i let those feelings go back

when rocky balboa beat ivan drago

true, it’s not the same thing

but if not a literal connection

then there is something to be said

for wanting to defend yourself

you do have a point

about the united states and the european union

meddling into your affairs

americans are like scrappy little dogs

taking shits all over the globe and never cleaning it up

and it’s hard for me to not see

all of those refugees pouring into germany

and not think about

all of the good falafel they’ll get in berlin

when all violence and genocide is said and done

i just want you

to take it easy kid

do those constitutional changes

when you feel like it

have those parliamentary votes at your leisure

take a holiday to one of those

crimean beaches if you still can

and remember a minority party

is still one hell of a ride

with the right people

the right tunes

and an extra splash of vodka in the punch

for when vlad and all the boys show up

at your doorstep

once again.

                                    

poem of the day 02.16.16

duncan

duncan is running around the kettle bar

with his sister olive

screaming and yelling

while people are eating bar food

or starting in early on the day’s drunk

duncan is maybe three but still looks vacant

olive is pushing two at best

and has a set of pipes on her

that could raise the damned

there are no other children in the bar

because it’s a bar

duncan’s old man is your garden variety domestic asshole

with his receding hairline and dad gut

his sculpted man boobs

under an ugly maroon v-neck sweater

with tufts of chest hair coming out

he apologies to my wife and i

when duncan and olive repeatedly smack into our table

but he doesn’t mean it

because we reek of childlessness and other malaises

because his america counts more than mine

dad is enjoying his stolen afternoon beer too much

to worry about duncan and olive

killing other people’s time

he’s too caught up in the entitlement of being a parent

at the turn of the twenty-first century

praising his children

for what used to garner an ass whooping

duncan’s mom is a beast of a woman too

who wears the wounds of a war

of knocking out two kids in under four years

on her soulless stomach

i think she has diamonds

embedded into her glasses frame

for that extra douche bag oomph

and somewhere on her fat dego ass

i’m willing to bet

is a faded tattoo of a beloved cartoon character

she got at the beach

before duncan and olive were a drunken mistake

in the gleam of her eye

she thinks naming her children

duncan and olive

makes them more than the common

screaming creeps they are

mom had been carrying olive’s dirty diaper for fifteen minutes

until she set it down on the table next to us

blue and white and brown ball

of non-biodegradable plastic

a table someone else will eventually eat/drink on

she doesn’t care

because duncan and olive are so precious

their shit doesn’t stink

they’re the zenith of what she’ll accomplish in this world

ignorance that she’ll pass on

like family jewels and disease

boutique named monsters free to run around a bar

screaming and yelling

and raising hell on a monday afternoon

where we are all captives to this mundane madness

that gets passed around these days

under the guise of precocious ingenuity

duncan in his rookie-of-the-year t-shirt

olive in her plaid dress

smacking their heads off the worn bar and laughing

the little philistine prince and princess of bay ridge

with ketchup stained faces

from french fries flung on the bar floor

like nut shells and sawdust

little landmines we’ll try not to slide in

as we forgo another beer

and get up to leave

to duncan screaming bloody murder

to an old hootie and the blowfish song

as olive prat falls and farts

and our proud patriotic parents

order another round.

                                                                        

poem of the day 02.15.16

che guevara on the 4 train

che guevara is on the 4 train

in his field jacket and beret

getting jostled by straphangers

with big book bags and cell phones

he’s not even trying to hide the fact that it’s him

although his hair is a bit longer

and, of course, it’s gone gray

i want to ask him how he pulled it off

down there in bolivia

how he fooled us all and lived

but che looks like he hates

the 4 train as much as i do

it’s always packed no matter the time of day

and there’s always some asshole standing by the door

who makes it impossible for people

to get on and off at their stop

people are getting slashed

with razor blades down here

some lady got jabbed with a needle last week

and now she has to take these shots

for things like hepatitis and AIDS

i wonder what che guevara thinks about that

like maybe it’s time for a revolution on these trains

i imagine one must get tired of revolutions

of always having to liberate yourself

and a bunch of ungrateful people

che looks tired on this afternoon 4 train

tired of getting smacked with some dude’s book bag

tired of the chick screaming in her phone

and the fat ass trying to eat

an onion and scallion bagel over his head

the people on this train aren’t worth

fighting a revolution for

che and i should throw most of them to the dogs

then head to the MoMA

and catch the end of that picasso exhibit

discuss the benefits of genocide

over coffee or orange spiced tea

plus picasso was kind of a revolutionary too

he refused to leave france during the nazi occupation

and he painted guernica after all

although i don’t know what pablo thought

about the cuban revolution or che guevara

and i doubt he’s ever been on the 4 train

not even once

not even during rush hour

when revolutions are pipe dreams

and it’s every man for himself.

                                                            

Hiatus time

hello all

taking the week off
taking a hiatus to go and play tourist in my own city
see you Monday February 15th.

jg

poem of the day 02.05.16

try someone else brother

then there’s this lunatic

sitting next to us on the N train

one of those shouting screaming ones

who has multiple souls inside of him

all trying to tear him apart

the schizophrenics never get benevolent beings

i state as a matter of fact

but still we were the stupid ones

who didn’t see him there

didn’t realize one half of the train was empty

save this guy and all his innards

but that’s what euphoria will do

or is this just relief?

i mean you were gone what?

three, three-and-a-half hours

this after coming out of the exam room twice

in your gown, which i know you hate

in tears i might add

because the technicians had lost your films

and weren’t going to do the mammogram

it was stupid of me, all things considered

to be thinking in that moment…thank christ

not because i didn’t want the mammogram done

we’d been steeling ourselves for it for two months

because breast cancer at thirty-seven will do that

or because i wanted you to have to trudge home

take off work again

worry for who knows how many weeks

because of some clerical error or filing mishap

it’s just that i thought thank christ

because i’d seen you crying in hospital gowns before

in corridors with fake picasso’s on the wall

knowing that it could get

much much worse than a cancelled appointment

but still three hours was a long time

i’ve never paced in a waiting room before

like a film character

something out of a 1930s baby romp

as people who came in after came and went

i wondered if it would be an impropriety

to barge back in that examining room

find you within the crowd of women

all in hospital gowns and on cell phones

all facing their own kind of terror

just for some information and solace

and i was going to do it too

except you came out around high noon

with thumbs up and a smile

safe for another six months

before we start this circus all over again

so, really, what’s one lunatic schizo

screaming in my face

mean to us on an afternoon N train?

a lot

that’s why we got the hell off at the next stop

and ran like two scheming kids to the next train

his madcap voice trailing us down the station

because the surge of life

will do that to you

they say it’s funny sometimes

so darling…laugh     

    

we got so much to live for                    

not poem of the day 02.04.16

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.