Thursday, June 30, 2016

poem of the day 06.30.16

time to change liquor stores again

these are temporary loves
you should know this by now, i think

but dusting off the embers of these trysts
gets harder and harder with each separation

on any block i pass the dusty visages
of old dalliances gone bad in a sudden twist of fate

an indiscretion here that become too intimate
anger and judgement pushed too far

a price that became too expensive
for my loyalty and trust

or really just hanging around
much longer than i realized
my welcome was wanted

today he wants to discuss rebates
all next week eight dollars off smirnoff

an inane pillow talk that i’ve suffered before
for the sake of the relationship

the drill is to smile and act interested
the way that old couples do
when they tell each other the same story yet again

interject an oh yes, and hmmmm, there and there
while keeping hold of that familiar plastic bottle
as if he were waiting to grip ol’ faithful from my hands

i think of how it used to be when this all started

silent judgment that was easy to tolerate
the cold cash exchange at the register
not unlike a backseat transaction with a whore

how i long for those days
the ones before the hellos and goodbyes
the good afternoons and how was your day, honey

those extra hits from pourer girls
on wine and whiskey tasting fridays
that we never made mention of by monday

but we’ll never get back to that now
we’ve come too far with this

all my relationships have died
the minute they expect me to change

yet like a fool he’ll expect me here all next week

obedient and dedicated like the most beaten of dogs
the way the others have done in the past

but i’m nobody’s slave

i’ve left bigger and better in the dust
over as little as a crossed eye and a torn plastic bag

and there’s this new kid on the block
only five minutes out of my way

a giant grand opening sign in the window
and a face behind the register

blank and unfamiliar, an empty vessel
who knows nothing about me

with whom i can be free
or anyone i want to be…for now.


Wednesday, June 29, 2016

poem of the day 06.29.16

upon seeing my first book of poetry
deleted from the library’s online card catalog

there is a disbelief at first
kind of a how could they! vibe

that is, before the feelings of failure set in

you remember what it took
to get those poems down in the first place

indignities by the bushel that made up those verses
the years it took for the fucker to come out

remember how proud you were
to have it there on that shelf?

three fiscal years in this institution and not even one read

three million people in this borough
and not one of them cares about you

that’s what you get for sacrificing sleep to the lit gods
for getting up before the sun nursing a hangover
and banging your head against a wall for the right words


to make matters worse you check
where the book is currently sitting
at number 10,379,247 with a bullet

clearly not the time to stop paying into that pension yet

or figuring out where to put the pool in the yard
of that big home that you jog past three times a week
should it ever go up for sale

of course, there have been worse things
stabbing at you in this weary life

bullies and jilted lovers and broken bones
shithole apartments and cars on their last legs
jobs that have led you to the brink of death

horrors you never thought that you or any loved ones
would have to go through

a deleted book full of stale sentiments and memories
is quite possibly the least of your troubles

and come to think of it you’d never thought
about that book on the shelf anyway until today

that pride from years ago turning into a dull ignorance
or new words through fresh hangovers

other books to worry about
that you can’t even get on a library shelf

it was a fool’s thought
to think that it would always be there
waiting on that perfect reader

and who knows where it is now?
who really fucking cares other than your bruised ego?

let it be some fire’s kindling
or a doorstopper on mars

let that thin tome sit in its dotage
with the other rejects on the dusty shelf
of an old age home or mental institution

that shit is dead and gone

and there’s an empty page facing you right now
you vain motherfucker

so make your next move, poet
make it count.


Tuesday, June 28, 2016

poem of the day 06.28.16

spitting cherry seeds at a rest area
in central pennsylvania

i am
hoping to hit someone’s big huge car
with an oval-shaped seed

as mini tanks with names like navigator
or suburban come driving by too fast
down the narrow strip of pavement

this rest area is packed with slap happy families
doing up america for the weekend

so many people are in red white and blue
or t-shirts for the military

you’d think it was the fourth of july
or an impromptu republican convention

where do these individuals come from?
i wonder, every time i see this spectacle

watching as true patriots
with pasty flesh and violent bumper stickers

pull mammoth coolers from the beds
of over-sized trucks

carrying them two-by-two
toward bird-shit laden picnic tables

as if this rest area off of I-81 were paradise incarnate

where have i gone wrong
in this vast and ponderous land?

sweaty and half dead
devoid and any and all nationalistic verve

as the dark cherry juice runs down my chin

and i miss another RV emblazoned
with eagles and liberty bells

careening by carrying people with dull eyes
and thick wet mouths of democracy

toward the unclean pissers
flat soda pop and stale potato chips

their very own valhalla in central pennsylvania

where is my nirvana? i ask myself
as i daydream empty dark bars
on sunny summer afternoons

or the blinds closed and the a/c on high
in mid-morning beds on work days
where i know i’m calling in sick

as greasy sandwich wrappers and coke cans
lie prostrate in the brown grass

like freedom’s flag limp in the  gray haze

while the people laugh
and sing along to archaic rock songs

as anxious dogs  stand chained to trees
trapped and panting in the sun
barking their feeble dissent

the only real sign that this ritual is dubious
a con job at best


Monday, June 27, 2016

poem of the day 06.27.16

to the guy with the donald trump
bumper sticker on i-90 east

i can feel your populism from here
in the cool confines of the passenger seat

your window is up too
we both got the a/c blasting, bro

because they sure make america hot these days
caliente or kalinatuh i’d say, much to your chagrin

that is, i’m not much for building walls
or banning people from these shores

but i’d sure like to rip that bumper sicker
off the back of your car

carve a few swastikas in it too, for good measure

if only time and chance
had made us neighbors

i wonder where i guy like you comes from
out of the dark, bloody past of privilege

or straight from some all-white fantasyland of the mind

coming up behind me and the wife
and then swerving in front of us, thug style, baby

at eighty miles an hour on the I-90 going east

then switching to the other lane
so we’re running neck and neck

sunglasses and your baseball hat pulled low
paul ryan stubble that you forgot to shave

shit, you’re making america great again
by just your being you

taking to the open road
like you own the whole fucking thing

a little capitalist king in his little foreign car
or rather some mindless minion begging to be led

lost in america between rochester and syracuse
like so many others of your ilk

oh, and sorry about that middle finger
that i gave you

as you zipped up that exit doing sixty
when they wanted you to do thirty

back to that america
that they’re trying to take from you
one run to the border at a time

it’s just habit for me these days
like i just can’t help myself

so call it a cold gesture
on the rough roads of this hard land

or call it fuel for your fire, dude

a warning shot
or an opening salvo

call it whatever you want

…you dumb motherfucker.


Friday, June 24, 2016

"best of" poem of the day 06.24.16


she’s corrosive
smells like rust
makes the day
more dejected
than it has to be
she’s a gossip
tearing the peace apart
like a rabid wolf
she’s acid rain
on the lunch hour
sounds like a squeaky wheel
complaining about her life
from the first
punch clock until the last
she’s black mold
infesting the walls
asbestos trapped in the gutter
the way she walks this joint
with a killer kind of misery
that makes you want
to hang yourself
she’ll oxidize you. man
pick away at your soul
like it was lead paint flakes
simply corrosive
my friend
stomping around
like an angry teenager
telling everyone
that’s she had enough
calling this one that
and that one this
but she doesn’t
know what enough is
she’s caustic  
her eyes are made of lye
burning through you
judging the judged
until there’ll be nothing left
but scorched flowers
and a burnt cake
bought for her retirement party.


Thursday, June 23, 2016

"best of" poem of the day 06.23.16

hungover on a bathroom floor in paris

hungover on a bathroom floor in paris
i have a headache and my stomach is burning
i have just thrown up wine and peanuts
from a night of debauchery at la rotonde
there is a tallboy of heineken in the refrigerator
it is half drunk and i don’t remember buying it
but my wife has a digital picture of me
holding the beer and leaning on some stranger’s scooter
with the le dome in the background
and rodin’s statue of balzac off to the right

i have been like this on many bathroom floors before
in pittsburgh, in new york, and in buffalo mostly
i’m not new to this
but this is my first international trip to give alms
to the porcelain god

i didn’t throw up in london

i don’t like this bathroom
the white tile feels warm on my skin instead of cold
and the sink has a mirror that wraps around it
so that i can see how black and blue my eyes look
how pale green my face is
how sweaty and matted my hair and beard are
my legs when i get the shits
i can see wine and peanuts on my t-shirt
i can see what an asshole i look like

hungover on bathroom floor in paris
the bile rising in me again
and the head pounding its too typical beat
a beautiful sunny day trip to the eiffel tower
probably wasted
because i wanted to die too much the night before

because i always want too much.


Wednesday, June 22, 2016

poem of the day 06.22.16

bad head

the grocery cashier
is simultaneously checking his cell phone
and ringing up my groceries
there is no time for pleasantries
in this day and age of surrender and self-importance
that’s all right i’ve talked to enough people today
i notice the lettuce in my basket
more brown than green
and hard pellets of dirt that look like dried dung
smashed in places all over the bag
that’s par for the course here too
i think about all of the rotten peppers and cucumbers
that i’ve had to throw away from this place
the rancid meat they still have
sitting on the shelves
the expired eggs that i’ve watched the stock boys
switch to different packages
now i’ve lost my appetite and i need a drink
i decide to leave the lettuce in the basket
and put it down on the ground with the other strays
when the lady behind me starts shouting
sir, sir, your lettuce!
i pretend like she’s speaking a different language
she has enough toilet paper
that she could wipe the ass of the army for a month
the cashier simultaneously plays on his cell phone
and gives me my change
while she’s still yelling about the lettuce
if you didn’t want it, sir,
why didn’t you just put it back?
a good question, i guess
but i’m going to leave her hanging
as she turns to the other people in line
saying, do you believe the nerve of some people
it gives me pause and then a little smile
the grocery store bad boy once again
i turn and wink at the woman
then head home
knowing i’ve given her something to talk about all night
maybe even think about tomorrow morning
while she’s on the shitter
or wiping her fat nosey ass
with one of those rolls of toilet paper that she bought.                           

Tuesday, June 21, 2016

"best of" poem of the day 06.21.16

hello all

doing edits/line readings on the new novel, The Wine Clerk, so might be a week
of "best of" poems.

but thanks for reading!


bitch on the bus

she’s got a tattoo on her upper arm
a hip white domed granny
prison dyke silver fox
with a ten-dollar haircut
she’s sitting there yelling at the bus driver
for being a minute late
whenever anyone yells at the bus driver
a message plays on the bus
telling everyone that
it’s a federal offense to assault a driver
but she says, listen buddy
cut the public service announcement shit
i got places to go
like the rest of us are on this thing for the thrill of it
and not coming home from the doctors
the grocery
or our fucking merciless jobs
she tells the driver
you’re full of shit and you know it
and i can’t help but hate her
i’m usually on the other side of this argument
usually one of the ones cursing the bus driver
having that little message played for me
like my own goddamned ringtone
but there’s something about
this bitch on the bus
her scowl and self-righteousness
her bug-eyes glaring at the rest of us
as if we were pieces of shit
that kind of flips me
makes me feel a new repugnance for mankind
and has me rooting for the bad guys on this one
and although it’ll fuck up my evening a bit
scare the wife when she doesn’t see me
come slouching down the street on time
i hope this driver grows a set
pull this bus over to the side of the road
grabs his paper and lets it idle
plays that service announcement like a club loop
while this abomination
checks her cheap watch
and really gets ready
to blow her top.


Friday, June 17, 2016

poem of the day 06.17.16

the hedonist

ian was going to be a big writer one day
the next burroughs or selby jr.
all of his short stories in fiction class caused controversy
someone was usually on drugs in them
heroin mostly but other stuff to calm the need
the characters in ian’s stories fucked while high on junk
they were always cascaded in dark amber light
that had me imagining beer bottles
people rarely left bed in ian’s stories
they fucked or did heroin or stared into the amber light
or they were tortured by sex or by the lack of drugs
the characters were always drenched in a mad sweat
that soaked through the pages of his self-proclaimed genius
they were suicidal and desperate
the walls were always greasy and wet
ian liked to tell the writing class that his stories were all true
or they were taken from real life
his life maybe but he never said
he just sat there emaciated and bearded
in his amber-colored flannel coat and black scarf
that he wore regardless of the weather
a contented smile on his face
as the people in class argued about his stories
and called him names like pornographer or smut peddler
ian told everyone he preferred the title hedonist
which most of the class didn’t know the meaning of
they were dullards who wrote stories
about their families or things that had happened in high school
rain or a pet dying was usually the big climax to most stories
many of them talked about getting an MFA
ian said college and writing classes were all bullshit
but there he was anyway
with his heroin stories and his over-sexed junkies
who always seemed to have the energy to fuck
all these years later i wonder if ian made it as a writer
did he become the next burroughs or selby jr.
i’ve looked him up online a few times
but have never come up with a thing
maybe he’s still lying in bed junked up on heroin
and having drug-fueled sex next to a dirty amber lampshade
maybe he’s a doctor in rhode island
who knows?
at least he made an impression on me
which rarely happens between me and the world
the rest of those people in class?
shit, i can’t remember their faces let alone their names
and i’m pretty sure
none of them ever became writers
or ever figured out what it meant to want to be called
a hedonist
at all.


Thursday, June 16, 2016

poem of the day 06.16.16

every day is flag day

flags blowing outside of the schools
flags mounted on green, watery lawns
in suburban paradises of the mind
flags on the antennas of block long cars
flag pins and flag buttons for sale in wal-mart
flag socks and flag shoes in the window
flags on your t-shirt and flags on your jeans
flags hanging from brownstones in posh brooklyn
flags hanging in the ghetto
flags on do-rags sweating in the summer sun
flag dishes and flag spoons for your all-american meal
flags in the ice cream and stars and stripes on a cake
flags stapled to your ribs
flag necklaces and flag earrings tinted with gold
flags buried in the jungles of vietnam
flags flying on islands in japan
flags on the hats of patriots at baseball games
flags planted in the cracked pavement
flags waving in the fragile hands of freedom
stickers of flags stuck to street signs and stoplights
flags plastered on the bumpers of trucks
flags painted on guitars
flags on the buses and subways cars
flags when you pump your gasoline
a flag on the horizon looking tattered and torn
but still burning into the western sunset
flags of conscience and flags of denial
flags on your bikini for a soft day at the beach
a flag for allende a flag for mossadegh and a flag for arbenz too
a flag on the moon for humanity
flags flying over the heartland
flags flowing over iraq and afghanistan
flags on the warships and drones
flags on the shot glasses and ties and spatulas
serving up those hot dogs and apple pie
flags for the socialist and the demagogue in you
flags in the morning cup of coffee
flags with a side of toast
flags half-mast at gitmo in the hot cuban sun
oh, so many flags here in america
every day is flag day here in america
flags in my nightmares fucking up my dreams
and a flag on your casket when they finally bring you home.


Wednesday, June 15, 2016

poem of the day 06.15.16

saturday matinee
at the american ballet theater

and there is sunshine
and a light breeze
coming down broadway
as my wife and i drink water on a bench
and watch the people around us
greedily consume some abomination known as brunch
one would call this a nice day
if one were so inclined
looking across the street at lincoln center
there is something going on
an opera
or a saturday matinee at the american ballet theater
hundreds of kids are playing with a fountain
that rises and falls with the rapidity of some regimes
well-dressed little girls (mostly)
and some well-dressed boys
are crossing the street with their parents
to join in the fun
american flags are waving high and bold in the sky
like they do on every block
and the friendly neighborhood police officers
are there too!
four S.U.V. tanks of them lining broadway
taking up a lane and blocking traffic
oh, how the car horns of angry drivers
mixes so well with the smell of bacon and mimosas
the police are in full riot gear
helmets and bulletproof vests
NYPD plastered on their backs
so as to not confuse them with the army or the national guard
because it’s so hard not to these days
almost all of our heroes are carrying automatic weapons
assault rifles to go with some tchaikovsky and verdi
who knew and opera or a ballet could be so dangerous?
i never knew the cops could be so cultured!
i suppose this is the sort of thing
that makes people feel safe these days
safe to drink mimosas and eat runny eggs in outdoor cafes
safe to take the kids to see swan lake
safe to drink a bottle of water
while killing an hour or two people watching
still it’s hard to sit there
watching the little kids in pants and sundresses
mingling with the masters of urban warfare
and not wonder what we’ve sacrificed
for these freedoms that we’ve been given
what’s the true cost of brunch in lincoln center these days?
or in getting in a little art before noon
what’s the true cost of that sick feeling
the one sitting in the pit of our stomachs each morning
as we rise from our beds to face this america
believing that freedom is still more than a word
bandied about by politicians in the heat of battle
hoping that empty platitudes
belong to someone and somewhere else
and that the smiling cops in riot gear
don’t turn around one day
during an intermission
and point those friendly fully automatic peace keepers
right at you.


Tuesday, June 14, 2016

poem of the day 06.14.16

sports fan (take two)

out of sleep
three in the morning
half-drunk on wine white
my sick stomach a shambles
from a weekend
with the flu and the shits
hospital emergency waiting room
my wife still asleep on my shoulder
the television suddenly alive and blaring at this
the witching hour
mucus film on my eyelids
the florescent harbinger of lights to prove i’m awake
squeak of basketball shoes
permeating this room
sound like baby seals getting clubbed to death
i look back exhausted
and there he is sitting at the guard’s desk
the average sports fan
in rent-a-cop blue
not even watching the goddamned game
or highlight reel
whatever the sports world does at 3 a.m.
i get up with murder on my mind
to go and check on my mother
only to be stopped
by this buffoon
suddenly curious as to where i’m going
away from you
and that fucking television, i tell him
but when i try the door to the patient area
it’s suddenly locked
and i have to stand there like a fool
until the basketball reel is over
and he smiles
lets the door go buzz
then click
and just like that
i’m on the losing team
once again.


Monday, June 13, 2016

poem of the day 06.13.16

let us

let us not take tragedy
and turn it into anger

let us pause and collect our thoughts

let us not heed the words
of an orange-hued, bloviating
xenophobic, bigoted, sexist, narcissist
and turn it into a national fascist drumbeat

let us learn from hard history
before we’re doomed to repeat it on new soil

let us not exploit those lives for political gain
or turn away from our ideals

let us turn the candlelight vigil
into something more than going through the motions

let us not spiral into that human pit
of violence and betrayal

but instead let us act out with kindness and empathy

let us not take this one world
and turn it inside out

let us paint our cities every color of the rainbow yes

but let us seek an understanding
in every drop of blood

before it’s too late

or is it

too late?


Friday, June 10, 2016

"best of" poem of the day 06.10.16

bend over and take it

they tell us in coded words
to bend over and take it
they say i work for you
but like a shot in the ass
they always go back to cuddling
the money and influence
on the streets we call people like these
gold-diggers and whores
everywhere else we vote for them
put them in mansions and positions of power
go against our judgment and need
to keep these people in suits
to keep them fighting wars
arming cops like green berets
to murder in the name of law and order
gerrymander our states
so that there’s nothing but division division division
pitting us one against another
from angry, desolate coast to coast
lobby them to kill the environment
pump our fruits and vegetables full of cancer
pack the meat into steroid cages then let the methane fly
and when we get mad enough
yes, we take to the drought-dusted streets
for a moment or two
to loot and pillage from our own
put our grand statements on t-shirts for the internet selfie
let sports superstars rock the cause
knowing that the revolution will never be televised
and these elected masters
they wait us out
with benevolent smiles and hollow words
or they pass laws to further entrench us in this futility
give us a coke and a smile
the flag and the middle finger
as another celebrity scandal snaps us back in line
and into the warm home
where the consumer avarice waits for the avalanche
and passing congressional gas
is considered a monumental achievement in justice
where we sit in a loud harmony
of car horns and technical toys disguised as progress
to bend over and take it again.


Thursday, June 9, 2016

poem of the day 06.09.16

the poetry journals

only want poems that are thirty lines long
and they don’t feel bad
that you’ve spent twenty minutes
trying to find five good ones all for naught
it’s thirty lines or bust, asshole
the poetry journals are running a contest
twenty bucks for the pleasure of reading your work
but the commentary and ridicule is free
they only want poems that are one page long
for their themed issue about the abuses
of elephants in the ivory trade
ONLY poems about this theme will be accepted at this time
still…make sure the poems are under thirty lines long
forty lines about the elephant ivory trade are ten lines too many
the poetry journals aren’t reading again until july
or august or september or after the winter solstice
or they’re taking off until next year
so that staff can all concentrate on their long gestating novels
the theme for this issue is light
any poems about light will work
except for poems about actual light
please save those for their fall themed issue on actuality
or interpretations of actuality: actuality in the balance
the poetry journals are doing an all-women issue
but only women over thirty and only black women
but only black women from the continent of africa
if you’re a black women from the caribbean
please read the guidelines for next winter’s
caribbean women only issue
which is only open, of course, to women from the islands
but only those who are under the age of thirty
the poetry journals don’t want poetry with cursing in them
or overtly sexual and/or sexist themes
or poems that are pro-ivory trade
nothing too political and nothing too non-political
no bukowski-male-white-poet wannabees
the poetry journals want poetry that wows them
the kind of writing that makes them take a step back
and reevaluate their whole existence
they want poems with the power to change the world
or at least kick the asses of the ten people who read their rag
they want poetry that makes them feel alive
so send them your best
only no rhyming poems please.                                    

Wednesday, June 8, 2016

"best of" poem of the day 06.08.16

but still the sky turns purple
and gold before the sun sets

we slaughter each other so resolutely
in actions and deeds

a whole world of blood and guts
spilling into the oceans

but still the sky turns purple
and gold before the sun sets

magnificent and calming

meaning there might be hope out there
for you and me.


Tuesday, June 7, 2016

"best of" poem of the day 06.07.16

hey, sexy

her cellphone says
hey, sexy, you have a text message
as she stabs at spears of garlic chicken
with a plastic fork and sighs

hey, sexy, the phone says minutes later
you have a text message
as she drinks soda and belches

hey, sexy
while she reads the new york post
horoscope page
asking us all of our signs

her cellphone says,
hey, sexy, you have a text message
while she’s in the bathroom
running water
taking a shit and playing video games

hey, sexy, her phone begins
but she’s too busy talking about
the royal family and some starlet’s exposed ass
to listen

hey, sexy,
her phone starts to chirp again
but she grabs the sucker
and shuts it off

throws it in her bag
and goes back to killing her lunch

hey, sexy,
you have a text message
her phone says through the muffled contours
of knock off leather

but she’s beyond all of that now

they say that too much flattery
can sometimes make a relationship
grow cold.


Monday, June 6, 2016

"best of" poem of the day 06.06.16

hello all

sorry for a haphazard Winedrunk as of late
but lack of sleep, novel writing, and lingering effect
of a viral infection that i refuse to get treated...well....

coming back to work
after a three-day weekend

i am
the guy
on cheap chilean wine
floor surrounded
by green glass bottles
copulating at randon
movie watching
eating food like a roman
beer stained immaculate
without the need of desire
humbled by grace
almost saintly
i am
the guy
sober and resentful
stuck under cheap florescent lights
sexless and starving
from the gripes of sad faces
with nothing else in their lives
a bad lunch in crowded lunch rooms
hopelessness personified
insomnia nightmare
muscles twisted and tight
jealous and bitter
a morose fallen angel
waiting for the bus
in the cold, bleak twilight
oh christ
oh holy goddamned christ
please tell me
i am
that guy

once again.                                           01.20.12

Friday, June 3, 2016

poem of the day 06.03.16

joey america

joey america
loves budweiser
he keeps telling everyone on the circle line
american beer for america
the evening of a ninety degree day
and we’re packed like cattle on this thing
my parent’s idea but i aim to please
although i’ve been battling a fever
and the shits for three days
being packed on anything feeling that way
is akin to death
i can’t even get a budweiser down
i’ve been sober for two days now
and want to commit murder
but instead i sit there and hope
that i don’t have to shit on the boat
as joey america and everyone around him
get up to take pictures of gleaming manhattan
you gotta wave, he says
gotta wave, joey tells everyone
then he shouts and hoots
at every boat we pass on the hudson
screams and chants USA! USA! as fighter jets pass overhead
i wonder where they manufacture guys like joey america
is it the water or the breeding?
some factory out in the heartland?
red white and blue cargo shorts and dipshit sandals
in fact, most of the people around me
are wearing something american
one guy has a t-shirt that says, pride
with an image of a soldier busting out of an american flag
he and joey america should go bowling
that is if i don’t rip the budweiser out of his hands
and push him into the river
never forget! joey shouts when we get to the world trade center
never effin forget! he says, looking around the boat
before he holds his can of beer up to the mammoth building
like a lighter at a rock concert during an anthem
another iconic moment for an iconic city
or maybe it’s just a beer commercial he’s ripping off
because sometimes you can’t tell the difference
between the two in this country.


Wednesday, June 1, 2016

poem of the day 06.01.16

the closer

i tell you
i don’t like him
and he doesn’t like me
we’re two more people in a land of division
who do not get a long
i guess it’s a shame
but he always comes in at the last hour
when my ass is almost kicked
from dealing in eight hours of bitching and complaining
by joe q. public all day
the way he glares at me is priceless
i’ve had women look at me that way
before they’ve told me to go
he wants the financial times
always the financial times
and i’d like to shove it up his ass
then he sits there with it
like a lost financial wizard
his gray tongue licking his yellow fingers
turning the gray pages of the financial times
like he’s bill gates checking his net worth
or that asshole who owns
wondering what institution to buy next
as my hours click down on another day
sometimes i watch him as he reads
purposeful like he has all the time in the world
occasionally looking at his watch
to gauge the time
the son-of-a-bitch
he has all day to come in here and act the master of the world
i know it
because i see him on the street sometimes
pacing with coffee or a slice of pizza
berating some chinese lady for getting in his great white way
but he’s one of those kind
someone the world owes something too
our time
our hours
lending our ears for his bullshit
our waning minutes of servitude at his beck and call
the financial times folded neatly and handed to him
once i went into a liquor store at the last minute
for a bottle of vodka
but that was desperation
this…i don’t know what this is
antagonism as street performance?
the outer cosmos of privilege and entitlement?
counting down to the last minute
before he gets up from his rickety throne
and brings the paper back to me
unfolding it sometimes
checking one last article in the financial times
warren buffett in poor man’s clothing
mark zuckerberg in a torn mets hat
running down the last seconds
tossing the paper on my desk
like a used whore
then shuffling hands in pocket whistling a tune
right out of the building
without a thank you
or even a goddamned goodnight.