novice

i

think i’m so out of practice

can’t help watching you

blonde hair

mustard coat

cross-legged on the bookstore floor

reading history books

pizza-breathed and beer burped

i’m trying to calculate the months

over two years

and one mary bermiano at least

since i’ve been out

with someone new

but we know each other cassandra, don’t we?

i have a mental journal

of looks

of little laughs at the jobs

of riding out to mary’s on saturday nights

for the same depression

the same arguments

on mary’s bed thinking about you

as her hypochondria mother

shoves pills down her throat

the endless doctor’s appointments

i told you about, cassandra

riding home half-asleep with autumn windows down

so i don’t wreck the car

wreck the car over mary

thinking i ain’t gonna work on mary’s farm no more

and here were are in the pizza joint

in the movie theater in the bookstore

in your kitchen that’s bigger than my home

in your living room looking at old photos

i twirl around

your white pillar porch

three little stars in the sky

love the way your perfume lingers in the night

mixing with your marlboros

hanging on faintly in my car

as i marvin gaye

my way back to the duplex suburbs

wide awake

in awe.

sirens

sandy comes to the door

hair wet in something tattered

mutters to calvin about buying a watch

we’re early by forty minutes

one of those nights where calvin and i

have nothing to say to each other

and all i can think as sandy pounds back upstairs

is that she gave colby bad head years ago

after his senior prom

where is colby tonight?

down in maryland down in maryland

all he did was die

calvin leaves me alone with sandy’s fiancé, ray

while he calls in reinforcements for the night

ah, the socialist, ray says

he and i don’t like each other

last time i was here he started in on his whole

white-bread-clean-cut-closet-bigot-conservative-extremist routine

to try and get a rise out of me

so i started in on my

gop-abortion-war-mongering-classist-liberal-extremist rhetoric

but all i could do was sit there sober

wondering if sandy gave him bad head too

ray has no beer for me tonight as well

his fridge as dry as some southern towns

i’m holding one joint in my camel lights pack for later

but might go onto windy forbes avenue

and smoke it now

calvin on the phone with stevetomgeorge

sandy pounding upstairs on her own clock

ray says, you fellas haven’t been drinking tonight already?

strolls like jay gatsby around the place

no old sport, i tell him

but i’m a few up and so is calvin

so i trip stagger down steps

in the car to wherever we play it drunk to scare ray

can feel him clutching my headrest

legs navigating calvin’s backseat full of

coats papers tapes cds bowling balls mickey d wrappers

the passenger seat goes off its hinges again

me sliding back and forth ray sliding yelling

sandy telling calvin to stop the goddamned car

we laugh and tell them it was all a joke

everything except the car seat, old sport, i say

what are we doing tonight? i think

breaking apostolistic bread with these wet blankets

in a strip district primanti bros

with so much to do in the city?

calvin and his mundane loyalties

his jesus christ cyo friendships

his coleslaw and french fries on the side

ray says to me, you don’t believe in god do you?

of course he does, calvin says answering

halfway through my second jack daniels and ginger ale

this joint burning a hole in my pocket

ray finger-waving homosexuals downfall of america

calvin and i leave those lovebird christ children

go outside into the night of the city of my birth

this city of bridges and rivers and holy immaculate disappointments

get high down an alleyway

as women saunter in high heeled majesty

toward rosebud or the metropol

if cassandra is in there tonight

i just know i’m gonna play her fool

stevetomgeorge arrive and we end up in north hills

kangaroo’s bar tv pool tables dart boards

frat boys and frat girls crawling in expensive flannel

women walking around like hooter girls

with neon liquor in test tubes

saying, sex on the beach anyone?

to hootie and the blowfish national anthems

i pump ten bucks into the jukebox

play the whole of oasis (what’s the story) morning glory?

pump pint after pint of buck-fifty honey browns in my stomach

as tom tells the table he’s in love with colleen

as calvin tells the table he’s in love with amanda

as ray and sandy are in love with each other and god

and america and newt gingrich and bad head

as everyone’s in love

colby in maryland in love with a teenager

as i got the cassandraportiamarilyntombstone blues

as steve says, wonderwall? who in the hell played this shit?

as ray and sandy join hands and pray over

a bucket full of chicken wings and fries

i stumble into the men’s room singing

down in kangaroo’s down in kangaroo’s

all i did was die.

replacement umbrella blues

wednesday night i sit

in dead rosebud café

nursing budweiser specials

calvin waiting on a woman

it’s so hard for calvin to meet anyone

worse than me he keeps falling in love

with the girls he works with

they keep falling in love with everyone else

i realize i’m still wet because the rain pissed on me

the umbrella portia gave me

to replace mine a month after the fact

fell apart on craig street

so i was soaked all the way through

pittsburgh has been a monsoon since march

and i should’ve called portia on monday

she left tuesday now it’s wednesday

and calvin keeps checking his watch

i think i still haven’t called marilyn

when did i become someone

with so many people that i had to call?

calvin says, so what’s going on?

as if we haven’t seen each other in weeks

as if we hadn’t been here in rosebud not four days before

picking each other up off the floor

of another beer-drunk saturday night

i should tell him my grandmother is dying

cancer here cancer there cancer everywhere

she has no hair now and can hardly get food down

the fiery whiskey throat of her life going out

but calvin takes grandmothers hard

like he takes women and falling in love

and i don’t think this woman is showing up

so i tell him the fucking umbrella died on me

he shakes his head like it’s this grave

understanding between us

umbrellas die like grandmothers die

like romance dies and phone call never get made

i finish my beer and order another round

get up from the bar to piss

as calvin leans back to check the front door

i tell myself i’ll write portia a letter explaining everything

i’ll tell her the umbrella works like a charm.

the ghost of pennoak manor drive

marilyn finally calls

on this night of all nights

says, you sound like you’re

in the middle of the street

five cop cars racing up

my little dead end block

i tell her i don’t know what’s going on

marilyn says, anyway i heard you called

four times, i think, while she was in jersey

as cop cars surround my neighbor’s house

marilyn back from two weeks in jersey

where she roamed her kid streets

and dropped her prudish act

to drink in bars with old friends

sweet lemony sugar drinks, she says

cops going up the neighbor’s driveway

to murder screams tv blasts electric guitar chords

and the sound of a motorcycle revving in a garage

are you sure you’re not outside, marilyn says

it’s my neighbor, jim, i tell her, and the cops

she says, i thought about you drinking those drinks

and wouldn’t you know it?

but on the plane ride back to pittsburgh

i got stuck sitting next to some christian fundamentalist

who kept asking me what i’d say

agnostically, of course, if god to spoke to me

impossible, i say

but not to marilyn to cops frog marching

crater-faced restless jim down his driveway

pressed up against the white car swirling blue/red lights

marilyn says, that’s what i told him

she says, you know i already feel comfortable talking to you

and i laugh

thinking she feels comfortable talking to me?

comfortable in my humorous madness restless heart

that wants to just finally get on a greyhound bus

and shoot straight to d.c. with colby and hit bars

drink the same sugar lemony drinks and make love words

to d.c. girls who don’t know me from anything

girls i’ll never have to muster the courage to see again

or have to call four times while they’re in jersey

this is what marilyn is comfortable with?

what’s happening? she says

i mean with your neighbor

they’re arresting jim letting jim go, i think

but the cops stick around

marilyn says, so are we getting together or what?

late may i’ve been at this with her for a month

to no success

yaass, yaass, i neal cassidy into the phone

groucho slouch around my room

looking for a paper and a pen to transcribe our fate

look out the window

jim whose crazed antics are legend on this street

jim who begged his wife to knife him last fourth of july

jim rumored to mentally torture his family

jim rumored to have killed his girlfriend’s dog

back in the sixties

jim the great satan shroud of pennoak manor drive

dressed year round in camouflage 

ghost white skin and bones

screaming

i’m sorry

i’m sorry

into the black night

while his wife and kids cry on the porch

while the cops slouchwatch against their doors

while the cops pushpullshove him into the backseat

and marilyn says, it sure sounds crazy

where you live.

in reverse

before

julie gave me a last little wave

from the backseat

and i knew i wouldn’t call her tomorrow

before i fell onto the pavement

rainy cul-de-sac and told tom i was all right

so they drove away

before i’d been in tom’s car

colleen telling us we should get a room

before i’d been backseat kissing julie

while tom swerved the car trying

to get us to stop

before she’d been making those eyes at me

before she’d burped beer but i didn’t mind

before i lit us cigarettes

even though tom didn’t want anyone

smoking in his car

before we’d tumbled down the steps

of the bar and into the humid summer rain

before we did those last shots of house vodka

before julie came back from the bathroom

with that look in her eyes

that i understood and decided everything

before i sat down and wondered

what in the fuck i was doing with this

before i stood there and thought

about how she had a two and a half year old at home

before some dude told me that he’d seen julie

making out with at least two other guys

before julie kissed her finger put it to my lips

and shook that ass to the bathroom

before we’d been on the dancefloor making out

before i’d spent twenty minutes trying to look for her

because tom and colleen wanted to leave the bar

because i wanted to find her for myself

before she’d been sprawled over a pool table

her ass spread nearly across the room and then gone

before i’d seen her kiss those two guys

one to the other and back again to both

and figured fuck this too

before tom said, julie likes everyone when she drinks

and i thought, thanks dude

before colleen told me

that she thinks julie likes me

as i watched her laugh and clap and shake

make eyes toward me on the dance floor

before julie said, fuck this dull shit

i’m going to dance

and then got up stumbled on one heel

before she and i drank a row of vodka shots

and chased them with a pint of beer

before she said, you still have my number, right?

to get me to stop talking about whatever

before tom said to me on the way in

don’t get any ideas when she starts getting drunk

as if i were that kind of guy

before when we were in tom’s car

and i could tell julie had already been drinking

thinking maybe i’d get lucky tonight after all

before when she got teary eyed talking about her kid

and i thought, good christ

before when she was walking down her steps

and i said to tom, what kid? who cares about a kid?

before while tom was honking his horn

because julie kept us waiting

and colleen said, even though you’re a cop

it doesn’t mean you always have to act like an asshole

before as i thought about every other woman

i’d beatified with no regards to their reality

before when we were on the way to get julie

and the night seemed fresh

and the air seemed clear

and there was no hint of rain

no hint of intrigue no hint of anything

just me thinking a girl

another chance with a girl

like it was some holy event

before

another night

came crashing down

to earth.

John Grochalski

 Sorrow

 

It’s what we pay, the ticket we buy to enter

the time we spend here.

 

It’s the face we return to in the mirror,

our constant friend.

 

It’s the dust of every day that never goes away,

accumulates, just turn our backs, there’s more.

 

It’s the ball the dog returns regardless of

how many times we throw it or, how far.

 

It’s the buzz, the hum we hear in back

of it all, a national pastime, an anthem of sorts .

 

It’s what we buy to lug home, paper or plastic

bags full, fresh and frozen, canned or dried,

 

still warm from baker’s oven, or  butcher’s blade,

ready to serve, and then it’s served..

 

Now here’s some more over here I almost forgot.

    Kicking Leaves   

 

The leaves have lost their green,

Their promises of bud

Of bloom or blight

 

They have added some color

And variety and contour, but

 

The leaves have lost their trees,

Now stretch out on lawns,

Lay claim to their moment.

 

They tumble and toss themselves,

Kick and crumble, crackle under foot.

 

The leaves remind us, whisper

About our beginnings and endings,

 

They remind us now of the feel

Of inside places, of a warmth

They will never feel again.

 

The leaves are losing their hold

On us, like this they drop down

Into time and are going, blowing,

 

Gone.

 

 

           Art for Art’s Sake

 

When he finally rented the studio,

Bought into the idea of space and

Time, he brought in light and color,

An easel or two, brushes and canvas,

Enough of the pre-art supplies to feel

The stir of it, inspiration, motivation;

 

He began with the abstracts that had

Been in his head for years, shapes

Swirling about, muted colors drifting

One into another, till he tired of trying

To name them, to anchor them enough

To show, so he brought in models,

Inexpensive models: the homeless guy

From the corner posed for a sandwich

And a pint; a woman from up the block

Said she’d pose, then never showed up,

So painted what he imagined about her,

Her awkward beauty, a pose she held for

Hours in his head, then on a canvas;

 

Soon he was painting every day, everything

He imagined, everything he saw came to life,

Shape, pattern, perspective, it all flowed

From his brush, canvas after canvas;

The studio filled up, his art piled up in

Corners and cabinets full, if anyone ever

Came in they’d trip and trouble him

About it all; he sent a few out, showed them

At first, but since they all came back

He kept them, tried to arrange them

But order never worked, became strays;

 

Art can be like that, it fills his space and

Time, closes in on him, so many shapes,

So much color, he buries himself in it

And knows that that’s all that will ever be.

 

J.K. Durick

Newberry Library, Chicago

Despite the digital holocaust

of computers and cell phones,

Newberry Library remains 

the Vatican of books 

with the right sounds, 

a cough now and then,

a page turning, while out 

on the street a beggar 

asks for spare change. 

Workers with none walk away.

Donal Mahoney

The World in the Year 3000

There are pockets 

of them everywhere,

quiet and discreet.

Usually they meet 

once a week

in private homes

in basements 

some call catacombs.

Depending on the group

a minister will preach,

a priest say Mass

a rabbi teach.

Elsewhere you will find

a mosque on almost

every street.

Donal Mahoney

Con Man Willy

Willy’s old.

Still a con man

but bewildered now.

Spent his life

screwing people,

rich and poor alike.

Never discriminated.

Made millions 

he tucked away

in stocks and bonds

and foreign banks.

A few gold bars

under the mattress

for emergencies.

He’s dying now, 

a shrill curse 

his final gasp.

No plea for mercy.

One might think

death would be 

a con man’s finest hour, 

a last chance to cut

the biggest deal.

But Willy loves Sinatra.

He's proud as hell

he’s done it 

his way.

Donal Mahoney

Political Year

We often fall short,

say the dwarfs.

It’s the way we are.

Don’t make a big deal

of it, say the giants.

Happens to us too.

Can’t see the problem,

say the blind.

What do you mean?

Please repeat that,

say the deaf.

Get to the point.

Have nothing to add,

say the mute.

Can't comment.

But each candidate

brings answers for all

every four years.

Donal Mahoney

FORGER     [Stefanie Bennett]

 

 

I have created this silence

Disguised

As a poem

For all those

                    Who have

Everything but

A poem

And silence.

Almost Home

Rolling down the highway

from Chicago to the farm

Bill the barber’s almost home. 

The ride is smooth until

his entourage leaves the highway 

and draws closer to the farm.

There the road gets bumpy 

as the hearse takes on Dead Man's curve

and goes past the farm to the cemetery.

The road is hostage to the weather, 

cattle, plows and happy kids with 

cane poles heading for the river

to hook the big one Bill missed

on his occasional vacations. 

Bill loved that farm as a boy 

but he had to make a living. 

He cut hair for 50 years 

and now he’s almost home.

Donal Mahoney

A Whole Lot Cheaper

for Jimmy Swaggart

It’s not easy watching preachers

howling on television

morning, noon and night

claiming the End is near

telling viewers they have time 

to send money before the Rapture 

takes them up into the air 

to be with God forever. 

One famed preacher is 80 now 

explaining the Message of the Cross

as he has always understood it.

Every month he holds a telethon

and donors send him millions 

to keep his station on the air

around the world day and night

so he can spread the Good News.

Not a cent, he says, ever goes to him

or his choir or his fellow preachers.

But if he needs $50 million a year 

to spread the Message of the Cross 

as the only way to heaven, why not 

save time and money and tell viewers 

to read the Bible to find the truth. 

It would be a whole lot cheaper.

Donal Mahoney

Code Blue 

I used to talk to myself

and ask a lot of questions

but my answers made no sense

so now I talk to Him.

He never answers me 

but His actions are a bullhorn

I’ve heard blast for many years. 

A fool, I never listened. 

When I was young and full of it

most of my friends got in trouble.

His bullhorn always warned me 

and the cops never caught me.

I don’t care if He never talks

to me the way He talks

to saints and mystics.

A fool, I will always need 

to hear His bullhorn blast 

its Code Blue warnings.

I was young and full of it.

A fool, I never listened. 

Donal Mahoney

Subway Sarah Splits Her Loaves

She works in a sandwich shop

splitting loaves of bread

stacking them with meat

for the construction crew

across the street.

They come in ravenous

and raucous.

One of them arrives alone,

is kind and nice.

He eats and waves good-bye.

He's had his fill, Sarah thinks.

Why should he stay? 

She takes him home one night,

splits her legs and afterwards 

he kisses her and says 

see you at the shop, Hon,

and waves good-bye. 

He’s had his fill, Sarah thinks. 

Why won't he stay? 

Donal Mahoney

Anniversary Poem

She’s forgotten how great I am,

although I do my best to remind her

after all these years of marriage.

She knew how great I was on

our wedding day and honeymoon

and for some months thereafter.

But just the other day we were

stationed in our recliners

and I was trying to help her see

life as it is and not as she 

has always wished it to be.

And the woman yawned.

She’s different now but it’s better

than being married to a groupie.

Tomorrow I’ll try reason again.

Donal Mahoney

 

Keeping His Dignity

A poor man comes to the door

after the storm last winter and

asks if he can have something 

to eat if he shovels the walk.

You say forget about the snow.

How about ham sandwiches

on rye bread and he says fine.

You ask if he wants mustard.

He says yes if it’s Grey Poupon,

the only mustard he eats.

Donal Mahoney

Angels or the Fat Lady

It’s pretty simple, really. 

The world will end 

whether we believe 

the Bible is a myth or truth.

If the Bible is the truth,  

the world will end,

a monk told me, 

when the angels come

to sort the good folk 

from the bad and

toss the bad folk into 

fire that never ends 

with weeping and 

gnashing of teeth. 

But if the Bible is a myth, 

an atheist told me,

the world will end

with a final aria

atop Mt. Everest 

when the fat lady sings.

Donal Mahoney

Looking for a Piece

 

Even though

we’re getting older

even rickety in some respects

my wife and I remain

involved in the joys of life.

We love each other more 

than we did decades ago,

which is why I tell her

on this hot summer day 

she looks fetching 

in those shorts and   

I’m sure tonight 

when the temperature drops 

I’ll be looking for a piece 

of onion on my burger.

Donal Mahoney

Marbles

When you get old

it’s nice to have all your marbles

even if you can’t count them

even if they look the same color

even if you can no longer hear them 

bounce off each other when your son

brings your grandson over

and he shoots marbles all over 

the house and they careen

like your thoughts this morning

as you try to recall where you put 

the marbles after the boy went home 

and you get down on your hands 

and knees and feel around and find them 

so when the boy comes over again

you can hand him the marble bag 

because your son just called 

and the boy will be here in an hour

laughing and shouting and wanting 

to shoot marbles all over the house

like heads rolling in Syria and Iraq.

Donal Mahoney

 

ADDICTION: DEATH OR INSANITY

My life moves on in the grips of addiction

I’ve been coughing for three weeks now with growing fears that a cancer is destroying me from inside

But I can’t simply stop, not now, not after so damn long

So long of smoking whatever I want, whenever it becomes available

I’ve smoked it all over the years from white widow skunk that made me go insane

To straight rolled-up tobacco in blue papers that just left me wheezing like an old man

Nearing thirty years of this deadly habit that I cannot shake

I love and need what it gives me every day

From chilling me out at the end of a hard day at work to just keeping me going

Whilst dealing with customers or people on the street

Whenever times get bad it’s always the first thing I reach for

If I’m at home it’ll be for the weed

If on the street it’ll just be for the baccy bag

Smoking will one day kill me but until that day I will remain gripped by its addiction

Knowing full well that I’ll never be able to give it up

Smoking my way to the mad house or the funeral home it don’t really matter now

All I know is it won’t be long now...

Bradford Middleton

FIGHTING FOR GOOD POETRY

Another night, another open-mic

This time though I should really win

The poem I’m going to read is great

About a night I can barely remember

Drunk out of my mind in Frisco town

When I was younger and more confident

But tonight, something feels wrong

The DJ plays some serious tunes

Which don’t really fit in with ambience desired

And then my mate gets asked to read first

A poem about death in acknowledgement of D-Day landings

And then a few more get to read their stuff

Mostly kids with back to front baseball caps

Whose heroes are the hip-hop people

That I ain’t ever really understood

Then it’s my turn and I read my piece

Uneasy and a little bit bored at what I’ve heard

And then I stumble, knowing I’ve blown my chance

At the end the scores are added up

And I offer some idiot outside for giving me 2 out of 10

I call him a clueless fool and the air turns nasty

The rest are a whole lot better but still not enough

As the fanfare offers a welcome to a new contestant

The wife of the organiser and its obvious she’ll win

She reads a sweary piece about what it’s like

To be married to the over-grown child

Who during the break, when I’m outside smoking

Yet another joint, tells me how great I was

But then when the results come it’s obvious that I ain’t won

And guess what? Yep, she wins allowing the feminists to rejoice

Bradford Middleton

THE END OF TIME (MAYBE)

It’s the end of time I hear

The Mayans prophesized we would all come to an apocalyptic end

And I just hope they are right

This civilization is not that anymore, it’s a crazed demented ride

Through the helter-skelter

Of modern living, the end of time

I hope it’s the end of time

This planet is fucked beyond all hope

There’s no hope for the future

For as long as we keep relying on ancient forms of representation

And unfair forms of remuneration

That is modern living, the end of time

I sometime wonder what it could be

This life of mine in this time at the end

I know it could be better

But I’m just one of the problems

One of those who believe, nee hope, the Mayans are right

This is modern living, the end of time

This is modern dying and the end of time

December 21^st, 2012 and salvation at last

As it all comes crashing down

The monuments that we have been told are cornerstones of our time

With them go all our problems and at last

We can say this is modern living, maybe not the end of time

Bradford Middleton