Reading the Greek classics while feeling fucked up inside

I want to write something sophisticated

about Leningrad,

tiny black and white earth tones-

nuclear cloud shaped opacity

window sill lovers, references

I don’t have access to,

poetic checks I cannot write.

Being disappointed

these days

is automatic-

filled with convention

mouth full whole

jot the word down

but the world still crystallizes

it’s premise around something else.

Had you the space in your skin

four nights ago,

to allocate some beggars version

of the true tone and terror of this city

into your own blood stream-

have you,

but very little to go on -

to write from place of sophistication

verbal oath and advantage, to make

poetry in that place you have never been-

willing to wake-walk out of.

 

Clara, things are different now

Kiss sloppy, even worse lay-

bring pillow

near coke, call in

that past, get pissed-

how jail changed something in you

so completely, you would never

find the words for it.

Lay yourself

along that particular

part of carpet

our failure sits, heroic,

high, giving love

to never completely present

bodies.

Anyway, the rent is due.

And there are words for that.

 

Remembering Froggy, pink wig, drug love and death on Christmas eve

Brought body in that hour

to the cap where star kicked off-

flew so many shards at our loss.

I know, it could not be enough

and with all of your lack, wide open-

you might need some stronger object

to embody just how empty that other side was.

Having been drunk and bound

by the mistakes of other peoples lives,

witness dark glance

on highway of the next life-

that orphan coat felt

bright and at home in this world-

a perfect fit

until only our former selves could be seen

in hours on the go.

Don’t bother sleeping

we are close to not needing it anymore-

can’t you remember, that promise of contentment

was only tenements filled with replicas

of our own beat apart lives, broken stoves-

bad human relations,

if love lived here, it is now a museum piece.

To your side of what happened

I give you the coordinates for fallen star,

the length and miles before road runs out,

before faith bandages over our proof.

 

Nobody wants to hear that story about how you managed to get to Boston after rehab

The worst verse, then,

was the last verse, left

underneath a cup where you

had hidden someone else’s rent

money, and a mystery (if you expect one)

like a black stocking

(that smell) it’s own story.

Something, it seems, went down

in this building long before

we had arrived.

Not all great love affairs are about

managing one’s nerves, after all,

important things too

can be left in parking lots

with no intent to ever retrieve them.

And you might wonder a whole lifetime

(are you wondering? Don’t answer that)

exactly who I was- younger then,

when wounded, itemized by others,

a legion, it seemed, was doing this.

But never mind that, this (any of it)

drafts can always find their way into a house,

and what then- when we are drafted?

 

A pillow, a purple, a silo

At first

against the small thing

window, at first

then a scattering where bird form

was

now I am enemy of my own enemy

heated compass

imprinted

across the honey form

foam (foaming)

and our ? earth is lifted

tested

by and from somewhere

distorted drawing hearts

to a source ( a sore spot)

a folk tale (tell)

in fallen timber

goes under color, and stays.

An Italian love song

The voice adds itself to whatever words are around.

Isn't this so? Where were you

when the cleaving heart of earth uprooted its thread count?

Can I tag along to that place you've been trying

so desperately to return to?

Wise men put logic into everything

so that their real lives could be found only in idea.

A song with its wings cut, a crushed berry faceless as the dawn

whose winter whitens even when it isn't asked to,

my world is wood and wonder blunt where edge work

reigned in all of the impossible stuff which sat heavy in my heart

rowing by single hand, nothing disturbed but water without name.

 

James Diaz 

 

 

 

Alien City

Urban chaos devours

hope for stability

in confused exiles

from the unsheltering earth,

transplanted,

attempting survival

in a foreign clime,

unwelcomed,

urgent to adapt

before harsh conditions

crush fragile roots.

Rain Delay

I sit indoors

     restless,

          depressed,

waiting

            for

                the

                    rain

             to stop,

so I can go to the park

for a concert.

Someone else

         sits indoors,

               tense,

               frustrated,

hoping

           for

               the

                   rain

           to start,

so he can save his crop

from drought.

The Invasion of Afghanistan

American leaders

do not understand

when we conquer a country,

replace the government

with one we assert

is more democratic,

we no longer have

anything to sell

that benefits their people,

because we don't make things

that anyone wants to buy.

The claim of harboring terrorists

became a viable motive

for a massive attack

on conspiring tribesmen

scheming to bring suicide bombers

to New York City, Cleveland, Modesto,

and most of us went along

eager for out troops

to end threats far away,

so we would continue to enjoy

society's abundance,

at least those of us

who could afford abundance.

And the righteous calls

to save helpless victims

of human rights abuse

filled some of us with virtue,

so we approved destruction

of civilians, women, children,

like invaders before us,

but we proclaimed benevolence

seeking to free the oppressed

from fundamentalist masters,

while back at home

millions of children were hungry.

Our national treasure,

young men and women

willing to go in harm's way

at the orders of our government,

do not know why they're offered

on the altar of death,

believing they bring democracy

to deprived peoples craving

the benefits of America

that no longer benefit Americans,

who lost jobs, homes,

the promise of the dream,

a better life for their children.

The trillions spent on ill-chosen wars

beggared us at home,

except the oligarchs

who swell with profit

from every war,

yet will not share a portion

of ill-gotten gains

with needy fellow citizens

who do not want Van Goghs, Warhols,

mega-yachts, the finest beluga,

merely comforts of their fathers,

opportunities for their children,

now forced into the service sector.

In the mountains of Afghanistan

the sons of the fathers

who defeated the Russians,

the grandsons of the grandfathers

who defeated the British,

laugh at the Americans

who bravely fight and die,

but once again as in Vietnam

cannot hope to win

a limited, restricted war

against a determined enemy

who know the day will come

when out troops will depart.

Then, once again, the tribes

clans, sects, ethnic groups,

will be free to kill each other,

unless we've so weakened the country

that expansionist Iran moves in

promising righteous religious rule,

claiming to unify Islam

in the struggle against the West,

the aging, disorganized alliance

reeling from economic chaos,

except for the wealthy,

feasting while the people go hungry.

So globalism succeeded

where hegemony failed

and an aging America,

a confused superpower

that can no longer compel

cooperation, obedience

exporting democracy

to less fortunate nations,

a policy that deludes

our well-meaning citizens,

duped by the lords of profit

into belief in our virtue.

As more huddle in shelters,

sleep in cars,

hulk on a friend's couch,

huddle in grubby apartments,

move back in with parents,

hope for the future dimming,

except for the oligarchs

always allowed to flourish,

no longer dependent on our people,

profiting from laborers abroad

who expect less, demand less

than American workers,

no longer necessary

in the absence of industry.

Our once proud workforce

whose output supplied the world

has been callously abandoned

in a consumer society

unknowingly conditioned

by servants of the lords of profit

to frequency of replacement,

until they were replaced

by hungry foreign workers

eager to toil for less

than Western counterparts,

fatally tainted by the virus

of equal opportunity.

Where Tourists Never Go

Drug gangs submerged

into the population

convincing those without hope,

brains, guts, ambition

to get far, far away

from public housing ghettos,

poverty neighborhoods,

failed communities,

overrun, captured, possessed

by ministers of evil

indifferently trashing

the lives around them.

Plague

Persistent inclinations

to oppressively bully

the weaker, vulnerable,

are symptoms of disease

in a corrupted body,

a carrier, polluted host,

untreated infecting others

with debilitation, illness

halting healthy development,

depleting potential

due to negligent parents,

dysfunctional system.

Gary Beck

departure 

june only reminds me of departures

warm nights 

devoid of your love,

and a freedom bittersweet because freedom

is never truly

free;

aperatures were torn in my heart and i remember

you didn't care

couldn't deign to spare a thought of me—

that's okay

because birds still sing

and flowers bloom,

remembering to live without you was once hard

yet i have got it down to a science now

some days i still think of

you lovingly,

but mostly i'm just glad you're gone—

like a dark cloud on a

sunny day

everything's better once you're gone,

and there's no negativity

breathing down

it's neck at me like some middle school bully

demanding my time and attention

when all i really wanted to do was

get to class.

- linda m. crate 

something more 

the ladies sit together all

whispering behind

their hands 

as if i cannot hear them,

but i can

and i ignore them because if i listened

it would only make me say

something snarky and unladylike;

and i can't stand to hear anymore of 

their lofty admonishments—

always they are

insisting that i find myself a husband

as if motherhood and wifedom are the only

things that should matter to me,

as if they are the only

things a woman could hope to be;

maybe it's selfish but i want more a dreamer 

i have always been and i always will

be—

i want to travel the world, to change the world in

ways that are healing and long lasting,

and i want to publish my novels

sell my jewelry, to be happy;

and if one day 

i should find myself a husband that isn't something i'd

object to,

but i want more from life than the provincial norm

to become something greater than these

women gossiping behind their hands

about norma jean or peggy sue.

- linda m. crate 

God only knows 

everyone in a small town 

knows everyone

it's why i kept to myself

couldn't stand listening to the gossip

or the questions

about who's doing what? as if it were any

of the askers business what

so-and-so were doing

anyway!

i would sit in my dress on sunday mornings

my legs crossed,

and ready to launch myself out of my set

out the door

perched precariously on my seat

like a bird

because i was ready to fly away from people

some people were good;

but there were enough of the gossips that 

church became a chore—

i felt as if my high heels couldn't be high enough

or my flats should go further in the ground,

and i got tired of hearing how

much i look like my mother or the advice

on how to find myself a man;

a part of me knew they were only trying to help

the other part of me was indignant

i'm a shy girl

with dreams and hopes in the sky girl,

and i didn't like that they were

trying to pull me down

from my cloud—

if i were meant to be their step stool

God would have made me one,

but instead he made a woman full of passion and creativity,

and i'm going to paint this whole world shades of 

healing and love they've never seen

before;

make those people skeptical of my worth

quiet as they sit back down in their 

seats,

and merely smile sweetly when they praise my

works because God only knows

how they judged me. 

- linda m. crate 

i'd rather keep my heart 

teeth against my jugular

give me a lesson,

teacher,

i won't forget;

bite me

i dare you, but be warned i

bite back—

they told me to to watch out

for bears and wolves,

but did they tell

you to watch out for ravens?

shame on them,

if they didn't;

for i am a battle raven

ready to rage

a war to bring you into the deepest

ruin—

you aren't the only one that's

to learn from this

lesson,

i am a teacher to be taught 

all the ways of your

manipulative deceit is there any real way

to be taught insincerity

so convincingly?

because i would rather have my heart

than to tear it out for the sake

of war.

- linda m. crate 

lioness 

"Hey, little girl, I won't hurt you.

Just want to chat.

What's your name?"

Like that's going to make me trust you,

perverted old man,

with your disabled sticker hanging

in your car window;

don't think I don't know what's going on

in your sick head—

once I was a child, but I'm grown now

I know better than to trust people

like you;

it's always the people who say they 

won't hurt you

that cut you the deepest—

drive away, old man,

pretend that you didn't see me 

because if i ever see you again in your white

car you're going to get a visit from the

police and pepper spray to 

the eyes,

a knee to the groin,  and the pleasure

of hearing my harpy cry;

i am woman

hear me

roar.

- linda m. crate 

remembering to forget 

threw

some change into the fountain of dreams

hope they'll all come true

made dreams

for me,

and for everyone even you;

you were the nightmare

arching it's shadow over an unsuspecting

me—

it's okay,

forgiveness swung it's silver onto

you,

won't lie say everything's all right;

sometimes a fever still

comes over me

psalming your name to me—

but you're not my problem anymore

that's a freedom that isn't

entirely free,

can't escape the memories that linger behind of

simpler times

when you smiled at me

my red hair blowing into your beautiful

sky of eyes,

and there are times i don't know what keeps me

from tearing apart

only God has counted all the tears

i cried for you in vain;

may not be all right but i'm better

don't usually think of you

except when i see a man drive by in a car

your make and model and color—

it's then i'm transported

back to maine,

into your arms laughing about something

insipid that felt like heaven at the 

time when now

it's hell;

but i think sometimes we remember

simply to forget.

 

linda m. crate

the politics of not giving up your seat

to a little kid on the subway or bus

my advice is to keep your head down

when the walking abomination enters

your line of sight

read a book if you have one

or if the little bastard starts moaning and wailing

about having to stand for his one stop

listen to music on your fancy device

play a video game or pretend you’re meditating

stretch your legs and wince

tell the man sitting next to you that it’s a war injury

you’ll find at least three people willing to call you a hero

and give their seat to you even though you already have one

act like the fake pain in your leg is a genetic defect

it’s not like you have to wear a handicapped sign

when you’re sitting on the subway or bus

(at least not yet anyway)

whatever you do don’t feel bad

it’s a kid for christ’s sake

they cry for sport and can’t color within the lines

they can’t even articulate their emotions or thoughts properly

remember that one day this kid will probably be your boss

tell yourself that you’re just doing the lady next to you a favor

by not letting the child sit next to her

she’s busy with the new york times anyway

and it’s not like anyone else offered to get up

know that you’re still a good person

even if the kid ends up falling on the floor

rolling from one end of the train car to the next

while his mother frantically chases after him

as if he were a dollar bill blowing in a breeze

you’ve given up your seat for plenty of people

the sick and the old

women that you were almost sure were pregnant

the occasional hot chick who’s just not hot enough

to have someone else pay her freight

look at the kid’s mother

nod and empathize with her plights

as she struggles to pick her son or daughter

off of the piss-stained floor

be sure to tell them to have a nice day when you depart

because it’s not only polite

but it’s the right thing to do.

where have you gone eddie murphy?

up to cartoon donkey heaven?

hiding away in a bubble hill mansion

of the mind?

on some film set in l.a.

waiting to drop another cinematic turd

on your old fan’s heads?

i remember when you were the baddest motherfucker

to stroll across the stage

the thing is…do you?

ten years old and getting up in the middle of the night

to watch delirious

trying not to piss myself while my parents slept

then sleeping through school the next day

eddie, the way you made Mr. T look

man, i could never watch the a-team

with a straight face again

eddie murphy, every white suburban mom’s nightmare

on a hot summer day with the ice cream song

i don’t know a drop of shakespeare

but goddamn it, man

there are entire bits from raw

that this pool fool can recite by heart

where have you gone eddie murphy?

knocking up spice girls and hiding behind prosthetics

another beverly hills cop movie in infinite development

i think of those years buying used vhs copies

of 48 hrs., trading places, beverly hills cop

and the golden child

hoping that the pimple-faced fuck

working the video store counter wouldn’t give me shit

hiding the movies underneath my bed

like illegal contraband

eddie, i suffered harlem nights for you

i did it for jasmine guy too

and now she’s gone as well

i even bought both your shitty albums

i don’t want to think this has all been a waste of time

can’t you see we need you?

it’s not just the tranny prostitutes on sunset boulevard

who want you back

what’ll it take to get you to make another classic?

five million?  ten million?

fifty-percent of the profits on another hit?

if we could just get you up there on the silver screen

think coming to america, boomerang,

robin givens in a horizontal position

eddie, whatever it is that you need

just come on and give us something new laugh about?

bill cosby is still out there

he’s having a coke and a smile

so go on and dust off that purple leather outfit

and take it out for spin

i’m sure it still fits

hit the comedy clubs and give them all a scare

eddie, stand under those hot white lights

and tell us a joke or two

then turn to the crowd and do that magical laugh

make this tired, cruel world

bust its big fat gut

porphyria

the doctor told my girlfriend

that she had porphyria

i don’t remember which doctor

because there were so many of those quacks involved

checking her blood and her urine

digging through her bloody stool sample

the same one she’d made me view that morning

while she writhed around in pain on her bed

i’d never heard of porphyria

i was worried that it meant pregnant in greek

i was just twenty-one and i was going to bars with my friends

i knew what alabama slammers were

i knew who sold watered down drinks

i knew that a club full of women gyrating to tainted love

was the closest that i was ever coming to heaven

my girlfriend was still twenty

this porphyria outbreak seemed to coincide with my birthday

it kept me from going to more bars and clubs

it kept me in her bedroom on friday and saturday nights

listening to her horrible music

as she and her mother read medical brochures to each other

like they were reciting wordsworth

porphyria caused my girlfriend to quit her mall job

so i was back to paying for mexican dinners and shitty movies

porphyria never seemed to affect her appetite or bad taste

to me the disease meant selfish bitch

at least in english

i wanted to get the hell away from her

but i felt like such a heel leaving in her time of need

so i stuck around

as did porphyria

the sickness lasted all spring and summer

then it seemed to magically disappear that fall

right around my girlfriend’s twenty-first birthday

on a night she met me at the door

full of color and glowing like she hadn’t in months

to announce that she was cured

and would soon be able to come to the same bars and clubs

with me

the porphyria is gone, she said

yes, yes, i answered, hating her anew

and soon baby, soon so will i.

crossing abbey road at forty years old

it’s a beautiful day

only there’s this guy at the famed crosswalk

he’s got a tweed blazer on

and he’s wearing his abbey road t-shirt

like that guy who wears the band t-shirt

to the same band’s concert

his wife looks pissed

because he keeps directing her on how to cross the street

how wide her gate should be

how far apart her arms should swing

like mccartney, like lennon

do it like them, he’s shouting across the street

there are a number of people waiting to do the same thing

rainbows of flesh and blood from all over the world

trying to get to that other, magical mystery side

the cars are patient enough

i mean no one honks at the horde like they would in america

my wife and i are waiting at abbey road

to get to the other side to look at the graffiti

scrawled on the walls of the studio

we don’t need the photo op

we crossed abbey road five years ago

and it wasn’t the enlightened experience everyone claims it to be

i’ve had much more in the way of visionary moments

just crossing the street to buy a six pack of beer

but it would be nice to pause and stop for a picture

just to ruin tweed blazer’s fashion spread

have a laugh when he makes his old lady cross the street yet again

but she’s given up anyway

she’s sitting on a bench by the bus stop having a smoke

while other people are checking their cameras

to see if they got it all right

tweed blazer keeps screaming at her to give it another go

like george harrison, he says  like ringo

she tells him to go to hell then checks her phone

so he takes a picture of the famed pavement instead

and when my wife and i cross abbey road

she sneaks a picture of me

making musical history with a dozen others

my tired eyes and drunkard’s slouch

snapped for posterity

that fab, fat forty year old belly and all

John Grochalski

Jazz

The piano keys of luxury

take us to sweet magnetic industry

glowing with black magic

music shining off the instruments

and into the moment of grace notes

music sheets swaying with every key

that unlocks all the rhythm's harmony

all the peace we love to see

in our day of carefree.

JoyAnne O'Donnell

GUILLOTINE

 

As the metal descends

you anticipate its cold waterfall hitting your nape

The consensual sport of becoming THE ascending cascade

 

The doting worms who inhabit the wood block

you placed your head on

wriggle into the arena of your ear

Impersonate your idol Suzette

the fire-breathing track star

 

CHOP!!

 

Like a thrashing salmon

you’re free

 

Your athlete’s body is sold

in a thrift shop for freaks

They wear your glory not as idolatry

but as irony

 

The devil is a talentless DJ

who spins your gilded head on a shoddy turntable.

 

James Mirarchi

GUMS

 

Bad taste turns Baby Chi

into fake gold shrine

Standup comedian with no comedy

but sugary sermon of gibberish

 

Baby Chi humors his adult pets

eating kudos from high chair

bobbing his diapered bum

like Rockette kicking up heels

His politics of WAAAAAAA’S

is song and dance for parents

Fred Astaire-suckling doesn’t tap feet

but STOMPS with cutesy athleticism

His guardians cheer and fist-pump

 

Baby Chi introduces his betrothed babe

(and resulting cartoon kin)

to parents’ unwavering approval

 

Popular punch line arrives when he dumps them all

nibbling off umbilical cords with toothless gums

leaving them nonplussed and flailing for shelter.

 

James Mirarchi

Gadfly

he gathered in the public courts

spreading his ideas, sharing

his notions, tacking them onto fledging

wings and watching them take off,

some falling to the earth, some rising

to the clouds, some resulting

in his imminent demise, the price

of having original thoughts.

The Strange Story

the picture demonstrates a bony

man floating over a room of observers -

what story is this, featuring a naked

phantom, wizened geriatric figure,

dancing across the foreheads

of a group of distinguished guests,

the secret tawdry Dickens sequel,

featuring a streaking Marley?

Father's Boots

he listened to the whistle

of trains until he could hear

no more

he crawled on his back

under trains, across the expanse

of stony earth

so do not complain to me

about air-conditioned, pill-counting

fluorescent jobs

when I remember the weight

of his rubber boots.

 Cosmetic

she is a purple neon madness

countenance, blinking peacock

of a person, eyes closed,

while I prefer the bare skin

of truth, the honesty

of the epidermis, not bathed

in thick chemical, free, weightless

and living flesh.

Discount Store

daughter, do not put yourself

on the discount shelf so easily,

hanging the tag from your side,

putting yourself in the cardboard

bargain bin on the sidewalk,

instead see yourself as queen,

regal figure of the universe,

gracing us with your presence.

 

 JD DeHart

bruises

i have bruises on my arms, she says

what can i say? i tell her, i’m a passionate man

i have them on my wrists and ankles too

have you checked your inner thighs?

she goes into the bathroom

jesus christ, she says, a moment later

what in the hell were we doing?

what comes naturally, i say

there’s one on your ass as well

wow, she says through the door

people are going to think i beat you, i say

it looks like you did, she says

coming out of the bathroom

but i’m a lover not a fighter

you have some on your arms as well, she says

you brute, i say

she blushes

how about i put a hickey on your neck

to clarify, i tell her

don’t you dare, she says

how about one on your ass?

no

then she goes back into the bathroom

to look her body over again

and i wonder if she’ll find the small bruise

that’s on her left breast. 

just stop

to the 24/7 media cycle

the one who keeps reporting

on each and every mass shooting in america

we the people have a message for you

just stop

stop reporting on them

stop mentioning them

stop taking a moment of silence

during your broadcasts

to show us the faces of the victims in happier times

and stop showing up with your cameras

at each and every ubiquitous candlelight vigil

to film all of the tears and wasted wax

just stop already

because we concerned citizens have had enough

we’re tired of these special news reports

interrupting another politically biased crossfire talk show

on the falsity of climate change

interrupting our sports and market reports

we’re tired of sitting through

five dead and thirteen wounded on a college campus

or twelve dead in a movie theater

or a dozen kids blown away in connecticut

when we just want video of our favorite celebrity couple

fighting in an elevator

or another exclusive on those cute pop stars

getting married at the vatican

just stop

stop bringing us down

with your statistics on how violent america is

can’t you see that we don’t care?

i mean if we did

don’t you think we vote out the politicians

getting kickbacks from the NRA?

the ones who come on tv and tell us

that we need more guns not less?

we’re not idiots, you know?

we do rank thirty-first in the world in math

twenty-fourth in science and twenty-first in reading

so take that you media oligarchs!

just stop okay?

can’t you play something nice during your broadcasts?

a human interest story or more health and cooking tips?

a little piece on a dog and cat living together in harmony?

we like news stories like that

not stories about ten people gunned down in a mall

or seven soldiers murdered (again) on a base in texas

or even some junior high girl who hung herself

after being gang-raped at a weekend party

who wants to hear about that stuff

after working another eight hours?

if you want to report about all of that sad-sack stuff

why not give us the lowdown

on which of our favorite television characters

will be dying this season

instead of pre-empting the damned show

over another employee who lost it in the office

killed himself and took four others with him

so please just stop

for all of us

do it for america

get back with the program guys

come on and get happy in this land of the free

home of the brave

otherwise we’ll stop tuning in

and those advertising dollars that you crave so much

well, they’ll be going somewhere else

along with millions of viewers

because we know you already know

there ain’t nothing more powerful in america

than the almighty dollar

or when a ton of us get together

to support a common cause

like that time we stopped that sitcom from being cancelled

and that time we stopped that one kid

from beating that other kid

on one of those awesome talent shows.

fleet week

the three of them

were sitting at the end of the bar

in their starched white uniforms

like returning heroes

like princes of new york

christ, they all looked like sunburnt popeyes

drunk and liberated from their duty

waiting to go back aboard their ship

to shower with each other again

we were drinking nearby

drunk and liberated from our jobs

waiting to back to our apartment

to shower with each other again

when one of the little soldier boys asked me

is that you’re wife?

well, not yet, i said

which i thought was good enough conversation

but the jerky little g.i. joe

kept staring at me

kept staring at my woman

like he needed to get something out

the other two in their starched whites

just kept looking around

waiting for another drunk patriot to buy them

a congratulatory drink

or for someone to pat them on the back

and say, hell of a job, soldier

when he said to me, they must be fun

what do you mean? i asked

well, he started laughing

then he put his hands toward his breasts

like he was holding two balloons

i’m not too quick

especially when i’m drinking

but i think i understood what he was talking about

you know what i mean? he said

you know?  you know?

finally i leaned over and said to the other two swabs

you better watch him in here

this is a communist bar

when they saw what he was doing

they tried putting his hands down

but then he fell off of his stool anyway

another brave soldier gone down

we’re sorry, one of the sailors said to me

but i wasn’t buying it

we’d been watching clowns like these

harass women all week in the city

like conquering titans

like golden gods

so i finished my beer

then my fiancé and i got up to leave

i felt drunk and liberated

by never becoming just another

misogynistic, volunteer asshole with a gun

it’s all right, i told them

maybe we’ll all get lucky in the end

and he’ll get his balls shot off

when you boys sail back to iraq

blomfield

blomfield always comes in

when there’s five minutes left in the day

when i think i’m just about done

with the pain and the agony

of public servitude

there comes blomfield right through my doors

he’s always dressed the same

no matter the weather

black skull cap

diarrhea green army field jacket

baggy jeans that look like he crapped himself

sparkling white sneakers

yes, i’ve examined blomfield from head to toe

because some hatreds must be

engrained in the memory to truly blossom

he always wants something from me

a newspaper that’s a week old

a phone number to be looked up

keys to use the bathroom until the very last minute

to peruse the magazine racks

or just to walk around the building for the final five

i used to think they were up to something

that the big wigs sent blomfield down here

like some sort of secret shopper

now i just think he’s deranged

the rest of my co-workers are scared of him

it’s understandable when blomfield is wearing

his heavy army jacket in eighty-degree heat

we’ve been trained in america

to hate what we don’t know

what he can’t understand

but i don’t hate blomfield for his coat

or his skull cap or his jeans or his sneakers

for the fact that he never seems to labor or sweat

i hate him simply because he’s the last impediment

in the way of me getting back to my life

he’s the train or bus that i’ll miss

he’s the drink that i’ll have five minutes later or the couch

he’s the meal that i’ll burn thinking about how bad i hate him

the restless sleep that i’ll have

blomfield

standing there reading fliers

for kid’s magic shows and free math tutoring

at one minute til the hour

checking his watch until the very last second

that he knows we’re open

before he exits the doors

to stand outside looking both ways

scanning the street for a block party

or a community board meeting

wondering whom in the hell to torture

next.

some alien force

i’m on the bus

when i see them come around the corner

hand in hand

these two immaculate, well-coiffed bores

my wife has made me drink with them

break bread with them on a few occasions

it is always the same dull ritual

monotonous stories about her job

pointless tales about his video gamming

and when he’s not around she bitches about him

and when she’s not around he just looks relieved

and when we get home

i always tell my wife, never again

dear, never the fuck again

but there they are on the corner

looking beautiful and fresh and damned

like mormons going door to door

and it feels as though some alien life force

has taken possession of my faculties

i start pounding on the bus window to get their attention

waving and smiling at them like i’m their oldest friend

when they see me they get excited too

he starts waving and she screams, we’re going to the bar!

like it’s an invitation or something

suddenly i wake up

i’m sweating and i feel sick

but i can’t stop waving

so i mouth, good, go and fuck yourselves too

through a huge smile

as the buses passes and rounds the corner

and they’re finally out of my life again

at least for now.  

John Grochalski