Poem of the Day 02.28.23

frank fanello played guitar

like clockwork
every time us kids
came out onto the cul de sac
with a wiffle ball and bat
or a nerf football

frank fanello played guitar

he brought out his black electric
with a portable amp

and an extension cord
that he plugged into a jack in his garage

then frank stood there on his driveway
in front of his big, blue station wagon

playing
led zeppelin
jimi hendrix

the star-spangled banner over and over

he kept our wiffle balls
if they went into his yard

held it them to us to see who’d try and grab it

frank called us punks and wimps
tossed the balls into his garage
and went back to playing clapton

older neighbors said he was crazy

rumor had it that frank killed
his girlfriend’s dog back in the 60’s

he once told us kids
that he used to drop children out of airplanes
back in vietnam

frank was a noted draft dodger

one time
he chased his wife
around their yard
with a steak knife

frank grabbed her
and put the knife in her hands

and yelled, do it, go ahead and do it, you coward

that was a crazy memorial day weekend

crazy like how
frank fanello played guitar
every time we played ball

how he stood there on his driveway
back arched and knees bent

like he was playing guitar
in madison square garden

instead of on a dead-end street
in the pittsburgh suburbs

antagonizing a bunch of kids
because he had nothing better to do

kids who hated him
who hated his guitar

kids who’d let frank know
just how much he was despised

with rotten vegetables
shaving cream and eggs

on those nights
when the sun went down
and the street got quiet

when frank fanello
was so tired from playing guitar

that he forgot
to put his big, blue station wagon

back inside the garage.



07.16.20

poem of the day 02.20.23

organic assholes

the organic assholes
are making a big show of it
in the chain supermarket line

they’re acting like aliens
they’re acting like they have to slum

at least they have self-checkout machines in here,
one of them says sarcastically

and i laugh as they get out of line
because the self-checkout machines
in this joint are always broken

what pedestrian bullshit, they say, getting back in line

do you even ever really shop here?
one organic asshole asks the other

um…no, the organic asshole says
would i shop somewhere that has no cauliflower rice
no pre-made salads and no craft brew?

i mean they sell kraft products here!

and they laugh at that

the organic assholes are holding something dewy and green
that i don’t recognize

collard greens, one organic asshole says to the cashier
even though she didn’t ask

we’re making a brisket tonight
and we just had to have collard greens

but there’s no farmer’s market until the weekend
and trader joe’s let us down so…

the cashier nods and says nothing

do you know how i make mine?
the organic asshole asks the cashier

she shrugs

with bacon, vinegar and garlic, he says

only local sourced pork, the other organic asshole adds
then she holds up cheap chocolate bars
and they both snicker at them

it’s my mother’s recipe, the organic asshole says

cool, that’ll be $2.95 the cashier says

of course, the organic asshole pays with a credit card

um…we don’t need a bag,
the other organic asshole says to the cashier

and she takes the wet collard greens out of a plastic bag
holding them up like a dozen roses

before the two organic assholes
walk out of the grocery store like the prom king and queen
over to their waiting cockapoo mix

as the cashier picks up the sopping plastic bag
and throws it away.

Poem of the Day 02.17.23

life after death books

people are always
coming up to me
wanting life after death books

they want to reconnect
with a loved one

a husband or wife

a child or an old friend

they say they see signs
that the dead still exist amongst us

spilled liquid for no reason
something precious of theirs suddenly gone

a song that keeps reminding them
playing wherever they go

they need to make sense of these signs

so they want books
on life after death
written by someone who hasn’t yet died

and if i can
i get the books for them

fetch them from the shelf
or order one if i don’t have it

the people seem satisfied
happy even

they take their book
on life after death
and leave

i go back to my desk
and sit there

trying as hard as i can
to not cast judgement
on anyone

but myself.



03.23.20

Poem of the Day 02.15.23

it’s winter and the teen girls
like the pins on my messenger bag

we cry silently
for acknowledgement

we stand stoic

and pray to the gods
for a seat on the evening bus

it’s winter and the teen girls
like the pins on my messenger bag

they point to me and say, hey
as if we were old friends

they say,
we like the pins on your bag

i look at the pins
as if i’d almost forgotten
that they were there

the one that says,
gay rights are human rights

the one that says,
trans is beautiful

the one that says,
fuck trump

the one that says,
read a book and not your phone

the pin for elizabeth warren

and i feel self-conscious
and i believe nakedness is relative

yet i smile
and thank them

think about how someone
could’ve just as easily said
how much they hated me

i mean
this is america after all.

Poem of the Day 02.14.23

seymour

i was new to the school
new to the suburbs

and i landed in this catholic school
where i couldn’t take my eyes
off of tara roddick.

tara had this
tall, blonde friend, linda jones,
who used to catch me staring

she’d make faces at me

or she’d get tara’s attention
and then i’d have two of them on me

mocking me during a spelling or math class

when valentine’s day came
our teacher made us decorate
kleenex boxes in red and pink and white

so that we could set them on our desks
as we all went around the classroom
dumping valentines in each other’s boxes

the teacher gave us cupcakes
and let us open our cards

tara never gave me one

linda did, however
and when i opened hers
it read

“knock, knock.”

“who’s there?”

“seymour.”

“seymour, who?”

“seymour reasons to like you all the time.”

except linda had scratched out “like”
substituting it with the word “hate”

truthfully i was surprised that linda
even cared that much at all

and when i finally looked up

i watched her and tara eating

their cupcakes and sharing each other’s valentines

they looked so innocent
i guess like little girls should

i took another glance at linda’s card
then i put my head down on my desk

wishing i were blind

just shot through the eyes

with a goddamned bow and arrow.


05.21.08

Poem of the Day 02.10.23

the right way

they give us
no right way to do it

the failure is complete
the moment we’re squeezed out
from between our mother’s thighs

then it is

god and government
country and flag
parents and teachers and bosses

days that are subservient
and insubstantial

we can blunt ourselves with alcohol
we can blunt ourselves with drugs

we can blunt ourselves
with love and anger

tv shows and the movies

but nothing ever really
does the trick

they give us
no right way to do it

but they expect us
to have all of their answers

in the flick of a wrist
in the blink of an eye

as we crawl away from them
nodding our dull compliance

our wills breaking
our fingers bleeding
our nails covered in mud

no safe space
left on earth

like the one we had
in that swirling beautiful void

before the dark madness
of conception

Poem of the Day 02.09.23

collection days

it seems as archaic
as kids carrying newspapers now

but they used to give us
a thick ring full of cardboard paper
cut into perforated tabs

they acted as receipts
when people paid you for their papers

once a week
in summer or after school

i had to walk my paper route
with the ring of cardboard tabs
knocking on people’s doors
to get the post-gazette’s money

in winter
i saw the dark on both ends of the day

i was the great interrupter of dinners
sexy time after long days at work
of infants falling asleep after hours of struggle

the great ruiner of
children’s birthdays and underage parties

i stood at closed doors
listening to hushed voices
hoping that i’d just go away

while the same dogs that barked at me in the morning
got a second chance to go at me in the evening

the people who condescended
to open their doors
looked at me as if they didn’t understand

like their newspaper just arrived
by some voodoo or magic

and not by some fat kid
trudging along in the rain or snow
or the humid damp of summer heat

i delivered to rich people with big houses
but no one ever had the money to pay me

next week, they’d say
and i’d walk away from their homes
my labor given away free for another week

left to explain to my angry dispatcher
why i didn’t have his cash some saturday

promising him
i’d have his money come next monday

like i was some errant tenant
or a goddamned junky begging to a dealer

a feeble man with empty pockets
and a huge-ass gambling debt

who’d let his life fall off the rails
yet again.





04.19.22

Poem of the Day 02.08.23

that bar in buffalo

was across the parking lot
from my job selling wine

i went there for lunch
as much as i cold afford

a burger and a few beers

and a chance to sit there
and wonder what in the hell
i was doing with my life

sometimes i drank my lunch away
with just a bag of chips

and it felt like heaven not being at that job
and i didn’t care about that job

buffalo was cheap
my rent was cheap

it was probably the last time in my life
where i didn’t have to care about anything

now i have a career
and i’m middle-aged

waiting on a pension
that the job keeps threatening
to try and take away

i agree to things that i don’t want to do
through gritted teeth

and tell myself that it’s fine
while getting drunk on the couch at home

i pass the dimly-lit bars now
and never walk inside

because they hold nothing for me
except aggravation

but that bar in buffalo
had a jukebox that played all of my songs

and the people left me alone

the burger was good
the beer was cold

and i sat there on my lunch
reading bukowski poems
like i was reading the bible

sometimes my boss came in
and glared at me while he had a sandwich and a coke

but i was on my time
and i ignored him

he couldn’t touch me in that bar

i’d order another beer
just to call his bluff

the prick never said a word to me
when we were back in the wine store

he knew buffalo was cheap
he knew the rents were cheap

and there were cheap jobs everywhere
that would hire the clueless
and spiritually confused

so i stocked wine bottles
and breathed stale beer
through my nose

thought about bukowski
suicide and death

and when i punched-out
i’d walk out into that parking lot
and think about going back to the bar

but it would be lit up in neon

and you could hear loud, young after-work voices
and the worst club music booming into the night

the place seemed
foreign and strange

like some slick aliens had taken it over

so i’d just go hone
to get drunk listening to cds

but the next day
the place would be back to normal

silent and dull
waiting for me to come over
at noon

to sit with my beer
and my thoughts

sometimes pretending that i was rich, old man

and there was nothing in this world
that i had left to do.

Poem of the Day 02.07.23

a poet comments on the war in ukraine
by vaguely criticizing american pop culture

as the shelling
blows up buildings

and the refugees flee
by the hundreds of thousands

over here
another pop singer
in leather

sings songs about peace
love and understanding

and demands
to be declared

both a genius

and a goddamned
humanitarian too.



03.09.22

Poem of the Day 02.03.23

love is a bluebird

love
is
a
bluebird
and
i
am
the
thorn
prick
in
its
side
storming
away
from
you
on
a
busy
city
street
again

Poem of the Day 02.02.23

walking home from work
on the evening after a march snowstorm

my wife texts me
that they are fighting on the subway platform
over delayed trains
from snow and frozen tracks

and in the hardware store
the man behind the counter
with his plastic pool sales
and garden hose dreams

is pushing spring like it’s a new drug

this evening the setting sun
paints portraits on the sides of buildings
that i take pictures of
for posterity and the vain glory of social media

but the sidewalk tells me
that winter keeps lingering on

this unholy mess of snow and ice
that the neighbors leave sitting there
like offerings to the gods

that i have to dodge like traffic
unless i want to break an ankle

it knows the march of time
better than any groundhog

it knows what lingers more than most

better than any plastic patriot
loitering through their lifetime

taking up and down their silly american flag
and planting fake flowers in their lawn

as if they could fool
any of us at all

with their optimism with their confounded hope

Poem of the Day 02.01.23

finest work poem

decades
wasted
wondering

when
will
it
stop

but
it
never
stops

i
give
you
my
time

you
give
me
back
money

in
exchange
for
a
life.



03.22.22