Poem of the Day 03.31.23

prisoners

dear becky in 2M,

yes, i received the note that you left on my door
inquiring about why i continue to pound on my
ceiling i.e. your floor. call me crazy, becks, but
i’m just not a big fan of rap music blasting down
on me while i’m sitting in the quiet of my living
room contemplating all of this madness. my wife
and i simply aren’t fans of hearing THUMP, THUMP,
THUMP while we’re trying to have dinner or read,
as we continue to try and keep ourselves safe and alive.
we must seem dull to you, but the truth of the matter
is we’re all stuck here together. prisoners, for lack
of a better word. i don’t like it any more than you do.
there are art museums and a little japanese noodle place
that i miss on 4th street. instead i had to trade them
for masks and hand sanitizer and staring at walls.
it’s hard to stare at walls when someone is blasting
music down on you. maybe you’d understand if
you were older. apartments must be more like dorm
rooms when you’re only twenty-four and daddy is
paying the rent. it must be a real drag having some
fat old fuck pounding on your floor while you and
the boyfriend are trying to get your groove on. it’s
a real drag being a fat old fuck, too. especially one
who didn’t come from wealth or go to a private college
and has to pay his own debt. we do as we must, becky.
but, going forward, how about we make a deal?
you keep your music to your apartment and i won’t
sit down here stewing in vodka and anger until i
lash out in a rage. we’ll both keep trying to be
better neighbors. kinder and gentler to each other
and this collective trauma we’re all experiencing.
how does that sound, becky? does that sound fair?
because if it doesn’t, i just want to let you and that
cool boyfriend of yours know, that i’m up every
morning at 4:45 a.m. (a hazard of getting old) and
it would be a shame to have to grab that broom handle
and wake you two assholes up with me,
each and every single day.

yours truly,
john in 1M

03.15.21

Poem of the Day 03.30.23

nine innings

in between
the car ads

the erectile disfunction ones
and the ads

for colon cancer

two teams manage
to play nine innings

while i sit
on the couch

drinking vodka and beer

daydreaming
i’m a billionaire

at home

on a
sick day
from work.

09.20.21

Poem of the Day 03.22.23

the howling

a crazed man is howling
is the restroom
behind my office
the sound is guttural
like the dogs barking
outside my window
the man is howling
screaming
smacking his head off the wall
the thump
thump
thump
is rhythmic
i beat along to it
with my palms on my desk
the tribal noises
of mediocre white men
in full capitalist bloom
then comes the howling again
a lonely wolf leaning over a ravine

and i don’t know what brought him here
brought us together
he in his prison
and i in mine
our sickness covering both ends of the spectrum
but i know how this will end
with the cops
like it always does
making their cop faces
making their cop sounds
beating their authoritarian chests
as they drag the man out into the street
to join the car horns
and detritus of urban decay
and it will be quiet again
inside this prison
and i will go home
to the old couch
to the stale vodka in the fridge
to the few graspable hours remaining in the day
i will tap my toes to nothing
and the dogs
will bark again
tomorrow too. 

Poem of the Day 03.21.23

rites of spring

i sit here
hearing birds chirping

the rustle of trees

feel the soft air
coming from the ocean

bath in warm light

still see the sun at seven o’clock p.m.
like a fat ball of gas in the sky

reflecting off of windows
and the remnants of dirty snow

chase the tussle of winter
as it loosens its grip

think about rome
and young women in short skirts

hear the people outside
talk the dumb talk that keeps them alive

as i drink boatloads of vodka
to the sound of every fucking dog
barking its return

leaving their mounds
of incredible shit

outside
my living room
window.

Poem of the Day 03.20.23

broken oven, etc.

i think
my oven is left-leaning

lately, it refuses to work

and the fridge drips
from the freezer

in solidarity and protest

you can read about a lot of atrocities
from day to day

mass shootings and massive bombs

but you never read
about someone driven to the brink
by faulty plumbing

or the first whiff of a gas leak

america is hard enough
on a daily basis

without having to deal with another
broken appliance too

appliances should last forever here
it would balance always having to sift through the shit

dodging bullets at school and work
and people saying good morning on the street

but the oven is broken
and the fridge leaks
and the blinds in the kitchen
are falling down again

it is already 95-degrees in may

and somewhere
someone

is buying another automatic weapon
and walking into a school or your job

to cause more automatic death

so maybe fuck the broken oven
and maybe fuck america

too.

Poem of the Day 03.16.23

a wet night in brooklyn
smelling some asshole’s cigarette…again

he sits there on the stoop
in front of my bedroom window
like a bad statue, smoking

playing on his cell phone of course

i’ll admit it is raining, sprinkling really
and this is probably the only shelter for a block

but i’m drunk
and i don’t care

it may not have been the best opening salvo
to lean out my window and shout

hey asshole, you and your cigarette
get it the fuck out of here

but the consumption of alcohol
has never blessed me with tact

his response of, it’s a free country, shithead
didn’t surprise me

people find patriotism in the oddest of acts

maybe i shouldn’t have
followed him up with

shithead?
oh, you wanna step, motherfucker? let’s step

and then proceeded to put my shoes on
while calling him a dirty russian

blaming him for the election of 2016

especially since he was already up
and walking away down the street

but…again…patriotism

really
i’m glad my wife was there
to chase me down
just as i was opening the front door

she’s more sensible about these things

and she knows
that at my age

i’ve gone more
from the ass-kicker
to the ass-kicky

it’s just the simple fact of getting older

let’s just go to bed, she said
which seemed a reasonable request

and i kicked my shoes off
and i followed her back down the hallway

the scent of that bastard’s cigarette
still lingering in our room

as cars
and people
and dogs
and my wife’s snores
all permeated the streetlamp night

while i laid there
wide-awake, festering

consumed with violence
but ultimately wondering

was that asshole even russian?

Poem of the Day 03.15.23

the wind

go out in the wind
go out in the driving rain

do capitalism’s bidding

sit on stalled buses
with the angry faces of the damned

listen to horns blaring omnipotent in traffic

go out in the cold of winter
go out in the blazing heat of summer

kill the hours of the day

feel the suicide streets quake
beneath the worn soles of your feet

go out when you’re exhausted
go out when you feel sick

go out when you don’t care
if you live or die

serve
serve
serve

until you can barely breathe

go out in the snow
and brush off your car
with the rest of the fools

read the newspapers
full of tragedy and defeat

choke down your lunch

go out again
when it’s already dark

and the day has been swallowed
by stupidity

go out to the bars
with the rest of the sad drunks

go out to the chain restaurants
that shove bland food into bland mouths

speaking nothing but nonsense

go play the lottery
binge watch tv

go to bed with the sinking feeling
that your life has not been lived well
in a sea of lives that have not been lived well

try to fall asleep
as the world moans around you

and the wind beats
against the glass of your window

and the devil clock
bleeds red

promising you nothing
but that maybe you’ll get
another chance

to do it all again  
tomorrow