5/7/2016 0 Comments Four poems by John Grochalskiwednesday morning anywhere edward hopper scenes from across the periwinkle street sad, slouching sacks of flesh illuminated in amber windows small mechanized moments between sips on coffee and the morning news d.j.’s with no wit selling air the hours that are never ours even when we have them at our fingertips barking dogs and booming bass car horns and boat horns scalding showers and unsatisfactory breakfasts conversations that pass into blandness or accusations a dead cockroach that needs to be flushed while searching for the hangover cure another mass this, another mass that politicians hanging freedoms like nooses around that old poplar tree blood on the leaves that latest infotainment rag glorious hollywood tits, glorious new york ass all sewn up and bought and sold rollicking commerce sailing down the river echoing merrily, merrily, merrily life is but the american dream. 03/06/2016 the people have perfected themselves into a wondrous monotony thin scarves and coffee cups smoothie sucking in the sun mechanical jubilations coming from out of sports bars dog walker methane blues a weekend repetition playing out on every block swinging the wine bottle i serpentine a row of american flags pass diners in an english pantry writing cell phone novels over their cold food look into the grocery store at the conveyors of junk food for conspicuous consumption watch the cashiers bag flavored potato chips tubs of ice cream soda by the case stealing debit card numbers from frowning fat customers so that they too can have a small slice of this plastic suffocating sunny american daydream we can’t go back --for kristofer collins but it’s tuesday morning sitting here over this coffee another ceaseless brooklyn morning shoulder pain and nose hairs thinking but if i could go back just once or a few times maybe a weekday afternoon with kris at the beehive over those cappuccinos that burned our hands each time we took them up the steps to that large room i remember being bathed in gray light from a sun that never quite got caught in the pittsburgh sky we’d sit somewhere where we could both watch coeds and see that oil painting of a southern preacher the one who looked like george jefferson and of course there’d be kerouac talk conversation about girls and family and plans to get out of pittsburgh for the summer the ones that never materialized once we received our first spring paychecks and i’m not saying things were better back then you see i’m done with that illusion and i’ve somewhat accepted the encroachment of time maybe they were just different or a touch less burdened or burdened in a way that was suitable for the age and i don’t go anywhere now where i can kill hours like that daydreaming away an afternoon without thinking about the time i’ve lost and most nights i can’t stay up any later than ten on the dot kris, we’ve talked kerouac to death but, man, it’s been a long time since i’ve had a cappuccino bathed in that gray home city light or really felt the sensation on my chapped hands as i let them burn. the scam artist looking out my kitchen window into the vodka night she passes dressed in a hoodie clutching a cell phone clutching herself sees stupid me in the window stops and spins turns doe-eyed and comes closer she says, since you’re looking out the window anyway i was wondering if i could ask you something shoot, i say because i still know how to talk to the young and doe-eyed female she says, you know 74th street and shore drive, right i nod intimately, i say well, she says, you see, my car…. i hold up my hand and stop her right there let me guess, i say your car broke down and you need some money she shakes her head huddles into herself on a sixty degree night for good measure tilts her head and lifts those eyes look, i tell her i’ve heard this scam at least five times in this neighborhood it’s always some poor girl clutching her dead phone at night huddled into herself in any kind of weather with a dead car just down the block. sometimes they cry, i tell her but have you heard it from me? she asks silent we stare at each other as the vodka night starts to turn sober i can’t help you, i finally say she shrugs, gives me the finger turns doe eyes and spins down the street like it ain’t no thing looking for the next idiot around the next block some money man who has yet to hear her pitiful tale of woe as i step away from the window close the blinds on this side of humanity and pour myself another stiff one. Bio: John Grochalski is the author of The Noose Doesn’t Get Any Looser After You Punch Out (Six Gallery Press 2008), Glass City (Low Ghost Press, 2010), In The Year of Everything Dying (Camel Saloon, 2012), Starting with the Last Name Grochalski (Coleridge Street Books, 2014), the novel, The Librarian (Six Gallery Press 2013), and the forthcoming novel, The Wine Clerk (Six Gallery Press 2016). Grochalski currently lives in Brooklyn, New York, in the section that doesn’t have the bike sharing program.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. Archives
April 2024
Categories |