Poetry & photography by John Grochalski

braces
 
chung shows me his braces
he’s proud of the metal on his teeth
 
all i can do is stare
at a piece of something white caught in them
wonder if it’s bread or something else
 
i stomach a lot but certain foods get me
giving the cat tuna is enough to knock me on my ass
 
i tell chung, all right, enough about the braces
to get him to close his mouth
 
but he says, i don’t think my grandma loves me
 
my one grandma does, he says
but the one i live with, she just yells at me
because sometimes i forget to come home
 
chung volunteers here
sometimes he forgets to come in on saturdays
but we always give him a second and third chance
 
he says, why do you think my grandma yells at me
 
i don’t know, kid, i tell him
maybe you’re out of chances with her
 
i can still see that piece of white stuck in his braces
wonder how the kid is talking with that
 
a piece of lettuce in my teeth is enough for an epileptic fit
 
maybe she’s just worried, i tell chung
 
she’s mean, he says
but everyone is mean to chung
 
the adults in here
most of the kids i see him wrestling around with
 
he’s a good, dumb kid
 
the world will take advantage of chung
until he has nothing left to give it
but servitude and quiet benevolence
 
i just want my grandma to love me, he says
 
i’m sure she does, i say
but what do i know?
 
in america families gun each other down
like they’re taking on enemy combatants
 
you got something in your braces, i finally tell chung
 
he puts a whole hand in his mouth
works to dig the piece of white out until it’s gone
 
he flicks it away and i watch it slop on the floor
look up to see chung’s hand extended, ready to shake mine
 
thanks, he says
as we shake
 
but i’m not so sure which hand
he flicked that food off with.


​

​jimmy vs. technology
 
about once a week
jimmy comes down from the adult group home
 
he’s always got his guitar slung over his shoulder
like he’s come back from rehearsal or a gig
 
his long, gray hair is held back by a sea foam bandana
that has seen better days
 
it’s like jimmy
 
every time he’s in its reinventing the wheel
he can’t remember his password
can’t figure out how to make the internet work
doesn’t remember his yahoo! mail account
 
i say, jimmy why are you still doing yahoo!
 
i want to be up to date, man, he says
 
jimmy once asked me if i played guitar
because i have long hair like he does
and it’s kind of going gray
 
no, i told him…i chose a lesser art
 
jimmy has the worst trouble with the copy machine
i can’t blame him
 
the thing can email and fax and send text messages
it’s a bit daunting for a guy who just needs to copy
his legal and medical papers
 
when he’s in the building i know it’s only a matter of time
before jimmy and i will both be at the copier
testing our technological limits
 
that’s usually when jimmy
will go on about the adult home
 
how bad the food is
how horrible it is being locked inside and incapable
 
they treat you like
you’re nothing there, man, he says
 
i try to picture jimmy in the adult home
 
grateful dead t-shirt and hendrix on his turntable
faded jeans and the green field jacket he’s always wearing
 
nurses checking to make sure he’s taking his pills
 
the baby boomers have instilled such an image of youth
it’s hard to imagine them getting old and feeble
 
that all of that 1960s idealism is rotting
in institutions made for assembly line death
 
but jimmy is walking talking proof that life is moving on
 
once i’m there we get the copies made quickly
it’s usually jimmy’s social security card and his benefits i.d.
 
you always help me out, man, he says
 
like he’s surprised
like i’m not getting paid for this
 
i wish i could give you something, brother
like a bag of barbecue chips from my illegal stash
 
because jimmy is still sticking it to the man
 
do you want some barbecue chips?
jimmy pulls out a half-eaten bag of wise
 
no, i say
i settle for a handshake instead
 
then jimmy leaves because he’s thirsty
i watch him go across the street to the bodega
 
a moment later he comes out with a 20oz. coke
bends his knees like he’s playing a guitar solo
when he takes his first sip
 
wipes the caramel color from his mouth
before he walks off toward the promised land.

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), and the novels, The Librarian (Six Gallery Press 2013), and Wine Clerk (Six Gallery Press 2016).  Grochalski currently lives in Brooklyn, New York, where the garbage can smell like roses if you wish on it hard enough.

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