Wednesday, March 11, 2015

Strip Club



“Yo Slick!”

“This is Beverly, the new bartender.”

“She’s gonna be here six nights a week.”

“Doesn’t she have nice skin?”
He asked
Rubbing his fingertips
Up and down her pale arm.

“What do you want to drink?”

“Beverly sweetie...I’m buying Slick’s drinks.”

“Wotcha gonna have?”
She asked me.

The lighting was terrible in this dive.
Yellowish.

“What kind of vodka do you have?”

I was met with a blank stare.

“You have Grey Goose?”

She looked at me.

She went to check the bottles.

“No.”
She said coming back.

“Just gimme what you got.”

“Hey! You have olives or a twist?”

Again with the hollow stare.

“I’ll just take it straight up.”

She poured a small glass 
Of watered down vodka.

I looked at G
Clinking glasses.

“What a dump!” 

I tapped my glass against his.

There were about 3 or 4 girls in bikinis
Taking turns on the pole
Unenthusiastically.

There wasn’t enough of a crowd
To really get them dancing.

Instead they hovered 
Around the bar 
And got groped for tips.

I felt an ass or two.

I finished my drink.

Since the vodka
Was so disappointing
I asked Beverly
What kind of whiskey she had.

Again
“What kind do you want?”

Again
“What kind do you have?”

She went and looked.

She slurred through them 
With me
And I told her
I would do the Black Label.

She was already onto something else.

“Let’s go out and smoke.”
G said.

“I got some dynamite.”

“Let’s go then.”

“Hey gorgeous!”
I said loudly across the bar
On my way out.

“No ice in my drink!  I’m stepping outside for a smoke with G and I’ll look for it on the bar
  when I get back.”

I winked at her.

We walked past the pool table
And through the entrance
Out into the cold night.

G immediately lit up a bowl.

Cars passed on the highway
To our right.

Ironically
There was a Friends Of Bill
Right next door.

We proceeded to get lifted.

We went back inside
And sat down.

Still no drink.

A few more tits.
A few more asses.

Beverly comes up
And asks me 
If I want a drink.

I roll my eyes at G.
“Are you shitting me?”

“Black Label.  No ice!”

She then disappeared 
For at least five minutes.

She came back
And proceeded to make some drinks
And put them down in front of us.

“We didn’t order those.”
I told her.

“Omg! Omg! Omg!  Don’t say anything!”

“I forgot who ordered these!”

She looked around the bar.

There was only like
15-20 of us sitting there.

She finally found them.

At this point the owner 
Is behind the bar
Watching her
Out of the corner 
Of his eye.

She bounces back
And asks what she can get me.

G’s still got a half of a glass.

“Really?”
I ask her.

I have no idea what she is on.

“Black Label.  No ice.”

She sways and grabs the bottle.

She puts down two shot glasses.

She spills into the first
And starts on the second.

“I only wanted one!”
I exclaimed.

“C’mon!”
G said.

“A chaser!”

“G.  I’m only drinking one.”

“Fine.”

I was about to pick my shot up
When Beverly slurred
“Wait!”

She spilled Black Label
Into the second shot glass
With an unsteady hand.

She capped the bottle
And put it down.

She then raised the glass
Looking me in the eye
And smiled.

We both swallowed.

“Here’s to your first night!”
I toasted.

I looked at G laughing.

I started laughing.

Beverly stumbled away.

“Holy shit!”
I said 
Looking at him.

We were both laughing hard now.

“G.”
I said.

“She might have nice skin, but she’s never going to make it six nights.”



Saturday, March 7, 2015

Le Deux Gamins



It’s unfortunate.

The more that the years pass
The more distant the memory.

Or was it a dream?

When I sat outside
In my boisterous years

At a cafe table
Set up
In front of 
Le Deux Gamins
In the warm spring
In the West Village.

Watching the morning sun explode
Salmon orange
In the east
Inbetween
And above the dark buildings
Canyonizing 
The city 
Yawning before me.

I was eating the best almond croissant
That NYC had to offer.

And when the French waitress or waiter
Went back inside
I poured brandy 
Into our over-sized soup bowl
Cafe au laits.

We would watch
The last flambouyant creatures 
Walk past
Shedding all-nighters
From the Stonewall
Or the Monster
Just around the corner.

After
We would take our newspapers
Or journals
Out to Sheridan Square
Which was really not a square
But more of a triangle
And listen to the late morning unfold 
Around us
Amongst unfurling green leaves
And flowering buds
Hustlers and homeless people
Garbage tumbling in the breeze
New spring birds
Figuring 
Their 
“Jump-In” level
To the old school guard
Against the symphony 
Of traffic.

At the time

The 
Rest of the day
Was a multicolored jawbreaker

A syrupy gift
That lasted slowly
Against the pace 
Of the city

Unfolding
With every footstep 
I took.

Back then 
It was not unheard of
To walk by foot
Back and forth
From the East Village
To the West
And 
Vice versa.

Not much else of importance existed 
Below Canal Street
Or above 14th.

Paradise was here
Where
Every step I took
Was a piece of confectionery magic.

Thursday, January 29, 2015

Kitten



This adorable smoky grey kitten
Brings me her toys 
Like a puppy
Into the bed
Early morning
Every morning
While I’m drinking
Strong coffee
Waking
To play.

She’s an indoor kitten.

She doesn’t 
Even know 
That when
I walk out of 
That door
That I’m going to have 
To deal with a corporate government.

Police brutality.

Unjust wage wars.

Climate change.

Terrorism.

Factory farming.

Monsanto.

The fact that my son can’t skateboard in public spaces.

Slashing to education and the arts.

Fracking.

Mountaintop removal.

Irresponsible oil spills.

Walmarts and lobbying.

United States policing the rest of the world
Instead of taking care of it’s own.

The failing war on drugs.

Gun related killings.

The fact that we’ll kill a bear
Because it came in our backyard
Which was rightfully theirs
To begin with.

Human overpopulation.

The failure to deal with
Mental disorders
In a practical way.

Racism.

Homophobia.

Consumption.

Arrogance.

Ignorance.

Holier than yours religion.

Trash.

The 1% factor.

Really bad popular music.

And when I walk in the door...

The kitten just wants to play.

She just wants to play.


Bar Brawl



Indeed.

I still have the scar
Where you dug
The broken Natty Boh bottle
Into my abdomen.

The skin folds in upon itself
Sometimes
Blooming 
Into a painful red-centered flower
Jagged
With whiter 
Winter petals
Radiating 
When I try to lift weights
Or exercise
Or take out the garbage.

The heat inside
Burning 
From the furnace
Of the devil
As I double over.

Getting it stapled shut
That night in a city hospital
Didn’t help.

I’m convinced to this day
That it only made matters
Worse.

I had plenty of time to think about the incident
As I waited on a gurney
In the Emergency Room.

The outburst 
Was almost immediate.

I didn’t like you
And you didn’t like me.

I hit you first
With good reason
And I hit you hard.

But you still had your beer in hand
And you broke the bottle
“The Land Of Pleasant Living”
Spilling everywhere.

And then my blood.

Today
I can fold and unfold the scar
Like a parcel
Recently delivered
Being careful
Not to tear the paper
Or cut my fingers
Reaching them slowly inside
And massaging
The warm muscle
That a city hospital
Failed to repair
One Baltimore night
Long ago.

I should have let you
Hit me first.

Tuesday, January 27, 2015

Yodeling



I used to pay this whore
Over on 25th Street
To tie me up and yodel
Up my asshole.

She was 
Apprehensive at first,

But when she found out
That I would pay her cash
If she would take the yodeling thing
Seriously,

She got on board.

She actually got pretty good at it.

I think she actually studied.

Eventually
I became very dependent on her.

I failed to achieve an orgasm
Any other way.

She sensed my dependency
And told me that it was getting 
Way too serious for her
Even though she was making bank.

She actually 
Told me that
She didn’t think 
I would take things
So far.

I’ve tried everything since then.

Recordings,
Concerts,
Yodeling talent shows...

I fear I’m doomed.

I still ring her bell when I walk past her building.

Hoping.

But she won’t let me in.

Thursday, January 22, 2015

Sorry... Not A Winner



It gets depressing
Not winning the lottery

That sense of false hope
Before I scan my tickets

Dreams and solutions
Vanish
With a red light and a bar code

Sorry
Not A Winner

The only thing
I can be sure of
Other
Than not winning

Is that when 
I walk out of here
It will be cold 

The library will be closed
As I walk past

But the bar 
Up the block
Will be open

Welcoming
Us
That keep trying
To make it another day

In the end
The whiskey
Warms our hearts 
All the same

Winners or losers

Wednesday, December 31, 2014

dIRT eATER



All of her plants had first names

She’d water them
And pluck their dead leaves

She’d coo 
To them
Carressing them
As she stared out the window
At the silent 
Railroad tracks

Their dirt smelled good

She couldn’t help herself
Taking a pinch of soil
From each pot
Putting it in her mouth
Chewing slowly
Enjoying
The earthy loam

She was a spinster
Spending all of her time alone
In her apartment
With her topiaries
Succulents
Herbs
And palms

She ate the dirt daily

She thought about it while at work

Sometimes
Pressing her tongue to her teeth
During the busride
Working out any remains
Of potting soil
As the other commuters
Worked on coffee
Or breakfast
Paying her
No attention