Urbanality

Scotch & Easy Women

2012-01-31T02:17:00.000-05:00

Scotch
& Easy Women

I made

an unsteady
climb up
the rocks
and peered
over the rim
of my glass.

We had

been down
at the bottom
for three pours
so my self-loathing
couldn’t make
the ascent.

The night’s

menu seemed
to be mostly
day old tarts
and a few
tomatoes
that still needed
some time
on the vine.

It shouldn’t

take more than
a couple rounds
and a half dozen
lies before
my self-loathing
has a new partner
in crying.

SMG

72 Hours, 27 Cocktails, & 5 Women

2012-01-30T23:46:00.002-05:00

72 Hours, 37 cocktails, 5 women

We finished fucking for the second time and I had to hurry and get dressed. My flight out of Minneapolis/St Paul was scheduled to depart at 6:50 PM and I didn’t want to miss it. As she was driving me to the airport Allison asked when I was coming back to Minnesota. I assured her that I would be back in a week or two and that I’d call her as soon as I had an exact return date. She pulled up to the Northwest terminal and I kissed her goodbye, grabbed my bag and headed for the gate. Once I got through the security check I found the nearest bar. I needed to get a bit of lubrication for my two and a half hour flight from Minneapolis to Dallas. The Hospitality Sales & Marketing Conference didn’t start until lunchtime on Saturday. I wanted to get a good night’s sleep so I left on Friday evening instead of taking the early Saturday morning flight.

By 10:30 PM Central Standard Time I was in the lobby bar and by 10:45 well into my second Johnny Walker. I was watching the Mavericks beat the crap out of my Lakers when Dana, who I did not know was coming to the conference, appeared next to me. I hadn’t seen her since last year’s conference but three more cocktails, 20 minutes of small talk and we picked up right where we left off. I crept out of her room sometime after 2:30 AM, stumbled upstairs and passed out.

My usual morning run was cut short, by an overwhelming desire to purge Johnny Walker right in the middle of downtown Fort Worth, so I headed back to the hotel. I met Dana for coffee at 9:00. She looked like she was up for another tumble but I had plans. I made up a half assed excuse and headed back to Dallas/Fort Worth Airport in my embarrassing blue Ford Taurus rental car. The flight I was meeting was, fortunately, right on time, and within minutes Jennifer’s steel blue eyes were cutting thought the crowd.

We walked to the car and I was trying to figure out the logistics of having Jennifer and Dana in the same place at the same time. As I opened the car door for her, Jennifer smiled and asked “so do you want to do in the car on the way, or are we going to wait till we get back to the hotel”.

“I…umm…well” My stuttering response was just what she was looking for. Jennifer loved to get me flustered and somehow always knew the best way to crack my faux cool façade.

When we got back to the hotel I carried her bags to her room. Before I could put them down she was pushing me onto the bed.

“The conference starts in twenty minutes Jen”.

“Well then you better quite using your mouth to talk or we’re going to be late”.

I am not sure what happened to my tie but I ended up having to go to the opening general session without one.

The general session lasted for two hours and then we were on our own until the reception. I took advantage of the time off and went up to my room for a quick nap. Everyone was scheduled to attend a reception before we shuttled to the Texas Rangers game that night.

At the reception I played a precarious game as I moved from Jennifer, to the bar to Dana and then back to Jennifer. Fortunately Sales people love to talk almost as much as we love to drink so I was able to keep getting them involved in conversations that gave me time to slip around the room. I had just gotten my third Black on the rocks and we were told it was time to board the busses. My momentary panic subsided when they said we were going by sales territory and all of the Regional Sales Directors were on a separate bus. Dana was on the Northeast bus, Jennifer was on the West Coast bus and I was on a bus with all my buddies and this new girl Theresa. I finished my Johnny and knocked back a couple of Lone Stars for good measure on the bus ride over to The Ball Park at Arlington.

Our group was in the VIP lounge that overlooks the outfield of the stadium but I really don’t remember the game. I was doing some serious juggling trying to keep Dana and Jen away from each other. I got pretty lucky because Jennifer was watching the game and Dana was bored and went back to the hotel early. I ended up spending a lot of time drinking at the bar with Theresa and some of my buddies. The bar didn’t have any good scotch so it turned into a Beer and tequila kind of night. By the time the game was over we were all pretty drunk. As Jennifer was getting on her bus she handed me a key to her room and said “hurry up!” The ride back to the hotel seemed to take forever, partly because we were out of beer and partly because I was trying to figure out how to deal with this Theresa situation, she was wasted but still wanted to party. As we pulled up the hotel she announced that she had more tequila in her room and I should come up and have a few shots before bed. I had told Jennifer that I was going to stop by the lobby bar for one more but I would be up right after. Time management has never been my best thing so I was a little shocked when I looked over the passed out, drunk, naked body of Theresa to see it was 3:30 AM.

When I tried my key in Jen’s door it did not work, so I knocked. I knew I was in deep shit when I saw the bottle of champagne still chilling on the table and four candles that had all burned out before I arrived. My apologies and excuses were quickly dismissed as she yelled at me about being thoughtless and wasting valuable time. “How could you be down there with that skank when you could have been up here fucking me?” I had to admit that she was right but she just told me to shut up. “Just drop it and go to sleep, oh and don’t even think you are getting anymore pussy from me this weekend shithead!” After an hour of me apologizing and groveling she finally relented and we had the angriest sex I have had in my life.

Day two of the conference was pretty non-descript, morning sessions, group lunch and a big “rah-rah” gathering before we all headed back to where we had come from. Theresa had driven down from Omaha so she bailed as soon as it was over. I gave her my number and told her I would be in town in about a month. I drove Jennifer to the airport and told her again how sorry I was. We made plans for a weekend in Hollywood later that summer and she said she just couldn’t stay mad at me. When I got back to the hotel there was a message from Dana, so I called her in her room. She was crying and said “I’m in a relationship and that should not have happened”. “He is a real nice guy and I did…” I had tuned her out by this point, but I gave her my best concerned but slightly hurt voice, “I’m just so drawn to you, but I understand that it can’t be” What a great line of Bullshit! I left a Hallmark card that I got for her at the airport with the desk staff. The note was “You are very special to me and I only want you to be happy.

By the time I boarded my three hour flight to LA, I was pretty tired. I ordered two scotches from the attendant, downed them quickly and passed out. My girlfriend, Cindy, was waiting for me at the gate at LAX and her face lit up as soon as she saw me. Her exuberance was infectious and I smiled right back at her. She asked if I wanted to go out for dinner and I told her I was just glad to be home and I wanted to go back to her place and crash. We made love and she told me that she was having a hard time dealing with me being gone so much. I told her that I was trying to get a transfer to a local property but there was nothing available right now. She sat next to me on the bed and we talked for a while as she rubbed my back. It was good to be back in California with a few days to rest before having to fly to St. Louis on Wednesday.

SMG

From the Brooklyn Side

2012-01-27T19:50:00.003-05:00

From the Brooklyn Side

The dusk climbed behind me
as motorists and pedestrians
moved steadily west and east
across the Williamsburg Bridge.
They traversed the grey steel
in a ritual as old as the city.

Below, the East River roiled;
a rough mix from the tail waters
of Harlem and the Bronx Kill.

From the apex of the bridge
I watched as the sun burned
down the Manhattan skyline,
then drown in the Hudson,
and I thought about Whitman’s
Crossing Brooklyn Ferry.

Spread out in the distance,
like a living mural, New York
waited for my color and brush.

SMG

Photo by Gavin O'Neil

Glisten

2012-01-25T23:24:00.000-05:00

Glisten

There

is no beauty
in a sunset
or a birdsong
sung in the dim
mist of morning.
The only true beauty
I know is in the glisten
of a woman’s skin
in the moonlight
and silence
that follows
the fire.

SMG

The Last Dispensation

2012-01-25T03:00:00.000-05:00

The Last Dispensation

Bespoke dust--a rib removed

and Adam choked on paradise
as Eve fell from favor; eyes open.

Knowledge is death.

The will of man confounded

and common speech confused
by an angry god; alas Shinar.

Pride cometh.

The law was torn in two

like the temple curtain
at the last exhale; my God.

It is finished.

Two thousand years of grace

covered the lower ground
of man’s last temple; Manhattan.

Allah Akbar.

A Mayan switch waits patiently,

oblivious to God, Babel and Allah,
to laws, grace and man; the dust calls

SMG

The Metro (Poetry Found in Strange Places)

2012-01-20T12:33:00.003-05:00

The Metro

Berlin

I'm alone
Sitting with my empty glass
My four walls
Follow me through my past
I was on a Paris train
I emerged in London rain
And you were waiting there
Swimming through apologies

I remember searching for the perfect words
I was hoping you might change your mind
I remember a soldier sleeping next to me
Riding on the Metro

You wore white
Smiling as you took my hand
So removed
We spoke of wintertime in France
Minutes passed with shallow words
Years have passed and still the hurt
I can see you now
Smiling as I pulled away

I remember the letter wrinkled in my hand
"I'll love you always" filled my eyes
I remember a night we walked along the Seine
Riding on the Metro

I remember a feeling coming over me
The soldier turned, then looked away
I remember hating you for loving me
Riding on the Metro

Videos by Berlin & System of a Down

Late Fees

2012-01-03T23:30:00.000-05:00

Late Fees

I know you watch me,
over spectacle rims
near the bridge's end.

You shush me
over index cards
and collected late fees.

I want to tie you up
or hold you down
and scribble poems
on your breasts
in red fountain pen
and let your screams
echo through
the Dewey stacks.

We both know
pain and love
are partners
over time, overdue.

SMG

9 to 5 Icarus

2011-12-28T21:35:00.000-05:00

9 to 5 Icarus

These days King Minos
wears a suit and tie
and drives a new Bentley,
but he still has to deal
with the same bull,
rotten kids, bad wife;
fucking cow!

This is Manhattan,
not Knossos, so
there’s no labyrinth here,
just subways tunnels
and skyscrapers,
but it can still be hard
to find a way out.

The wings of our fathers
come with warning labels
and we still ignore them
when we get high.
It’s fortunate that this prison
only holds me from 9 to 5
and New Jersey
is a relatively short flight.

SMG

Chasing Moriarty Cover Art Contest Finalists

2011-12-16T00:01:00.000-05:00

Please vote for your favorites in the comments section below.

Beneath the Rose

2011-12-11T19:25:00.000-05:00

Beneath the Rose

Meet me

under cover(s)

in clandestine

destinations,

trust betrayal,

lust and fate

to Harpocrates

discretion.

Beneath

crimson petals,

we can sate

carnal appetites,

well beyond

prying eyes,

our secrets safe

beneath the rose.

Meet me

in our holy place

and confess

your dark wishes.

Let us do

the unspeakable

shielded by

the gift of Eros.

I will hold you

and whisper

“Sub rosa,

my secret love”.

For we are gods

and our deeds,

cannot be judged

by mortals.

SMG

Listen to @m_blanc_ read "Beneath the Veil" (the poem posted in the comment below)

Learning to Drive

2011-12-08T23:30:00.002-05:00

Learning to Drive

I sat at my new desk and searched the internet for a shoe repair shop. Outside my window stood a trilogy of palm trees that told the story of LA. Transplanted and slightly out of place as are most thing here, they swayed with the temperate wind oblivious to the homeless woman resting below. Behind her, an endless stream of cars lined up to pay four dollars a gallon for gas.

On my way back to work this afternoon there was a traffic jam on the 110. It had started because a dog had been hit in the number one lane. We all honked and cursed our misfortune as the cars backed up the freeway. Somewhere not far away I imagined a young boy calling for his pet unaware that it was now a dent is someone’s bumper.

They say cobblers are disappearing because the craft is no longer taught in any trade schools. The advent of cheap industrially manufactured shoes has rendered repair obsolete. It is easier and cheaper to throw out old shoes and buy new ones. The only place to learn shoe repair is in prison. I wonder if I am the only one who finds that ironic.

I started a new job this week. It is much like the last job and, for that matter, the one before that. This one is in LA where I will spend my days cursing dead dogs and wondering if we should have a pet. It pays enough to buy plenty of shoes, enough gas and to keep a roof over my head. I think I might rent a house with palm trees in the yard so I remember where I am.

SMG

Photo by Tim Austin and he will be pissed if he catches me!

Tryst

2011-12-03T02:42:00.001-05:00

Tryst

"I was hoping I would see you again…"
the words danced on my ear,
her breath and breasts warm against me,
"so I didn't wear panties".

Outwardly unaffected,
I leaned in to catch the fragrance
of her hair as it floated past my nose.
My lips pressed against her ear,
I made it known, I was pleased as well.

Her hand fell to my knee

and slid deliberately north.
“So it would seem”, she said
with a firm and knowing grasp.

The bar was crowded when I entered,

but as she slid her lithe frame
between the bar and my stool,
everything peripheral faded from focus.

“You ran away last time before I finished with you”

My explanations quickly rebuffed, she kissed me.
and my Bond like countenance began to crack.
“Now that wasn’t so hard was it?”
she giggled, and came back for seconds.
She pulled me closer
positioning my hands on her waist.

I know there was loud music playing

but all I could hear was the sound of her voice as she said
“do you know how wet you’re making me?”
With a deft fluid motion, she slid my hand down
and back up under the hem of her skirt,
removing any thought
that she was prone to exaggeration.

I caught my breath, regained my composure,

looked past her coolly, and made it known
I was ready to close out my tab.

SMG

Jordaan

2011-12-01T03:01:00.000-05:00

Jordaan

I found myself on a bridge over the Prinsengracht canal
in the disconnected calm of three joints from a coffee bar
and the cool predawn air. The click of Rembrandt’s footsteps
still echo down the cobbles at this hour-- Once, long ago,
I dreamt of the scene, this moment; fog tickling across
the warm canal water. I thought back to the person I was
when that dream was formed and I realized that I missed him.
He was young and idealistic, so unafraid, with a swagger
that could only come from hubris and ignorance.

The damp morning air sat on the shoulders of my jacket
and I smiled as I watched a young Dutch couple fend off
the chilly dark, oblivious to the painter and me as we took it all in.
The distance between that boy and the man that I would become
seems so much greater than the twenty five years it took to travel.
That boy’s dreams have turned into my sad reminiscence,
a longing for that time before disbelief and defeat; the un-jaded
days of wonder lost along the way. I wanted to see Amsterdam
before I died; I realize now that it’s too late.

SMG

Montréal

2011-11-18T01:12:00.001-05:00

Montréal

La pâleur des visages
et des structures
coule dans le ciel gris.
Ma retraite de week-end
se sent plus comme une
course sur la sentence
qu'et plaisant se retiennent.
Remerciez Dieu
des narcotiques
et de l'alcool.
Et Dieu de remerciement
pour la langue française
parce qu'il le fait
même avoir l'air de la poésie.

SMG

Red Wind (for the dVerse Port's writing prompt)

2011-11-10T18:44:00.000-05:00

Red Wind
There was
a desert wind
blowing that night.

It was one of those
hot dry Santa Anas
that come down through
the mountain passes
and curl your hair,
make your nerves jump
and your skin itch.

On nights like that
every booze party
ends in a fight.
Meek little wives
feel the edge
of the carving knife
and study
their husbands'
necks.

Anything can happen.

You can even get
a full glass of beer
at a cocktail lounge.

Adapted from Raymond Chandler's short story "Red Wind"

Chasing Moriarty Cover Art Contest

2011-11-08T01:21:00.001-05:00

Chasing Moriarty Cover Art Contest

This is to announce the Chasing Moriarty cover art contest. From now until December 15^th 2011 I will be accepting cover art submissions for my new book “Chasing Moriarty”. The designs can be either original art works or photographs. There is no need to create graphics and/or titles, just the image for the cover. The book will be my second collection of poetry and the title is obviously a reference to Dean Moriarty from Kerouac’s classic “On the Road”.

The winner will receive $100.00 to their PayPal account, 5 copies of “Chasing Moriarty”, upon publication, and an autographed copy of “Another Hotel Room” (Okay the last one is because I have to get rid of these damn autographed copies of “Another Hotel Room”).

I will sort the entries and post my three favorites on Urbanality and the “Another Hotel Room” Facebook page where they will be voted on. The entry receiving the most votes will be used as the cover art for my new book and the creator will will win all of the fabulous prizes listed above.

Please send your submissions to Steven Marty Grant at stevenmgrant (at) gmail (dot) com

Notes on Poetry Composition

2011-10-15T09:30:00.000-04:00

Notes on Poetry Composition

When I need to make sense of it all, I go back to the beginning.

I throw out the poetry text books and all my lecture notes.
I ignore the voice in my head that keeps repeating “imagery,
cadence, structure and rhyme”.

I go back to Bluebird and Roll the Dice. I go back to that place
where my passion was born, where the muse first gave me a wink
and the gods showed me words that could kick like a mule
or kiss me like no woman I had ever known.

I forget about submission guidelines and contributors’ copies.
I pour myself a tall glass of cheap scotch cut with ice
and drink until I don’t give a shit, until I’m ready to wipe my ass
with rejection letters and can vomit up years of advice.

It’s then that I remember the women I’ve fucked
and the ones that have fucked me. I think about the pain
and failure that's refined me, then I take another sip and say
“but I’m still here”, and I smile at the gentle tinkle of ice and glass.

SMG

Solstice to Equinox

2011-10-07T00:08:00.000-04:00

Solstice to Equinox

Anaïs, Anaïs;
Litha has passed
and we are left
to mourn the coming
autumnal balance, for
creatures such as we
crave the severe
and eschew
this gentle world.

Travel with me to
The Tropic of Capricorn
and leave behind
the ever shrinking
days of Cancer.
There we can live
in eternal summer
and Black Spring.

Grieve not my love,
for with the arrival
of Yoole’s long nights,
Sirius shall align
with Orion’s belt
and point us back
to the elliptical
apex, and June.

SMG

(Excerpt from "Another Hotel Room")

Across the Night

2011-10-02T19:51:00.000-04:00

Across the Night

I surrendered to my desires

and fell into a fitful sleep.

Lucid dirty blonde dreams

and tattoo fantasies ensued.

A night of cold sweat lust;

thoughts of the base and dark

spaces between you and I.

Could you feel my tongue

part your thighs as you slept?

Did my desire penetrate the night,

find you longing on the other side

and hold you on the brink

of torture, need and ecstasy?

I thought I heard you sigh

as I devoured the skin of your neck

and took you from behind

those hungry tanned eyes,

and handfuls of flaxen hair.

As the morning sun invaded

did you wake with a start;

spent, chest still heaving,

the chill of the dawn air

dancing on your skin

as wanton hands had done

in the unrepentant night?

SMG

Poet Warrior

2011-09-27T03:08:00.000-04:00

Poet Warrior

I am the Norse god Bragi
lyricist for the conquests
and defeats of antiquity.
I have sailed the North Sea
by aurora borealis light,
singing songs of victory
drunk with the spoils
of Lindesfarne Abbey.

I am a Celtic warrior born
from the waters of the Rhine
before stone sheathed steel.
With the blessings of Taranis
I have marched into battle
to taste Etruscan blood
and watch Virdomarus
fall to the sword of Rome.

I am of the tribe Myaamia
descended from ancient Adena.
I've hunted with wolven stealth
and flown on raven's wings.
I swear an oath of vengeance
to the Moon, Earth and Sun;
the Ohio shall one day flow red
with the white man's blood.

SMG

Thursdays at the Hairy Monk

2011-09-23T02:16:00.003-04:00

Thursdays at the Hairy Monk

Loneliness is warmer

in the company of strangers

and cheap whiskey;

Irish, scotch or sour mash,

no matter.

In ten hours

we will pour ourselves

back into whatever chair

we die in day to day.

For now the drinks

and sociable depression

are better than isolation

and personal integrity.

I remember when I believed

in something more,

God, country, love

or some other bullshit;

life experience

is really overrated.

I can tell the hour

by the neck line of the woman

at the end of the bar.

If she doesn’t score soon

her tits won’t have enough

cover to stay warm.

Somewhere

there is a husband

or wife thinking

that there must be

something better out there.

Text me

and I will bury that

beside Santa

and the fucking Tooth Fairy.

SMG

Petite Danseuse (In memory of Erica Abbott by Melissa Olsen)

2011-09-10T01:20:00.001-04:00

Petite Danseuse

A glass of Mark West to toast in your honor.
Our fuzzy brown blanket wraps us in the warmth
and comfort of your memory.
Every day a furry little friend with a snaggle tooth
greets us with your spirit.
You were the first to tell us of gay marriage
and how the family could celebrate our love.
A cultured soul from a classic time with wisdom
beyond your years.
Vibrant. Passion. Brilliance. Artistic talent.
A teacher of sorts, striving for perfection
and unabashedly sharing tribulations, successes.
How we mourn for you, Petite Danseuse, but feel peace
and love surround us. You calm us, tell us
to get past the rage.
Do not fear, for traditions will change and it’s okay.
You are swimming in the ocean.
So we pour a glass and savor the velvety taste.
With each recipe, we reminisce, we wonder,
and we thank every beautiful moment shared.

Melissa Olsen

Post Comments Here

NY Post Article

Exponential Memories

2011-08-25T00:31:00.003-04:00

Exponential Memories

I am 8 and my grandmother

tries to hold my hand

as we step from the curb.

Defiant, I pull my hand

away from her protective grasp

and strut across the street.

She understands and lets me go.

I am 18 and she calls to see

if I can come by and help her

retrieve some old things

from the rafters of the garage.

Irritated, I make an excuse,

lie, and tell her that I am

already late for work.

I am 28 and I find a letter

written by my grandmother

amongst the grocery coupons

and credit card bills. She wants

me to know she is proud of me

and happy that I’ve found someone

to love. I think about calling her.

I am 38 and I knock on her door

and wonder where she could be

in the middle of the afternoon.

Incapacitated; she never answers.

betrayed by a small blood vessel

in her brain, she lies motionless

in the back bedroom unable to cry out.

I am 48 years old, sitting alone

in the dark. I long for a hand to hold

or a loving voice, on the other end

of the phone, that is just happy I called.

I think of when we listened to the Beatles

and the many times we played catch

because my father was just too busy.

SMG

Scenes from a Hotel Room

2011-08-21T19:57:00.002-04:00

Scenes from a Hotel Room

Summer rain spatters

the window, the sizzle interrupted

only by the distant flash and report

of the storm. New York is sad today;

heavy and dank. The lights

of Broadway are jealous

of the lightening’s brilliance

their marquee blaze seems weak

and desperate in comparison.

Today is the third of my visit

and I know that the city

no longer loves me. This return

feels like an awkward encounter

with an ex-lover, proper and cordial

with and undertone of regret.

I’m sorry it turned out like it did

but what did you expect? When

a beggar falls for a whore

one of them is bound to get hurt.

SMG

Impulse Control

2011-08-05T19:38:00.000-04:00

Impulse Control

We met under a neon sign

at the Coyote Moon;

a rundown bar across

the street from the Ramada.

She asked me for a cigarette

and smiled as I fumbled to light it.

She carried her years well

but her eyes looked a little sad

behind the smokey blue glow.

“Are you married” she asked

and I had to think hard about

if it even mattered anymore.

“Some days more than others”

I replied. She nodded and looked away.

Our Camels burned down

and the conversation stalled,

so we moved back inside for a drink.

She drank Smirnoff straight,

and swallowed like it was pride.

I noticed the wetness on her lips

and wondered how it would mix

with my scotch as we walked out
to share my last cigarette.

“I don’t like to sleep alone”

was followed by a well-dressed

exhale of smoke. “Who does?”
I shrugged, then I kissed her

on the cheek before going back

inside to close out my tab.

SMG

Sad Sacks and Sociopaths

2011-08-03T03:21:00.000-04:00

Sad Sacks and Sociopaths

The romance of assonance

and the constant consonance

of kooks; truly the sounds

of love and madness.

The saddest are the young

girls and old men

and the soci-ist

are the teen aged boys

and battered housewives

machine guns and knives

poised for attack.

Having been both

and neither at one time

or another depending

on the presence

or absence of a lover,

or was it my mother?

It’s so hard to remember,

and hard to say

what was right, wrong

and everything between

hello and so long.

Here we go round

the lithium tree

the lithium tree,

Did you notice

there were three?

I once was tossed but now I’m bound

and held in the pleasant white room

where a sweet woman comes

to visit me at noon and bring me more

pills and tales of woe.

I don’t think she’s happy
but these restraints

won’t let me ease her pain.

So sad

so sad;

oh well!

Here we go round

the lithium tree

the lithium tr…

CombatWords!: Combatwords for July 1, 2011: Independence

2011-07-02T04:26:00.001-04:00

Autonomous

I’ll call it love

because this one

stayed ’til morning.

She must not have

had a place to sleep;

need and loneliness

often end up

drunk and naked

in the same bed.

When they finally leave

I always try to tell myself

that I am a lucky man;

no woman to nag me

and spend my money.

Independence

is what the lonely

tattoo on the back of their necks

to make it seem like a choice.

I don’t really remember

what it is like to be part of a “we”

that lasts longer

than the inevitable hangover.

I suppose some truths

are much less

self-evident

than others.

SMG

CombatWords!: Combatwords for July 1, 2011: Independence: "Combatwords for July 1, 2011: Independence If I was rich, I'd be stalked by the hungry suits, craving my signature. I would ride the taxi—..."

Portobello Road

2011-06-30T22:55:00.000-04:00

Portobello Road

A scattered cloud Saturday morning

and all that was old is born again.

Aged store fronts, all painted

with pastel colors and promises,

teem with urbanites eager to find

a peace missing from city life.

Antique dealers preen and polish

long forgotten treasures, and artisans

guard their works like museum curators

between falafel carts and T-shirts stands.

Costume jewels tossed in bins,

look like grandma’s button box;

they tell the story of wasted money

or a memory dead with the wearer.

It is serene, surreal and staccato

as the crowd flows down the street.

They stop momentarily and swirl in eddies

of painters and farm fresh produce

before the stream catches them

and they continue to bob on their way.

SMG

Angel City

2011-06-30T15:00:00.001-04:00

Angel City

Los Angeles is a soft-core porn cliché,

all silicon enhanced titillation and come-

fuck-me pumps with no money shot.

Glamour seems so much crueler when

it’s look but don’t touch and no amount

of sunshine can warm an empty bed.

Satisfaction it seems is only for subscribers

and most of this city is access denied.

We’re all on the outside, faces pressed

against the mirrored windows, afraid

that our fifteen have mistakenly been

lost in the mail or given to someone else.

SMG

Leaving New York

2011-06-28T16:24:00.002-04:00

Leaving New York

Walking home, 8:20 PM,

Friday evening of another long week;

in New York we measure misery

in Fahrenheit and empty bottles.

One hundred eighty two weekends lost,

and six more to go before I wash off

this subway grime forever.

Wednesday’s snow has gone grey

and the sidewalks are a slush

puddle slalom and controlled slide.

Fresh bottle in hand, I watched

a small boy with his father in tow.

He ninja kicked his way down the sidewalk,

superhero joy on his face, oblivious

to the city and all of its hard edges.

I wonder if I’m really ready to leave.

5:30 AM, Insomnia fueled,

coffee nicotine run in snow flurries

and a razorblade wind.

Hopeful young women,

Saturday nights make-up smeared

by Sunday morning, stumble out of walk-ups

toward the subway steps.

The city spits them out,

back to Jersey and Long Island,

like gum chewed past the point flavor.

New York is a ponzi scheme of promise,

reliant on wide eyes and fresh blood.

In the shelter of a doorway I lit my first

and watched the sun gradually burn

its way across Twenty Third Street.
I wonder if I’m really ready

for a lifetime of sunsets.

SMG

Sunset at Trestles

2011-06-20T22:00:00.000-04:00

Sunset at Trestles

Daylight danced
with lengthening shadows
along the strand
as night pushed
slowly down
toward the horizon.

Eight hours
of waves and sun
had washed away
the work week, and
we collapsed in sandy piles
of smiles and salty skin.

Driftwood smoke
mingled with
misty sea air,
the sun teased,
then fell into
a waiting ocean.

I kissed you
for the first time,
and when the moon
winked from the East,
I thought that we
might fall in love.

The fire burned down to embers.

I searched for wood to stoke it.

SMG

Lost Forever

2011-05-14T22:16:00.000-04:00

Lost Forever

At sunrise
God breathes
fire and smoke
into azure mourning,
as the demiurge groans
back into motion.

Last night
the world stopped,
dreams and motivations
became paper icons
engulfed in pyre flashes;
Ashes to ashes

As light slowly
pries loose the last
fingers of night
clinging to the landscape,
the shine of innocence
appears tarnished and tired.

Last night
a hero became mortal
human, uncoiled,
glint of his armor
dulled with rust;
dust to dust

The midday sun
hangs, half mast
in the horizon,
weakly illuminating
yet another void,
a diminished world.

Last night
God blinked,
in that omnisecond,
The words fell silent
inspiration stolen;
Amen

(Excerpt from "Another Hotel Room")

Meursault

2011-05-10T22:30:00.001-04:00

“I opened myself to the gentle
indifference of the world”

They tried to make me feel different
like I wasn’t connected or in touch,
but isn't everyone just doing time,
standing vigil and mourning without tears.

Eventually we all join this funeral procession,
a slow march through the scorching sun.
Conviction, condemnation and reprisal,
are my rewards for calling the ritual absurd.

Some days I can imagine the crowd
shouting from the subway platform
as my train pulls away into the darkness,
cries of “die Meursault die” echoing down the line.

I can’t really explain the four extra shots,
seemed like the thing to do at the time.
I've decided to start wearing sunglasses,
that should be enough to show regret.

*(Re-print from The Melancholy Dane)

Persi in Mare

2011-05-06T09:00:00.000-04:00

Persi in Mare

I watched the sunrise
dance with shadow
among the spires
of midtown; a light
and dark ballet
of time's tireless march.
The possibilities of daybreak.

I set a note adrift
on the outbound current
of the east river
addressed to you
on the endless ocean,

“Good luck on your journey,
fair winds and following seas”.

I took the ferry from
the Battery Terminal
and watched the glint
of the midday sun
skip across the water
in staccato flashes.
From the port side rail
I could see the eastern horizon;
that place where the sky
pours into the sea,
and I wept in the silence.

SMG

Killing Uriah

2011-05-05T06:00:00.000-04:00

Temptation bathes under
the desert night sky
in a far off Jerusalem.

She is naked breast,
innocent eye, and I;
I am David’s lust
from the roof tops
of Manhattan.

Smeared lipstick desire,
black lace regret
as sweat and screams
eclipse the sunrise.

Come this day, this ache,
this disregard of consequence
and the distant wail of Uriah.

Shadows will descend,
and a penitent man will weep
in sackcloth and ashes
but not tonight: Tonight
I am her King.

At Last: Babylon

2011-04-28T17:00:00.000-04:00

I told you I would write,
but morning after promises
rarely make it to sunset.
On a night before,
we wrestled in the sands
along the Euphrates
in an awkward exchange
of vodka nicotine kisses;
ebb and flow. You lied
and said I was your first
but Darius and Alexander
had left their marks
long before I tasted
your fetid waters.

Harlot that you were,
I loved you, even
as your gardens withered
and the sands began
to devour your beauty.
When I saw the writing
on your bedroom wall
I ran for the Tigris
afraid of the imminent
devastation of you--
of us.

I made for Lagash
without a backward glance.
With the thunder shake,
and screams in my ear,
I found my way to safety,
and the pure waters of home.
I know my missive is late
but I carried it by hand.
My promise kept,
if only to your memory
and the shifting sand.

Picture Drawer

2011-04-01T22:43:00.000-04:00

Picture Drawer

There are times,

when I walk through

the broken glass

of you, me, here and now,

that I think back

to the before.

To that long haired

Mexican girl

and the nights

we spent entangled;

untangling our need

and desire.

Of course I know

I fought with her too

but those battlefields

are green and over grown;

Appomattox, Utah beach,

Hue City.

I will love you

in the morning

and we will clean up

the mess we have made.

We will share a cup of coffee

and I will smile at you

through the tiny particles

that glow in the sun streams.

But for now

my mind needs to flip

through old photographs

and wonder about things

that never really existed.

SMG

Posted for CombatWords; come join the fray

Scars in the Afterglow

2011-03-28T23:15:00.003-04:00

Scars in the Afterglow

Her skin still glistened, wet
with the remnants of ecstasy.
I, with the gentlest touch,
began to trace the scars
on her back with my fingers.
Slowly she drifted off
as I kissed her shoulder.
I savored the saltiness on my lips
and her scent filled my senses.
The motion of time gave way to stillness
as I continued to trace the scars.
She woke, and with a sad smile sighed,
“so that is how it’s supposed to be”.
She dressed quickly,
seductive red satin falling
delicately over the cicatrix maze
that was forever etched in my mind.

SMG

Out of Chaos

2011-03-22T12:20:00.003-04:00

Out of Chaos

In the time before time,
while I swam the Tethys Sea,
and wandered the plains of Pangaea,
you were there, igneous and undefined.

Through the Laramide epoch,
Chronos, Chaos and tectonic slip
worked their orogenic magic
and Gaia’s labor gave birth to you.

Into the Cretaceous I watched,
as a deep slow subduction,
drove you, compelled you upward
out of the plains and into my view.

I have crossed the alluvial sands,
and braved the ice of the Pleistocene
to lie with you by the glow of caldera heat,
and be quenched by your glacial waters

Dance with me, 'round the ring of fire,
and explore the depths of Mariana.
Sit with me atop continental divides
until we are rendered, consumed again by Vulcan

Reprint from: "Another Hotel Room"

Union Square

2011-03-15T17:00:00.000-04:00

Union Square

A bum recites absurdist poetry
to passersby and collects change
in a fake Burberry cap while I
slowly sip my Sunday morning
and shop for open air jalapeños,
mushrooms and cilantro.

Paint bucket drummers provide
a steady backbeat as the weekend
consumers come out to worship
and the church crowd is released
from weekly servitude.

Across the square, a painter discusses
politics with a jewelry maker
and a guy in a Gumby t-shirt.

As the sun plays peak-a-boo
with the masts of Mannahatta,
I wonder how long the fresh cut roses
will last if I decide to splurge.

A toddler pilots a stroller down the sidewalk,
parents in tow, while four teens knee and kick
an innocent bean bag back and forth
above the ghosts of potter’s field.

The voice of the city is clear this morning
and it sings to me; a medley of ballads,
seductive love songs and, of course,
a full complement of the blues.

SMG

Thoughts From a Decaying Age

2011-03-12T03:05:00.001-05:00

Thoughts From a Decaying Age

by Pete Marshall

Edits by Steven Marty Grant

Let us live life

on the far shores

as yet untouched

and free of human law,

where all who live

are gentle like the deer,

the lamb and the orchid.

On an island paradise

these dreams will be our

fantasies un-realized;

for mankind destroys

all that stands

in stoic opposition

to his lust; his greed.

The ice crystals of science,

orphans of a world at war

and lost but devoted religious

will rule the gentle beasts

as the world crumbles.

Let despot blood flow

throughout the valley

and stain the land

violated by tyranny.

The scorched earth

and barren sands,

where oaks once stood

amongst dichondra and lilies,

will mark the battlefield;

the Alamo, the Waterloo

of nature’s resistance.

Armistice

2011-03-08T01:26:00.002-05:00

Armistice

Cigarette smoke lingered

above the bed like gun fog

over a battlefield and we,

the casualties of war,

lay beneath. When we kissed

I tasted Bataan on her lips

and she said she could see

Manzanar in my eyes.

At times love is a negotiation

between desire and history.

The clock on the bedside table

flashed in dim red numbers

as the battery was nearly spent.

After the passion runs low

there are not many choices;

a long march in the Philippine sun,

a desert cage of spiral concertina wire

or the final squeeze of a trigger.

SMG

Another Hotel Room

2011-03-06T21:21:00.001-05:00

Another Hotel Room

Four and half months on the road
and loneliness finally caught me
stole into my room,
sat at the foot of my bed
and shook me from a fitful sleep.
Her stethoscope cold touch
pulled what remained of my self respect
out through my chest into the night air.
When the panic finally wore off
I fell back to sleep at peace
with the idea that at least
she would never leave me.

SMG

Picture Prompt Challenge (featuring Jacob Lucas)

2011-03-06T00:11:00.005-05:00

No Curtain Call

Sometimes

when the curtain falls

it never rises again.

No phoenix up
from the ashes
of failure

or Jesus
resurrected

on the third day.

Sometimes

the lights

go out forever

and the stage

is never set again.

The final act

of you and me

was some time ago

and there is no encore

in the works.

The theater of us

has become

an abandoned stage

and the audience

has long since

left, in search
of a new tragedy.

SMG

This was written in a fog of 12 year old scotch and the loneliness of another hotel room. In response to the One Shoot Sunday Picture Prompt Challenge

Un-Dead

2011-03-04T15:27:00.000-05:00

Un-Dead

Alive; alive, the city is alive
abloom with smiles
in the affectionate night air.

The stern days of winter fade
from memory and the city is alive.

Streets once grey with soot and sleet
now team with pale arms and legs,
heads swivel and twist
to take in the fragrance of new buds
all short skirts and décolleté.

We are alive!

Lazarus ascends a subway stair
and screams “I am alive!”
into the blue lunar glow.

Six months hence the grave will call,
but for now I am alive and the city
is paradise.

SMG

Accidental Urbanite

2011-03-01T21:02:00.001-05:00

Accidental Urbanite

How to withdraw a gaze

from a landscape carved in neon,

where the moon shines in the gutter and love.

How to withdraw the smile of words; that

birthplace of something buried, yet shed

but for graveyard conversation

of day breaking bread men and garbage collectors.

How to reverse any kind of sky

into light So flight might linger time

into an outpost of slow

where patience is an elegance

to those in the know.

How to, when electronic words

only tell him their surface

lean his lead into the crystal listening

of her immeasurable water and mind

to spend the week looking downward

as skin traders whisper by fingertips,

Would that she waken to a brothel of the blind,

so the biggest mistakes make of themselves

a high-rise beyond understanding.

How to Injure Friday Immeasurably…

when paranoia and inadequacy intervene.

The title clung to the lap

like a consolation prize; an oblique enumeration

of chiasmus, his disguise.

Not a poet, not an intellectual, but of tar

brick and steel, the heart really thinks its stinks

at subtlety…

An accidental urbanite of a countryside

tackled of its voice; he could not swallow

the breath of its brushed incredible beauty,

only his fear mounted panic of the

cut-out to leave her intact. Woken,

he could not return her to where she was before: to

rewind time for her and shore to the good

of cockiness snuffed the note pinned to

her deep and of his leaving: “I am as advertised – shattered.”

Now he could not stay in the room with her mouth

and hear in every phoneme that he wronged her so,

that he should have trusted her. How, that he waters

his never, the shade of scatter in the Sundays of her

that mattered, for if her Bouche were a zip

by the night sky’s unraveling.

Her well being is God in the waiting.

So my hectic week continues and today my friend @m_blanc_ is guest posting. If you are unfamiliar with her or her poetry blog The Baobab Papers you should check it out soon. She also has some fabulous audio recordings here and an excellent essay here.

Waking Up in the City

2011-02-26T23:23:00.002-05:00

Waking Up in the City

A pillow like any other, a ceiling
white as an undershirt. Three walls,
concrete and steel, limp paint.
The fourth wall is orange-pink sky
barely restrained by a giggle of glass,
a plane sidling past
like a duck on a still pond.

But now one neighbor grinds
coffee beans, another's baby cries,
another sings in the shower,
off-key but less discordant than the sirens
howling in traffic thick as ants
that mass on last night's cold pizza.

There will be time for baths and clothes, time
for cereal and a quick smoke
before the long wait for an elevator to rise
slow as a tired single mom
up, up to the thirty-fourth floor
then down to the first with a dozen stops
for a dozen others, equally tired.

Time for sidewalks that smell
like dirty diapers and gas except
just outside the cafeteria,
door open, sweet pastries and espresso
like a knife in the gut, gun in the mouth,
sign in the window that says "Cervezas $2"
so the stools are full of old men
swigging Bud or Miller, happy hour
from eight to ten in the morning.

But now, now is the time; forehead
leans against floor to ceiling window,
long drop to a hard stop or
maybe, with the sun searing the sky blue,
if the grackles can reach this height,
if even turkey vultures, grimy death-
eaters in black mourning garb dance
a slow galliard in clear air, maybe a person
as human as anyone else
can spread sleep-heavy arms and fly.

Guest post today by the annoyingly talented Valerie Valdes, for more of her amazing writing check out her blog: As the Moon Climbs

Urbanality

2011-02-22T16:25:00.001-05:00

Urbanality

I was never one to write about sunsets or birds,
to be honest that shit bores me to distraction.
I live in Manhattan so I haven’t seen a sunset
in three hundred & sixty five days, and birds here,
well they're just another pest to be controlled.
I never really liked to listen to sweet ballads
and there’s something pathetic about the blues.
I prefer the hard rocking sounds of Hindi profanity
sung by cab drivers, the tune of droning car horns
and the distant wail of another siren’s song of ending.
I never got much pleasure from hiking or picnics
and I have no real desire to get back to nature.
I’d rather choke down a cart hot dog for breakfast,
avoid piss puddles on the subway platform
and hide behind Ray-Bans and an eighty gig iPod.
I never understood the fascination with beauty
or people’ neurotic obsession with falling in love.
I’ve seen a lot of well groomed hair and make up jobs
and have had the shit kicked out of me more than once,
but beauty is a rocks glass, love is a generous bartender,
and the poetry is between the first sip and "hit me again".

*(Re-printed from The (&) Ampersand III)

Sirius

2011-02-21T12:30:00.005-05:00

Sirius

As strange attractors

we danced together

in the southern sky,

like a stellar parallax;
singular or differentiated

dependent on point of view.

Across the summer night

radial velocity increased
as we approached critical mass;
the unavoidable orbital decay
of love on the event horizon.

From this elliptical apex

I can see how your luminosity

has eclipsed me, your gravity

overwhelms; pulls me in.
Even as my weakened mass
is drawn once again

to your side.

“What is seen as the brightest star in the night sky is in truth two bodies moving together; a bright main star termed Sirius A, and her companion, a faint white dwarf”.

SMG

Sunday Picture Challenge

2011-02-20T01:32:00.001-05:00

Tired of the Road

I rode the American experience
from sunset to sunrise
across the Lincoln Highway.
Spent forty six years
in the footsteps of Coronado,
Lewis, Caulfield and Moriarty;
chasing ghosts both real
and imagined. I’ve been
down in Denver, slept under
mountain stars with only
my doubts as company
and loved many a girl
long before I learned
to love myself.

I watched the naked cowboy
playing the guitar in Times Square
and it may as well have
been Darth Vader fiddling
while Alderon burned.
His neon tan blazed against
a backdrop of taxi cabs,
broken hearts, barkers
and the scream of 10 million souls
on the verge of falling silent forever.

As I stand now in the night air
of the city and watch my life go by
on the ticker at one Times Square,
I long for the simplicity of home
and hope that I can find my way.

SMG

Night Rise

2011-02-19T16:56:00.001-05:00

Night Rise

The night rises
to the sound of a baby crying
alone in a garbage can.
The air,
thick with the noise
of cars and gunfire,
smells of rot and Burger King.
The city streets whisper
words of seduction
to lonely old men
seeking companionship
at a price.
The sign on a bar
preaches a neon gospel;
OPEN 'TIL 4AM
OPEN 'TIL 4AM
to those
in need of escape.
In the heart
a church,
doors locked, windows barred,
stands separate
from the pain.
With the dawn
comes sleep for the darkness,
until the world
turns its face away again.

SMG

I really don't even like this poem anymore but it was the first thing that I ever got published. I won the free verse award for the annual writing contest at my college with this piece. As I read it now it seems like silly pretentious crap but I guess we all need to start somewhere.

Letters to the Editor

2011-02-17T18:14:00.000-05:00

Letters to the Editor

I sat at my usual stool at the bar

and ignored the bartender’s scowl.

“Yes those eight quarters are your fucking tip”

I thought without a moment of guilt.

Now that football season is over,

I find Sundays are best spent drinking and reading.

I refuse to jump on the machine

that is New York on any given weekend.

This city has no use for the disengaged,

or the conscientious objector, but I don’t give a shit,

so I hide in dim corners until nightfall.

I was avoiding the sun and working

my way through a bottle of decent single malt

with an uppity west-side literary rag chaser.

I get a copy in the mail every time

they print one of my poems so vanity

forces me to at least give it the once over.

It was filled with everything you’d expect,

two pieces of short fiction, one pretty good

and the other not great, but a good story none the less.

Two dozen poems of various length and skill,

covering everything from love to

Iraq

and back again.

The Letters to the Editor were the usual prattle

bemoaning the dearth of true art in Western society.

One letter made it quite clear that sentimental crap

was unwelcome and pleased nobody.

Another, written by a grumpy little man,

railed against every poem (all of them) that did not

meet his educated discriminating standards.

As I read his editorial, I could picture the smirk spread

across his face. His little diatribe against the unworthy

amongst these pages, penned with great concern

for future generations of poetry readers everywhere.

A glance at my watch confirmed my suspicion

that the angry yellow sun should have mellowed a bit,

so I snatched half the change off the bar and walked out.

On my way home I gave the change and the magazine

to a homeless woman who thanked me with a blessing.

When I got back to my door I paused just long enough

to watch the remnants of tangerine melt into the Hudson,

and I smiled as I imagined the coming night.

There was poetry to be seen on the faces of the city

and in the single blade of grass pushing defiantly

through the Lexington Avenue sidewalk.

SMG

What's Left Behind

2011-02-13T02:13:00.003-05:00

What's Left Behind

I read the note,
though it was not
addressed to me.
I saw it laying
on the ground
amidst the rotted
timber and rusty
nails of a structure
no longer standing.
I’m not sure how
it came to be there
but the words
spoke to me from
the yellowed paper.

I sat for a while
with the iron
and wood debris
as I thought about
what it said:

“When I woke up this morning I couldn’t remember why I was here so I think it’s time to go. I know I loved you once but the wind has changed direction and I need to follow it. I wish you all the best but I understand if you can’t return the favor”

I dropped the note
back to the ground
and left it with
the bent reminders
of what had stood
in this place.

When the afternoon sun
began to pull a few beads

of sweat from my brow
I continued on my way.
There was a nice breeze blowing
and I longed to follow it.

SMG

Posted for the One Stop Poetry Picture Challenge

Lupercalia

2011-02-11T10:37:00.001-05:00

Lupercalia

If we still worshiped Fanus,

deemed Romulus and Remus

worthy of our respect,

would you let me lash you

with goat hide dipped in blood?

If a slip of chance intervened

and I had pulled your name

from the urn at city square,

would our year together

still have ended in ever after?

If Claudius II still ruled

and forced me to serve Rome

separated from your affection,

would you defy the Emperor

and vow with me before Valentine?

If I fell captive at Agincourt

and was a prisoner of Henry V

held in the Tower of London,

would you tarry at Orleans

‘til we could again embrace?

If I bought you fine jewels

and composed an epic poem

of devotion throughout time,

would the gesture be enough

for you, my love, my Valentine

SMG

Manhattan Progression

2011-02-01T18:44:00.002-05:00

NEW YORK - Time Lapse - Tilt Shift - Scales by Fernando Livschitz from Black Sheep Films on Vimeo.

Manhattan Progression

Quiescence:

Silence and darkness
never take Manhattan
but at 3:30 Monday
morning they stake
a claim on the island
and brace for attack.

Portland, fly ash, slag
and aggregate groan
and weep in the shadows
above carbon arc
and incandescence.

The wounds inflicted
by decades of Checker
and Crown Vic abuse
have a moment to heal
and sometimes
in those lonely hours
you can even dream.

Crescendo:

The tenuous stillness
of fragile dawn is eroded
by the tin horns of steel cattle
as they herd through the tunnels.

The Midtown, Battery
Holland and Lincoln
belch rubber and chrome,
and foul the unruffled
air of daybreak.

The city’s veins
course, and crisscross
with Pullman cars
and the pressures rise
along with the sun.

Hundred year old bridges
sag under the weight
of Detroit and Tokyo wheels
and disillusion
takes the place of dreams.

Chaos:

Subway steps erupt
with molten commuters 
that bubble up
and out across the city.

The irresistible flow
washes over the cars
and buses locked
in their cross town crawl.

Soft associations
form and disband
at every intersection
then resume
their persistent crush.

A symphony of whistles,
horns and profanity
shakes the air and
reverberates off
the canyon walls.

Motion accelerates
and overwhelms
the asphalt maze,
an indistinguishable
blur of primary colors,
‘til all that remains
are the agile nightmares
of midday Manhattan.

SMG

Re-posted from "One Stop Spotlight"

Fractal Memories

2011-02-01T16:27:00.000-05:00

Fractal Memories

The Burden of Time
distorts memories;
blonde pilsner days
and coffee nights
of years gone by
foul and turn cold
when left unattended.

The shimmer and glint
of sunlight on water ripples,
dulls as it rolls away
in thoughtless waves.

The faces of loves
left and lost splinter
into slivers of regret
and flout recall; a puzzle
never again complete
for too many pieces
are now lost or broken.

SMG

Normal Regrets

2011-01-28T19:38:00.001-05:00

Normal Regrets

All the best fucks of my life

have been bat-shit crazy;

“daddy touched me

in my special place”

“mommy always said

I wouldn’t amount to much”

damaged kind of women.

Oh, I’ve fucked my share

of nice normal girls too

but they left no lasting mark.

A dangerous fuck is one

that sticks in your mind

and flashes you in the midst

of your missionary monotony.

There’s a crystal honesty in madness

that cuts through all the bullshit.

Maybe that is why Bukowski

fucked whores and Kerouac hung out

with that hop-head fag Cassady.

The chance to touch the tragic,

the visceral magic of desperation

or the presence of real danger

never found in the banal.

SMG

Tides

2011-01-27T17:39:00.008-05:00

Tides

The ebb of love
is usually measured
and unperceived;

a gradual retreat
with no regard
for the coming moon.

We traced the shoreline
with deliberate footsteps
in the failing light.

Pointed conversations;
solemn words lost
in the crash of the waves.

And the rhythmic water
eroded all evidence
as soon as we passed.

SMG

SWF Seeks...

2011-01-25T15:30:00.002-05:00

She wants
to be hung
half naked
by her wrists
while he
gracefully
etches her
with his blade.
She longs
for beaded blood
and tiny streams,
to roll down
her body;
stain her skirt.

She's never
been loved
that way.
No one
has ever tried
to please her
with such artistic
understanding.
There is no he
Who would
indulge
such a need,
no one who
would let her
truly surrender

KGB/SMG

Re-posted from Sleep Snort Fuck

Aftermath

2011-01-24T18:46:00.001-05:00

Aftermath

The rose I gave you
is still where you dropped it,
on the table next to your
untouched champagne glass.
I made good use of the bottle,
and the ring is returnable
since you never opened the box.
I wish we could have eaten
because this reservation
was not easy to get:

Café Mirage
Table for two 8:30 PM

Huh.. that’s funny.

SMG

Re-post from CombatWords

Slow Learner

2011-01-21T15:27:00.000-05:00

Slow Learner

I hate mornings after!
My mouth tastes
like a Manhattan
sidewalk
and my head
throbs with
every beat of my heart.

Mornings after
are a time
for inventory,
counting and recounting
the drunkenness, debauchery,
and stupidity
that define
my social life.

Mornings after
smell of spilled booze,
stale cigarettes,
and the perfume
of cheap bar girls
passed out in the bedroom.

Mornings after
sting like a ruler
across the knuckles,
wielded by
Sister Barely Tolerant,
correcting me in ethics class.

Mornings after
serve as a harsh reminder
of what excess can lead to.
Somehow those lessons
never come to mind
on nights before.

SMG

Two New Yorks

2011-01-21T03:05:00.001-05:00

Two New Yorks

Punch drunk
Pedestrians
pinball
down Broadway
and Seventh
all bobble heads
and silly smiles.

Eyes skyward
they clog
the crosswalk
from 37th
to 49th Street.

Mawkish
expressions betray
their two story lives
and slow histories.

Tourists
will never
know the hurt
or the heartbreak
that walks
the four hundred
year old
sidewalks
of Manhattan.

Times Square
maybe Disney
light but the real
New York
is a cautionary tale.

To all would-be
dancers, actors
and writers;
don’t believe
too much
and never
let the city see you cry.

SMG

Write Blocked

2011-01-19T23:58:00.002-05:00

Write Blocked

The white screen
taunts me with
a cursor’s wink
while I drill holes
through my skull
in search of gold.

Twenty six
alpha bitches
make promises,
ask for shape
and definition;
instructions
not included.

I feel like
a middle class
needle romancer,
cruising Hunts Point,
in search of my next
opium love affair.

Thalia smiles
and assures me
that I hold the keys,
then giggles and winks
when I ask her
“to which door?”

SMG

Skiathos

2011-01-11T16:30:00.000-05:00

Skiathos

On pure white sands
we tested endurance;
speaking in tongues
and dead languages.
Eros, diligo, blysia, expeto;
lost words moaned
between half gasps
and screams in the dark.

We measured time
in moon shadows,
broken promises
and scars from lovers
long gone. In the glow
of muted embers
waves crashed
against the past;
a persistent hope
in the darkness.

SMG

Ladies Night at the Bauhaus

2011-01-03T18:19:00.003-05:00

Ladies Night at the Bauhaus

The forms of these women tend to
fail the function test but the aesth-
etics and hedonists never did sit
together in school I let Ezra pound
modernism into my brain until I
questioned everything I learned on
Sunday Kandinsky waxed theosop-
hical while feverishly waving a pro-
tractor and paintbrush in the air of
post-war Germany’s zeitgeist ornam-
entation gave way to the functional
man will occasionally impractically
fall for the aesthetic form of a woman
with no regard for the school to which
she belongs.

SMG

Love & Hate in 4/4 Time

2011-01-03T16:30:00.000-05:00

Love & Hate in 4/4 Time

" New York is a great apartment hotel in which everyone lives and no one is at home." Glenway Wescott

I moved to the Borough of Manhattan in August of 2007. There were any number of reasons for the move; career, art, culture, family and I suppose the need for a life change. For the first few months I was here, I was frequently asked two questions:
1. Why did you leave California?
2. What do you think of New York?

The answer to question one is simple enough. For the better part of the previous 10 years I had lived in San Diego; a beautiful, temperate, coastal city that is only about an hour and a half from where I grew up. As much as I loved living there, and being close to kith and kin, I am a restless soul. I have found that even heaven can wear on you after too many years. There is something about contentment that chips away at a man’s resolve. Like that statue in the park, so noble and striking when it was erected. It should always stand magnificent and proud but in time it becomes just another thing to be shit on by migrating birds and ignored by passers by.

The second question was much harder to answer in a way that could truly convey what this place is like for me. I have spent hours trying to capture the essence of Manhattan in my poetry, but I have only managed to give very small glimpses of New York life. Most of the time I fail miserably, only able to create weak one dimensional images that have no breadth, depth or texture. The complexity, vibrancy and frustrations of this city exceed my all too inadequate vocabulary. I remember the first time I came to New York some years ago. I was in DC on a business trip and decided to take the train up for the weekend. If you have never been here do yourself a favor and come by train to Penn Station. The overwhelming of the senses as you walk out of the station and into the shadow of Madison Square Garden will stay with you for a long time. The enormity of the city is difficult to grasp until you pop up smack in the middle of it all. I think I now have an idea of what Garcia Lopez de Cardenas must have felt the first time he saw the Grand Canyon.

My impressions of New York are intimately tied to music because I walk almost everywhere I go and I’m never without my trusty iPod. A good MP3 player is the perfect defense against panhandlers, lost tourists and subway serenaders. This synergy of music and cityscape has created a living sound track to my life here. Music shapes and colors my interpretation of the city, people and places I encounter.

When I first arrived I was living in a hotel in Midtown near Central Park. It was summer and every day after work I would ride my bike through the park. For 5 weeks the only time I ever went outside was for my nightly ride. I like the energy when I ride so my cycling play list is comprised of metal, hip hop and industrial music. Because of how I came to know the place, I don’t think of Central Park as pastoral, I think of it as angry. The roads of the park to me became a place to release the day’s stress, as I aggressively cut through leisure riders, runners and skaters, pushing harder with each stroke of the pedals. Imagine the snarl of Metallica’s “Ain’t My Bitch” blasting in your head as trees and pedestrians blurred past. It is not a place of peace and beauty; it is a desperate and pathetic attempt to connect with nature and the earth. When the weather is nice, or at least warm, the park is over run with men, women, children and dogs all hiding from the prison walls that surround us every day. As a visitor several years ago I remember thinking how wonderful it was. It was December and I was on a leisure weekend. I strolled down snow covered paths holding the hand of my future wife and wanted time to stop so I could always be in that place. Today I just stay away so I can avoid the crowds and the ever present aroma of horse shit.

The soundtrack has helped shape many positive memories too. I wish I could bottle the peace I felt one Saturday morning as I walked up Broadway from the 79th street A-Train station. I was listening to the first movement of Mozart’s Symphony 40 in G minor and the world just made sense. My stride fell in sync with the music, the sun reflected off the buildings and lit the path as I walked. I saw wonder in the eyes of the children I passed and I could taste the spring blossoms in the air. The city loved me that day and I could not help but love it right back. When New York is good there is no place better on earth.

I’ve walked down 7th Avenue with Jay-Z’s sample laden rap “Heart of the City” repetitively pulsing in my head and felt every word on the back of my throat, “Where’s the Love?” indeed. I have felt Adam’s angst as I contemplated “A Long December” walking home through Madison Square Park in the dead of winter. New York can be a place rife with sadness and regret and sometimes those things hold your hand and follow you home. I have The Counting Crows back to back with Simon and Garfunkel’s “America”. When they sing “I’m empty and aching and I don’t know why” I connect with the words and can see them on the faces of the city. The daily crush of millions wears on the citizenry like the abrasive winter wind. Sometimes looking for a smile in this town is as fruitless as Abraham’s search for 10 righteous men in Sodom, but I still look.

In the end, I guess the answer to that question is that New York is place that I love and hate. It is a city that makes you believe that all things are possible and then does not blink as it steps on your dreams. It is a place where dancing shadows slide between the buildings during summer sunsets, squirrels chase morsels in the parks and men and women freeze to death alone on the city streets at night. With all its contradictions, callousness, and confusion, I still miss it when I leave. It is sad, beautiful and dysfunctional but it is where I live so I embrace it as home. It is cliché, but it has become a ritual for me to queue up “New York State of Mind” and watch city grow outside the window of whatever return flight I am on. I will leave this place someday in the not too distant future, but I don’t think it will ever leave me.

SMG

The Weight of My Own Self Importance

2010-12-31T15:12:00.000-05:00

The Weight of My Own Self Importance

How pretentious
the poet’s pen is,
nattering nonsense
cobbled and collated
into couplets and quatrains.

The mysteries of life
explained; I am, in iamb.
A lot of alliteration;
love’s loss lamented
line by line.

Yellow pad in hand
we toil and tarry ‘til
the world weeps
in wonderment
at what we’ve written.

SMG

(Art Credit)

Booze

2010-12-16T17:18:00.000-05:00

Booze

Oh
to worship
at the altar
of drunken
abandon.

Confess
your sins,
and revel
in liquid
Absolut(ion).

There
is salvation
in intoxication,
for I am 10 feet tall
at 100 proof!

SMG

Pipinoukhe

2010-12-14T11:54:00.004-05:00

Pipinoukhe

I blew dandelion fluff
across the city sky last night.
I wanted to cover the sins
and blanket
the dirty sidewalks.

Each steamy breath
carried the seeds
of downy redemption
across metropolis
and into the night air.

The cab drivers
scurried out of the city
and headed to Brooklyn,
sugar cyclones
in their wake.

Pedestrians brushed
off my efforts
and cursed aloud
at the yellow bastards
as they raced for the bridge.

I began to tire
around midnight but
got my second wind
at two, so I kept at it
until just before dawn.

About six, spent,
I nodded off
and had dreams
of the old days;
back before salt,
plows and shovels,
back when the city
was a promise
and its sins
were still forgivable.

SMG

*(Re-post from Drink This Cola)

Daddy's Girl

2010-12-07T16:23:00.000-05:00

Daddy’s Girl

Small feet running;
tears, so many tears
“it’s broken”

Knowing look comforts;
patience and glue
“thank you daddy”

Little girl laughing;
giggles, screams and giggles
“catch me”

Steady hands toss;
catching, gently catching
“again again”

Tiny ears covering;
shouts angry shouts
“stop please stop”

Somber judge intones;
Mom vs. Dad
“for the petitioner”

Deep voice explaining;
fault, not your fault
“mommy and daddy…”

Small hands cling;
sobs, guttural sobs
“come home daddy”

Desperate kisses and hugs;
visitation, odd weekends
“I can’t baby”

Big feet running;
tears, so many tears
“it’s broken”

*(From "Another Hotel Room")

Walk in the Park

2010-11-30T10:11:00.002-05:00

Walk in the Park

Leafless
black-brown
branches
cut across the sky
like cracks
in the canopy
that
strobe light
the December sun
along the brittle white path.
Central Park
in winter
is staid
and
sorrowful;
the cold empty heart
of New York.

SMG

Mechanical Perturbation

2010-11-23T17:59:00.000-05:00

Mechanical Perturbation

From three thousand miles away
a heartbeat is difficult to detect.
The insulation of distance mutes
the sound of sinus rhythms as they fade.

My first car had a bad fuel pump,
the diaphragm membrane developed
a hole and the car began to lose power.
As the hole grew, the engine got weaker
until one day it just stopped.

The day you gave me my first “A”
I think my heart skipped a beat.
The wall of doubt had its first crack
and you’d handed me the hammer.

A new fuel pump for a 1963 VW Bus
is not a stock item so I had to wait
almost a week for the part to arrive.
I used the extra time to change
the oil and adjust the valves.

The first heart transplant took place
in 1964. For lack of a suitable donor
they used a chimpanzee heart;
the patient lived for a little over an hour.

If they can't find a donor, your heart
may stop before I hear it beat again.
Cedars-Sinai is apparently out of stock,
and chimp hearts are no longer used.
I’m not sure how to fill the wait time.

I got rid of the VW bus years ago,
replacement fuel pump and all.
The wall is mostly rubble now;
all I’m left with is your hammer,
and three thousand miles of silence.

(Re-posted from Notes & Grace Notes)

Los Angeles to New York

2010-11-17T17:19:00.001-05:00

Los Angeles to New York

Varicose veins
scar the landscape;
reminders of rivers
long since dead.
Burnt sienna
and raw umber
scraped across
the desiccated canvas
by a laughing god
with a palette knife
and dirty brushes.
Fascinated eyes
survey the wasteland
through Boeing glass

and the relative cool
of thirty-five thousand feet.
They will find no Jews
wandering in this wilderness
only the occasional
Navajo dust trail set free
by an old pick-up truck.

SMG

Simplicity

2010-11-16T16:42:00.000-05:00

Simplicity
Sunday morning sunlight
chases tiny rabbits
across the bedroom
and you are beautiful
in the shadows.
Blankets pulled overhead
keep Saturday night’s toll
at bay for the moment
and you are enticing
in the goose down.
Newsprint smudged
fingers fetch you aspirin
with sparkling water back
and you are sexy
in the naked daylight.
I fell in love with you
on just such a morning,
3000 miles to the west
and you were beautiful
in the retreating fog.

Lycaon of the Lower East Side

2010-11-14T20:19:00.004-05:00

Lycaon of the Lower East Side

Full moon Friday calls:
The promise of night
cloaks the travertine
and glass temples of man.
Silhouettes shape-shift
beyond streetlight glare
and gather in the shadows.
I am the seventh son;
dark ruler of alphabet city,
hungry in the lunar phase.

Satisfaction struts
in 4 inch heels
down Bleecker Street,
Chanel marinade
follows the footfall.
I watch with amber eye
and hold my tongue
behind eager teeth.

Tonight she will be my love,
and I will finally sleep--

safe from Aconitum dawn.

SMG

I watched the sun come up from the departures lounge at Schiphol

2010-11-12T20:49:00.007-05:00

I watched the sun come up
from the departures lounge at Schiphol

Beer tastes different at sunrise;
maybe it's the bitterness
something like regret.

I left you crying in California
and you said you understood
as I walked through the gate.
I suppose the avalanche of clichés
finally buried your resolve.
But we both know
it wasn’t me or you; it was us.
Me in my cuckold horns
and you in your orphan rags,
both reading from a script
that was ill conceived and poorly written.
You held me like I was your father
the night he walked out the door
and I fucked you as if my ex
was watching from the next room.

It is 6:20 AM and I still have
some distance to travel.
I imagine you have cried yourself to sleep by now
and I am here, attempting to write a poem
about the absurdity of Humpty
trying to fix a broken tin soldier.

SMG

Screw You Walt Whitman!

2010-11-09T20:48:00.001-05:00

Screw You Walt Whitman

Obscurity and irrelevance
are scarier than death,
so I write to leave my mark,
but I am writing in chalk
on the sidewalk of 7th Avenue
and 42nd Street. Tomorrow
my words will be washed away
by fashion footwear
and afternoon thunderstorms.

My fears breed behind decorated walls
and seem to be immune to bug spray,
but I can still chase them
out of the living room
when I turn on the lights.
I have no philosophy
that explains the nature of man,
and my lexicon is the product
of a public school education.
All I have to work with is Silly String,
Paint by Numbers pictures
and an old Poetry Writers Guide
picked up at a yard sale in Queens.

I have Body Electric nightmares,
and Walt Whitman keeps hitting
on Jim Morrison while he plays
the piano at Rick’s Café Américain.
Despite my best efforts the hairy bastard
won’t even look in my direction.

*(Re-Print from Notes & Grace Notes September, 2008)

Reflection

2010-11-08T12:57:00.003-05:00

Reflection

I stood on the Ponte Milvio overlooking the Tiber,
and watched as it carved through the travertine
and sandstone of the millennium. As the sun set
I could see the dome of St Peter’s wax and wane
through bird shadows cast in waves of evening flight.

Time passes without emotion between the seven hills
and the water flows without memory; from Le Vene
to the Tyrrhenian Sea. Here we are old and young,
Christian, pagan and Muslim, world wise and weary.
I have never seen a clear reflection off the Hudson,
but from this vantage point I can glimpse eternity
in the tarnished majesty and endurance that is Rome.

SMG

Inside Joke

2010-11-02T17:26:00.001-04:00

A phone rings in the darkness
of a Tuesday night and I
raise my glass and whisper,
“please leave a message at the tone”

I am chasing heart failure in bathtub
or aspirated vomit on a toilet seat,
but I might be a few corrosives short.

The footsteps outside my window
continue to come and go, but they
only motivate me to turn up the radio
and crack another tax stamp.

You told me once that all things
have a beginning as well as an end,
and I laughed at your pessimism.

As I sit here alone on the crest
of Wednesday morning crash
I can’t remember why
I thought that was funny.

SMG

*(excerpt from "Another Hotel Room)