Urbanality

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 two hundred dollar ear buds.
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".

SMG

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

She Calls in the Morning

She Calls in the Morning

In the end, at the bottom,

the wreckage was clear;

she was a puddle on the floor,

and I stumbled out the door.

She used to call in the morning

seeking her daily diversion and I,

lonely and filled with doubt, answered,

beginning my daily digression.

“Let’s meet for breakfast” was met

with “I can’t, I have to work today”.

She had a way of removing my resolve,

with a seductive longing in her voice.

I may never understand her true motive,

but she knew my true weakness.

I wanted to taste her on my lips

and feel her warmth deep inside.

Logic and will were always inadequate

against the sway she held over me.

In time, like all bad relationships, my drunk dials

started going to voicemail as she became aloof.

Increasingly less willing to satiate my need. One night 

she left me, a broken shell, in a pool of tears…

…but she called in the morning.

SMG

Break Glass in Case of Emergency

 

Break Glass in Case of Emergency

I feel like a ship in a bottle,

various pieces of me, over time,

tweezed and squeezed into

an attractive unnatural display.

 

Assembled slowly in this

new environment, the bottle

feels like home, like where I belong.

 

Upon completion, I’ve become a prisoner.

As a fully formed being, I may never leave

as long as the bottle and I are intact.

 

To escape, breakage will be required.

The bottle does not know it is a prison,

while I fail to recognize my own captivity.

 

Only a force outside the symbiotic delusion

can break the bond that neither of us comprehends. 

That force also gets to pick sides in the separation.

 

Smash the bottle, and I can be free, unless

too much force is applied. Shake the contents,

and what’s left are little broken pieces of me.

 

Perhaps my remains can be poured out

onto a countertop and with attention,

care and reassembly, I may sail again

and be free.

 

SMG   

Absolution

Absolution

The cap breaks

to the left and spins

loose on the table

like a drunken top.

Is the rush in the ritual

or in the result?

Three cubes,

no more, no less,

dropped one at a time

with bombardier

precision from above.

There follows the muted

plock-plock-plock

as the amber liquid

escapes the bottle,

and the pressure pop

of the ice as it welcomes

the whiskey.

Pavlov is affirmed

as the scent of Speyside

malt and smoke fills the senses

and light dances and refracts

through the diamonds

and gold in the glass.

The familiar bite

against the lips wakes me,

and I emerge like a penitent man

from the confessional,

absolved and ready

to sin again.  

SMG

Notes on Poetry Composition

Notes on Poetry Composition

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

I throw out the poetry textbooks 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
and 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

Drinking

Drinking

At one point I thought
I could drink myself into oblivion,
kill myself one shot at a time.

Whiskey was the journey,
intoxication the destination.
Alcohol, like blood
coursed through my pain,
fed it, nurtured it, an orphan child
held by a dispassionate nun.

I learned to live with the knowledge

that pain, like death, was inevitable
well beyond my control only to be

quelled, never cured.

Drunkenness however
was completely in my control.
A roaring lion on a leash,
a raging fire safely
warming my house of straw.

SMG

From "Another Hotel Room"

Booze

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

The Long Nights

The Long Nights

The nights I wake up

like a drowning man

the moment he breaks

through the surface finally

able to draw a breath.

The weight of disappointment,

memories of passion traded

for safety, heavy enough

to stop my heart. I lie awake

and try to recall what it felt like

when I was hungry and naked;

living in the wild.

The nights I am alone,

tormented by ghosts in the dark;

by the women that loved me

until I turned and ravaged them

in the glow of full moonlight.

Nights when the whiskey

won’t whitewash my sins

and help me forget their faces.

Like the wail of a distant siren,

their cries echo and taunt me

in the emptiness before dawn.

SMG

Tallahassee

Tallahassee

When the hands of the clock

are flipping you off,

its face a twisted smile,

and escape to the bottle

has drowned the words

that once intoxicated you.

When lust is merely a metaphor,

love a long distance call

and your voice has turned

to autumn leaves

that crackle under foot.

That is when the night

becomes only darkness

and the call of that bottle

fills the spaces in between

the sunlight.

SMG

Impulse Control

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

Letters to the Editor

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

Layover

Layover

I met her in the lobby bar of a hotel

down by the airport in LA. It was

the kind of place you end up when

your choices are like a game of

“Would You Rather?”

An exchange of pleasantries evolved

into sad stories about business trips

and missed connections. She told me

she was getting a divorce and out here

looking for a new start. Why not? I thought,

sadness always looks better with a tan

and a good pair of sunglasses.

She told me she dreamed in pastels

which struck me as odd, because

she only spoke in primary colors

like pain and regret.

I asked her if she wanted to come

up to my room and she looked down

as if she had dropped something

under the bar. She mumbled something,
looked up and I could see the resignation
in her smile.

Murmured protestations often proceed

to surrender in dim resolve of night

as the alcohol and feel of another’s flesh
dull the ache.

“What did she say her name was?”

SMG

Slow Learner

 

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

Don't Tell Me Your Name

Don’t tell me your name

Don’t tell me your name;
I won’t remember it anyway
because I killed those brain cells
two or three bottles back.

Just call me Sunday morning regret
and scream whatever you want
in the darkness.

You told me that you left
your vanilla suit at the cleaners
but you won’t need it
on this bad boy escape.

All I want from you
can be had without words
and what you need
requires no long thoughtful gaze.

I want to give you stubble
burns on your thighs,
rolling back spasms
and make you question
everything your mother told you.

In return I’ll take
your nail track brands,
lipstick smudges
and your lingering guilt
home with me in the morning.

You can be a slut for a day
and I will wear my Mickey Rourke mask
until we wash off the night
and go back to our assigned seats.

Inside Joke

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)

72 Hours, 27 Cocktails, & 5 Women

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

Leaving New York

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 of 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

Picture Prompt Challenge (featuring Jacob Lucas)



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



Two New Yorks

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

Pome Eighty One (81)

Pome Eighty One (81)

Daydreams turn to weak
aspirations long before
the monthly bills come
due you spend your time
wisely or did I see you
ask for change--Absurd
SoHo poets don’t think
so you better watch out
or you may drown in the
stream of consciousness
is the apex of Abraham’s
need I say more--Abstract
shun intangible images
as they are crutches for
the simple mind your
metaphors and similarly
beware the march I’d
love another drink--Imbibe