Road Food

Road Food

I stopped at a Waffle House

off the highway somewhere
between Mobile and New Orleans.
I don’t remember the name of the town

but it really doesn’t matter.

Most of the stops on that road

seem like a bad verse

from a country song anyway.

As I was eating my breakfast

I overheard conversation

between my waitress

and one of her coworkers.

It made me stop and think

about where it starts to go wrong.

The first time hope falls like a stone

and hits you square in the gut,

when a blue cross appears in the window

of that goddam little stick

or what starts as a lover’s quarrel

ends in stitches and flashing lights.

The weight of the indignities, in time,

sucks the joy out of life like bedbugs

feeding on an invalid. Surrender

is shitty perfume and sorrow

doesn’t compliment anyone’s eyes.

I left a twenty for a twelve dollar tab

and went outside for cigarette.

I tried to think back to where it started

to go wrong for me. How did I end up

here on this road so far from where I started

and so far from you.

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

La Cantera

La Cantera

I remember that Friday night,
as I drove in circles, wasting rental gas,
and obsessively checking my watch.
Three hours from DC to San Antonio
plus the 5 months since you said goodbye.
I never told you how I cried and tried
to hate you, because when I saw you walk
through security 147 days dissolved,
like a sugar cube on my tongue.

And I remember Saturday night too,
after 18 holes, a delicate petite syrah
and two of the best damn steaks in Texas,
we laughed, drank XO and smoked Cohibas.
When you excused yourself for a moment,
every last man watched you catwalk out,
and then turned to me and said
“boy you’re one lucky sombitch”
I just gave them a nod and a smile,
because they had no idea how lucky I was.

*(Re-print from "Another Hotel Room")

Reflection

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

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

Sunday Picture Challenge

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

Inspiration

Inspiration

I spend Sunday afternoons
in Greenwich Village
searching for Holden
and old Sal Paradise.
I want to connect
with the dissonance ,
embrace madness
and take On the Road.

I stutter step 42nd Street,
weave and eaves drop
on stolen conversations
and snap shot scenes.
Sublime brief glimpses,
of a television set to scan.
Seen through dim glass
a city viewed darkly

I’ve fucked my share
of whores and goddesses
but I still can’t write
a decent love poem.
Language fails compared
to the splendor and stench
of two becoming one,
then two, or maybe none.

I walk through Central Park
and wonder about the ducks,
I often take the time to ask
the junkies “where’s Dean?”
and every once in a while
they give me a knowing look
and say “he’s on the journey,
living it, where are you man?”