Category: FB legacy

to the server at my favorite venue, who always buys me a shot

why do you do this? I am always
on the verge of
getting drunk
anyway, the last thing I need
is a shot, which I am not sure
how it gets paid for,
but I feel bad
if it comes out of
your pocket. that said,
I hardly ever
say no. a free (to me)
shot is a free shot, after all,
even if I sip it. thank you
for thinking of me.

cupcakegate

yes, I’m still mad
about the cupcake incident.
it’s extremely stupid and yet
it was very rude and
upsetting. who would have thunk
a sweet little thing like that
could cause so much harm,
and make things so awful
that I wish you would disappear
from the scene forever? so
do me a favor, would you, and
stay away?

no. it’s no use. if you
were the kind of person
who respected others,
you wouldn’t have done that thing
with the fucking cupcake
to begin with.

The Mill

somewhere
far away and long ago
there is a mill that sits
by a stream. in what seems like
a grievous oversight on the part
of the builders, there’s no
water wheel, just a man
and an ass
who take turns
to move the big stone wheel
turn by turn around
to ground the wheat down
into flour.

upstairs in the mill, a lonely lady sighs
and sits by the window and watches
as the miller grinds away
down below. she is pale and listless
and always so endlessly
tired, though she does nothing
to earn her rest. her only task
is to be quiet and watch
and report any irregularities
to her father, who owns
the mill. she reads books
until her eyes close of their own
accord, and every so often
she writes secretly
about what she can see
of the world outside
her window’s bounds.

she often wonders
what it would be like to work all day
in the hot sun and fresh
air, to feel the burn
and stretch of her muscles
and to be able to sit
on the bank of the stream
and dangle her feet
in the icy, green water, watching
the minnows gleam
silver beneath the rippling
currents. would she then
sleep deeply, without those
fitful, feverish dreams
that haunt her? would the rough fare
the miller eats taste better
with the sauce of honest hard labor
than the fine-ground grain
of the lavish pastries and confections
sent over by the staff
at her father’s mansion?

are her limbs so listless
from stifling her rage?
is her head so heavy and her eyes
clouded with tears
from all the times
she held her tongue
when being told
to do as she was told?

the sun has set, the miller rests
with a clear conscience
after having done his hard
day’s work. the lady, too, lays
down but sleep will not come
so easily to her. her mind is weary
of daydreams and full of questions
with no answers. the donkey thinks
not at all. who’s the happiest
under that roof?

grist

on days like this
when all of my being and senses
are useless and dull, the very air
tasteless and thick
as grey porridge, and my body
and mind are lumpy, lumpen clay,
with no spark, wit,
spirit or daemon
to infect my useless mud golem
and make it walk and talk
and pretend
to be a real living creature, I offer
whatever part of me
can strike a spark in you.

so be sure to
grind me up fine, and
check for chaff – because
on days like today I feel like
that’s all there is – and crunch up
my bones well, to transform my useless grist
to good and tasty bread,
sift me, sieve me, strain me
til I’m smaller and
finer and
better.

today’s a wasted
day for me,
but I’m glad it was not so
for you. you made some nice cakes
from my coarse
corn meal.

spent

I’m rummaging
through my brain, turning
out my mental pockets,
hoping to find the words
for one more poem. yesterday
I spent all my coins, cranked
out so many poems that I truly fear
I have nothing left. why didn’t I save
one or two for a rainy day
like today, when I’m hungover
and have no inspiration
and nothing seems worthy
to write about? silly me.
maybe if I look a little harder
I can wring some more wine
out of this dirty rag
I call my brain, and cudgel one more
collection of words on the page
into something resembling
a poem.

introductions

I’m funny about
being introduced. like my friend
Happy will introduce herself
without a qualm to anyone
whereas I hang back. it doesn’t matter
who it is, I feel awkward.
today I felt bad
because I didn’t introduce myself
to the workmen, let alone
buy them some beers
that they could enjoy on the terrace
while they were slaving away
fixing my air conditioning. Happy
would have done it. why
can’t I? why am I so very shy
to tell people my name
and ask theirs in return?
why would I rather
sit in the corner and write a poem
than meet people
I don’t already know? it’s silly
really. it would probably behoove me
to make a little more effort
to give people a chance
to get to know me
before assuming
they don’t like the cut
of my jib.

to the lesbians making out across from me

I’m glad
that you’re here. I’m even gladder
that certain people
of my acquaintance
are not. they might well
write a song about you
which would objectify you
and make your healthy sexuality
into a spectacle for their delectation
when it’s nobody’s business
but yours.

that said, I really like
how you look like
real lesbians, comfortable with
yourselves and each other and
public displays of affection,
and I like how you kiss like
real lesbians, not like two girls
who aren’t really attracted to each other
but are getting paid big bucks
to ritually titillate men by half-assedly making out.

you’re not plucked and
made up to within an
inch of your lives,
toned and tanned
and fake-nailed etc.
(not that I judge the women
that have made that choice
to survive under the patriarchy.)
it’s just refreshing to see two ladies
who are so obviously
in love.

to the cutest new waiter at my favorite venue, whose name may be Chad

you’re so
clean cut and innocent-looking
with your muted plaid shirts
like you just moved here
from Connecticut or
New Hampshire or
Wisconsin or Idaho;
somewhere bucolic
that isn’t so smoggy.

your clear country skin
is creamy as a milkmaid’s,
you’ve never seen rats, or roaches –
or homeless dudes relieving
themselves on the subway
right before asking for change –
until now.

your cloudless blue eyes
have never felt the poison kiss
of acid rain or mysterious awful liquids dripping
from air conditioning units
that love to land
right in your pretty little
peepers – until now.

did you move here to become
an actor? that’s so adorable.
you’re probably young enough
to be my child. much as I would love
to spoil you – in and out of bed –
I can see by your face that
you haven’t suffered
enough yet to be an artist of note.
get back to me in a few years
when New York has broken
your spirit a little bit more.

maybe by then you’ll have forgotten
my embarrassing little secrets
like how I order extra butter
for the garlic bread that is supposedly
“already buttered”, or how I left a full bowl
of pasta sauce consisting entirely
of onions, having picked out
all the penne and all the bacon,
or how I danced not entirely awkwardly
to Ben Pagano’s set
like a broken robot. please, forget
these things that make me look
somewhat less than cool,
and I’ll forgive how very pretty
you are, little country boy.

regicide?

I’m so sorry. I think I may have
killed The Artist
Formerly Known As
Prince. (well, first he was Prince
Rogers Nelson, then he was
Prince, then he was a Symbol,
then he was The Artist Formerly
Known As Prince, then he was
Prince again. now he’s back
to being former.)
Always a prince though;
he didn’t want
to be King, so is it
really regicide?

how did I cause
his demise, you ask?
I fear it was hearing
the way I butchered the beats
on our compilation
that probably made him
shuffle off his mortal coil.
at least I can picture the scene,
his lawyers telling him
that some bunch of weirdos
from the East Village
covered his songs
without permission –

but I’ll have your ghostly Highness
know two things: I didn’t sample
anything, I made those
terrible beats and assorted weird sounds
all by myself, thank you, and secondly
I bought your originals
from iTunes –

so anyway
TAFKAP was probably digging it
until he got to my tracks
and then the arrhythmia
of my beats infected
his heart and it was maybe just
too much for him. again,
I truly, madly, deeply apologize
and if throwing me in jail
will bring him back, please feel free
to lock me up and throw away
the key.