John Grochalski Returns To ZLR

John Grochalski is a published writer whose poetry and prose have appeared in several online and print publications including:  Red Fez, Rusty Truck, Outsider Writers Collective, Underground Voices, The Lilliput Review, The Main Street Rag, Zygote In My Coffee, The Camel Saloon, and Bartleby Snopes.  I have two books of poetry The Noose Doesn’t Get Any Looser After You Punch (Six Gallery Press) and Glass City (Low Ghost Press), and a novel, The Librarian forthcoming.

eureka moment

slipping
drunkish
we pour out of the metropol
onto ice covered
smallman street
and yes
they are in front of us
steve won’t let it go
he says, all of these months, dude
all of these months
going to clubs
going to bars
trying to meet chicks
and one practically falls in your lap tonight
he says,
dude, what was the problem?
she too good looking for you?
you two have too much in common?
calvin adds,
she was pretty cute, ski
because he thinks he and i have rap names
and she’s only a few paces ahead
i think if she looks back
just once…
but steve stars in again
dude, what club, what bar
are you gonna go to where you’re going to meet
an english lit major
from your own fucking college of all things
he says, next week we’ll be here again
and she won’t
that’s a fact
and you’ll be moaning and complaining, dude
we finally get to the car
wait in the cold blast for steve to stop yelling at me
open doors and get in shivering
i realize i still have half a forty of bud left
in the backseat
half-frozen
it tastes like steinbeck’s
beer milkshake
from here on cannery row
where i didn’t even get her name.


i’m a genius writer

twenty-six years old
alto girl
head to toe in black
black skirt and black nylons
short red hair dancing
under purple smoke lights
of the metropol
hip chick, at least she thinks
beatnik chick
tells me
that i’m too young to be dancing
to 1984 throwback music
but i’m on two 40s of budweiser
some shots
a couple buck-fifty special yuengling bottles
so i’ll dance the dance
because i don’t care
even if she takes the brand new cigarette
out of my mouth
smokes it to toward the last drag
while we stand there
glistened in club sweat
she thinking me too young and she thinking she’s too old
waiting for whatever the night brings
and i can hear
calvin and steve hoot-call throughout the club
their fruitless cattle call
when she finally says,
i love the 80s
like it’s a grand statement
i think to tell her nostalgia is a hole
but she laughs
throws my smoke on the ground
crushes it with black heels
rolls her eyes at me
just another failed male on a saturday night
turns back to find her friends
leaving me
screaming to her shimming back
but i’m a genius writer
inhaling dry ice on the comedown
instead of that camel light.

John Grochalski

simple kiss

cassandra
sits sideways
window cracked
our smokes to their butt end
the evening
into night into morning
she says
we both have to be there early tomorrow
like a harbinger of doom
hurrying me along
to get where we need to get
this forever night of beer and darts
coming to an end
this year crawling to its close
cassandra sighs and laughs
because i’m frozen where i sit
she grabs me
before i know it
mouth on mouth
sweet immortal simple kiss
she let’s go and is out the car
before i can get a word in
watching her
walk to her door
motion light
spotlight
halo
i anticipate eternity
but this angel
she doesn’t
even look back.


big picture

we steal ron p’s ritalin from his desk
munch mini thin diet pills for pep
drink pitchers of beer in the phi on our lunch break
we’re not thinking big picture here
i complain to randy about cassandra
she asks me what’s wrong, i say
you stopped calling me stopped talking to me wrong
i’ve spent more time on the phone with her mother
at work i watch cassandra make faces with brandon
huddle over grad school homework with brandon
tattooed union socialist brandon
come to brandon’s punk show, she says
my red-eyes bulging out of my head
ritalin mini thin beer cocktail
what am i gonna do at a punk show?
but i take calvin to the 31st street pub
ritalin-iron-city-pittsburgh-car-bomb
tattooed brandon on stage screaming into a microphone
a sea of porcelain cassandras fawning over him
on lonely penn avenue
we hear soul music coming out of a club
jacked-sweating-ritalin-beer we go in
the only two white faces in the joint
a sea of ebony anti-cassandras moving to keith sweat
last time like this with ron p.
in a joint on penn avenue east liberty can’t remember the name
only white face then in the joint
smoking weed and buying stolen nike hats
the bartender slams down two cans of budweiser
like drink ‘em fasts boys
we walk around the joint like little ghosts
ace ventura, she says, coming over to me
beautiful black under purple club lights her shirt glows
drags us over to her boyfriend/friend
she says, ace ventura! ace ventura!
nursing beers we play darts with them for an hour
keith sweat turning into guy turning into jodeci into her moving
we stumble out into the street
the punk show ending down the block
a sea of white faces pouring out into the night
cassandrabrandon somewhere in the mix
ritalin hangover we walk back toward the car
calvin saying, ski, i always liked black girls
better than white girls anyway. 


waterlogged

and then
there is portia
portia with her boyfriend
sweet portia whom i’m infatuated with
and you want to know
where i was on tuesday?
face deep in three pints
because i couldn’t be anywhere near you
sit next to you in this class anymore
january to april and i’m worn down of you
because some tortures are too simple
portia with her boyfriend
and your cat got out?
and your dui last summer?
and how you shouldn’t be buying
or drinking alcohol?
so much happens in a week!
portia wants to know why i haven’t
visited her at aussie’s yet
portia with her boyfriend
she says she’s quitting come the twenty-second
portia talks like she’s on speed
and because i want her to keep going
i interject as little as possible
she wants to know
what i think about her maybe staying
in the city this summer
i think the sun and moon and stars about it
but i tell her that’s pretty cool
portia with her boyfriend
at the arts festival regatta fireworks at the point
on the south side shadyside squirrel hill
polish hill lawrenceville bloomfield north side
her big eyes red hair lip ring
in my bars in my clubs
a damned shroud over junejulyaugust
portia wants to know why i still haven’t
come down to the sharper edge for a pint
i laugh i tell her i will really will
once i pick which of one of
these three blessed rivers
i’m gonna go down
and drown my sorrows in

Five Poems By John Grochalski

Five poems by John Grochalski

tough guys drink beer

on the evening bus

and they smirk at you

like there isn’t a goddamned thing

that you can do about it

as if you care

tough guys drink aluminum pounders

of coors light on the evening bus

and we’re supposed to shiver

coors light isn’t tough

even with some has been rapper

schilling for them

but this clown is smirking and shaking his head

looking at all of us

daring one of us to say something to him

he calls his boy, tony, on his cell phone

just to let tony know that he’s drinking beer on the evening bus

like some kind of gangster

i hope tony is impressed

but i don’t think he is

i think tony wants to talk about his woman troubles

because the tough guy drinking beer on the evening bus

almost spits out his coors light

he says, stop whining about your bitch, tone

be a player, he says,

taking down another gulp of the “hard stuff”

as some black girl smacks me in the face with her ponytail

and starts singing beyoncé songs

ponytails are tougher than coors light

being forced to listen to beyoncé songs can make you tough

tougher than this clown drinking beer

on the evening bus

but

maybe he is kind of hardcore

he put his can of beer on the floor of the bus

when he finished it

he’s too hard to recycle

or even throw his can away

he’s going to make the bus driver his bitch

he tells tony this on the phone

as he reaches into his bag for another pounder can of coors light

as the black girl bellows

say my name, say my name and looks over at him

tisking

telling the tough guy

that this bus ain’t no mu’fuckin’ bar, white boy

giving him just what he wanted

he tells her to shut up, bitch

because he so fucking dangerous

but she doesn’t hear him through her headphones

just goes on singing

say my name, say my name

as the tough guy continues drinking beer

on the evening bus

telling poor tony what a pussy he is

for being hung up on a girl

and that tonight he plans on breaking a bottle

over some poor fuckers head

at whatever bar

they choose to go to.

juice bar

my wife and i

stand in line at a juice bar

we’ve decided not to drink on sundays

because we’re getting older

because sundays have always been

an alcohol free-for-all

arguments and sloppy sex

movies neither of us remember

and books we’ll have to reread the next day

this is sober sunday

so we’re in a juice bar line

with dozens of others

thin people who never wake up on monday morning

hot with sunday hangovers

really feeling the actuality of their death

and the juice bar is decked out in green and orange

and other earthy colors

there are pictures of hearts all over the place

to remind you that you are doing something

good for the body

i imagine regular bars decked out in bleak colors

blacks and grays and whites

and pictures of saturated livers hanging about

but this just makes me wish that  i was in a bar

instead of in a juice bar line

with dozens of young people texting

or bobbing their heads to the loud and terrible

disney pop playing overhead

covers of covers of old songs

with other aging assholes fooling themselves

on a sunday afternoon

and the juice bar workers are overly friendly

when someone walks in the door

one of the workers shouts, welcome to jammin’ juice

then it is like a chain, an echo of workers

whether busy or not

shouting

welcome to jammn’

welcome to jammin’

welcome to jammin’

the whole thing reeks of artifice

a corporate ideal of hospitality

complete with a shot of wheatgrass

to help keep you on this planet longer than you’d like to be

it’s like being in a foreign country actually

and each time you place an order

the juice bar worker takes your name

instead of giving you a number

you do not get a paper receipt

because we’re all saving the world in this juice bar

it’s not the workers fault that it is this way

they need to make a buck

chances are good most of these people

would be getting drunk with their sunday

or standing in a juice bar line somewhere else

when your healthy drink comes up

your smoothie

or your juice mixed with crushed ice

one of the juice bar workers shouts your name

like they’ve known you forever

and the young stop texting for a moment

to go up to the counter for their sixty-ounce blast

of pomegranate paradise

or peach passion

or strawberry swirl

sucking it half way down before they even leave the juice bar

while the rest of us stand there

listening to the disney music

the whirl of blenders

the door opening to a folksy bell

and another chorus of

welcome to jammin’

welcome to jammin’

welcome to jammin’

the blood pressure rising

a sense of propriety shot to shit

when each new drink that arrives is not our order

my wife and i

standing in this juice bar line

on a sober sunday afternoon

still somewhat convinced we’re doing something good

something healthy

instead of shoving down all of that poison

in the quiet of our own home

or sitting in a dead bar

with a cold beer

watching the warm sun shower the good earth

from behind smeared glass

just like the good lord

originally intended.

man outside the funeral home

the man

outside the funeral home

is slouched against graffiti

and bird-shit walls

trying to light a cigarette with shaking hands

tear-streaked

and bending at the knees

he is

inundated with family

and friends

and cups of water to calm his nerves

keeps shaking his head

no

no

no

while us gawkers on the street

are thankful

that his misery is not ours

for the moment

decide amongst our ignorant selves

to stop whining about

hangovers

and bills

and itchy assholes

our imperfect love

shut our mouths

drink our paper coffee

and

move on

waves

i know

somehow i know

that one day this will all be gone

and i’ll be worm food for sure

or a can of ashes

sprinkled over some european bridge

a good run at its end

but for now

i’ll concentrate on being alive

my hands on her ass

as she rides me on the couch

mid-day

books and clothing in piles

on the floor

wine on the coffee table

moving like the sea

her screams of pleasure

echoing off the walls

my eyes

rolling back into my head

like foaming

white waves.

parallel parking

i can see her

i wish i had a sign that read

no talking to me during my walk to work

a sign like that would save me

so many of these moments

but i can see her waving me down

and tchaikovsky’s 6^th is ending in on my

magical music machine

it’s fading into a dissonance

that was taking me with it until this

but she’s waving me down

running across a busy street

flailing her arms as if she were on fire

what? i say when she reaches me

corners me really

and i don’t turn the tchaikovsky down

until i get that last recognizable note

can you drive? she says

in a thick russian accent

she points over to a car that is half out into the street

motor running and some terrible music infesting the block

i don’t have a license

which is a lie

i simply won’t help people who can’t help themselves

but you can still drive? she says

which means she’s willing to break the law to get what she wants

no, i tell her, moving on

having lost tchaikovsky because of this business

but gaining dvorak to compensate

can anyone drive?  i hear her shouting

anyone?

anyone please?

then i turn the music up to drown her out

i’m sure she’ll find someone, i tell myself,

some good citizen to come and parallel park her car

but in a proper world

two teenagers would be joyriding brooklyn in that rumbling thing

while she gives a stolen property statement

to a couple of cops

two jolly flatfoots

laughing so goddamned hard

that they can barely write a sentence

in that little black pad of theirs.

John Grochalski is a published writer whose poetry and prose have appeared in several online and print publications including:  Red Fez, Rusty Truck, Outsider Writers Collective, Underground Voices, The Lilliput Review, The Main Street Rag, Zygote In My Coffee, The Camel Saloon, and Bartleby Snopes.  I have two books of poetry The Noose Doesn’t Get Any Looser After You Punch (Six Gallery Press) and Glass City (Low Ghost Press), and a novel, The Librarian forthcoming. My chapbook In the Year of Everything Dying can be viewed via Camel Saloon’s Books on Blogs series (http://booksonblog26.blogspot.com/).