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 6th 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/).
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