John Grochalski lives in Brooklyn, New York. He can be reached at www.winedrunksidewalk.blogspot.com
the hero of my shit
sitting here in the morning
somewhere between the poem
and the novel
trying to write about my youth
in some kind of context
turn myself into the protagonist
the hero of the novel
but the hero of my shit
isn’t going to win it
i already know this, so that makes it
hard to write anything of substance
that doesn’t bring the rage
the blood of the old wounds
leaking back out of me
that doesn’t chip the soul anew
for mine was a lost youth
of too many moves
too many new faces to navigate to care
of fat lonely days and nights
in the bedroom of thwarted dreams
of arguments and misunderstanding
of chaos and creation
of turncoat pals and all the girls
that never gave a damn
ah, the poetry of the dead end street
to nowhere
i wouldn’t change a second of the pain
not for anything
maybe that’s all you need to create a hero
perseverance and the ever-twisting knife
maybe the hero isn’t sitting on this page
waiting for drive and motivation
maybe he’s the guy in the chair drinking coffee
nursing another periwinkle dawn
just trying to get it all down
luddite
i read in the paper
that digital books
are out selling print books
according to sales
at one behemoth online retailer
the book is dead
one of the modern technocrats writes
book lovers
need a reality check,
another genius proclaims
because they knew
that this day was going to come
they are so happy and wise
to watch these
old articles of faith
fall by the wayside
they seem as happy and eager
as a group of young nazis
waiting by a warming furnace
technology is all the rage
for the many
who still make up the few
it’s just disease and death
for the rest of us
and i feel like an old man
in a plastic world that i no longer hunger for
but tonight
we’re putting it all aside, baby
i’ve got a volume
of hemingway in one arm
and you in the other
i want to wrap our love in videotape
wrap us up so tight
that we turn to nothing by silicone and dust.
the asshole at the end of this bar
has been playing nothing but rap music
on the jukebox
it’s been going on for over an hour now
the entire oeuvre of the beastie boys
and now it’s eminem
he won’t play the black shit
in this joint
all the old drunks are grumbling
but it’s okay
the asshole at the end of this bar
is a new york city fireman
he’s been telling us stories about 9/11
rehashing that bullshit
while the rap music molests our heads
and rattles our bones
he has touched all of the old drunks’ hearts
it’s the only reason that they haven’t killed him yet
suddenly we are all taken back
to that fateful day
they all want to share where they’d been
the asshole at the end of this bar
tells us he wishes he was able to help more people
that he just missed the towers falling down
he arrived too late in my opinion
he gets misty-eyed retelling it
as ol’ eminem
still the poet laureate of the american idiot-ocracy
raps about raping and killing his ex-wife
i stare at
the asshole at the end of this bar
trying to see something in him
trying to see what they are all seeing
a modern day hero
but there is nothing to him
there is flesh and blood, bone
and a little gray matter
that is all
except for his penchant for rap music
so i shoot down my beer
i ask the wife if she wants to go somewhere else
as all the old boys start in on
obama and illegal immigrants
we find another bar about two blocks down
where the asshole at the end of that bar
is nursing a pint of coors light
and bobbing his head
to a cher song
and this is all right with us
for now.
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