Poetry: Selections from John Grochalski
down’n’out in a tv star’s bar
you can’t keep food down
and i can’t keep the venomous shit-talk
from spewing out of my mouth
a couple of hours from now
in the hotel room
i’ll apologize over a stiff drink
but for right now,
here’s everything that’s wrong with you
not me
you
yeah, i know, if we were doing me
we’d be here all night
down’n’out in a tv star’s bar in philadelphia
a picture of the sitcom cast smiling down on us
and we really tried
to make it feel right
tourist traps and ice cream
selfies with big smiles on our faces
we almost made it the week
before reality hit and life crept back in
now, it’s tears and food untouched
pushing around dollars on the bar
trying to find the cash for round three
soul music
and sports on big screen tvs
you stumbling off
to the bathroom again
to spill your guts
while i sit there
fuming…
over what, i don’t even remember
watching a couple
at the other end of the bar
looking through a travel guide
excitedly pointing out the things
they’re going to do
happy
smiling
like us almost a week ago
when no one had the foggiest clue
of how or when
or who was going to strike
and pick the other one
apart
almost to the bone.
josh
i
ran into my old boss alice
at a meeting
one of those self-reflective ones
the big shots like to throw at us from time to time
she gave me a hug and called me josh
even though that’s not my name
two and a half years we worked together
…and i’m josh
i guess i didn’t make much of an impression
and i didn’t correct alice
it seemed too awkward in the moment
maybe alice knows a josh too
and every time she sees him
she hugs him and calls him john
in the meeting
they made us answer four questions
what do we do effortlessly?
what about us amazes other people?
what will you sacrifice for?
what makes you fearless?
i couldn’t come up with any anything
just sat there dumb as a rock
wondering how
good ol’ josh
would answer
something like this.
aging (gracefully?)
look at him
looking
in the bathroom mirror
at the drooping gut
the wrinkles
the weathered skin
the long gray hair
vacant
confused eyes
searching
trying so hard
to convince himself
that it’s
just a phase
he’s going through.
pissers at the public library
there they are
the same six of them
night after night
standing in a crooked line
five minutes before closing
lights out
bladders full
all moving around awkwardly
like some fucked dance troop
caught in the shadows of the avenue
freeloading men
addicted to internet porn
wasting every day of their lives here
pissing it all
away.
afternoon bath of my youth
twenty-three-years old
drinking a beer
in the bathtub
watching
her taut
soapy ass
sauntering down the hallway
to turn up
the volume
on her new
favorite
song.
John Grochalski is the author of five poetry collections and three novels. He currently lives in Brooklyn, New York.
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