Poems: one about each day of last week

Here is a cycle of poems, one poem for each day starting last Saturday and ending today (Friday)

Saturday

a day in bed, play sick/be sick

Mama Celeste pizza, Robitussin,

Overboard with Goldie Hawn

call up the liquor store on the phone

2 bottles of pinot noir,

“I got 25 dollars, however far that gets me”

pajamas, faux fur lined moccasins

coffee pot after coffee pot

editing this novel–it’s been too long

my girl cooing like a dove on her cellphone

Spam messages from Russian brides

seeking hookups in America

is this a test from God?

Pauley Shore on VHS,

Joy Division cassettes, Moulder,

Dominican chickens, Skully,

Reese’s Peanut butter cups

Nightmare on Elm Street poster

puffer fish doomsday lantern

it’s colder outside than it looks

a hooded sweatshirt is a suit of armor

Let it Ride with Richard Dreyfuss

Our Rolling Stones Vinyl Hot Rocks

has a jagged chip cracked off

so be diligent: when you get to Wild Horses

shit’s about to get real 1/2 way through the chorus

extra blanket heat not on yet

land lord comes up at 7, says:

the guy in the next apartment died

so if you knew him, he’s dead now

we say, “We don’t know anybody in real life,

just on the computer”

Sunday

build chili out of meat and some other things

watch TV for awhile, wishing it was Twin Peaks

solve sitcom mysteries, devour books on tape

watch my girl tongue-tie the stems of cherries

no football or baseball or political discussions

just bedroom laying, coffee cup poison

John Hughes advice, steak-ums on english muffins

reserve time to reserve plane tickets to the SW

order gem stone field guides, Audubon bird books

3/4 length pony baseball t’s, Ebay, Amazon, Etsy

don’t shave don’t complain, don’t worry,

just flip the record, and keep loving me

we broke the washing machine, we crashed the car

we lost the spare keys, we dropped the ball

& have no idea how we’re gonna hide our mutations

and it’s almost Halloween, we’re misplaced

we outta sorts, somebody lend me some latex

if I get you pregnant, let’s name the baby Ace

make some popcorn, put on T-Rex,

start a fire though we don’t have a fireplace

digging in X-mas boxes for loose leaf paper,

photographs of you when you were young

yer still young, throw some popcorn up into the air

I’ll grab it like a wolf, catching a rabbit peaking out a hole

talk awhile about life after death, infomercials

telemarketing, negotiations with Iggy Pop

compromises with the Zombies, ignoring Rubber Soul

share the last beer, study the light in your eyes

everybody else: Piano Man or Tiny Dancer

I don’t think they’ll ever die, only in the movies

make a phone call to Texas, talk to my brother

so glad when he answers and says he’ll come to Jersey

Monday

I put on my army coat, I dust off my neon sneakers

got the garbage in one hand, a cartoon shark mug in the other

coffee, black coffee, 4am; just shooting everywhere

as I come down the marble stairs, door slams, 4am

In the foyer of my building are junk magazines

books on C++ programming, tour pamphlets for New Mexico

guy somewhere somehow (someone) died somewhere in the building

there’s a  little note: “take what you want, this belonged to the dead guy, the rest will go to charity” I look but I find nothing, I walk out into the rain

no umbrella, no hat, rain overflows the drain,

New York City, where’d I leave my car? what street? 173? 174?

Demi Moore used to look good … long ago

Glossy People Magazine on the radiator when you die,

that’s what you get in our building when you go

I wonder “Is he the one who always ordered Indian food?

Oh. Yes. 172. I should have remembered 172

What is C++? Would it help me? Should I go back and get it?

I’m going to New Mexico. Should have taken that one

God leaves little clues for you, but they just lead to more clues

and more clues and more clues and more clues and

who has time for any of that? Surrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrender to:

the morning commute. Rolling through the neighborhood

approaching the George Washington Bridge

Rolling Stones on the stereo, windshield wipers malfunctionable

“I forgot my lunch” look in the back seat, “Fuck”

Look on the floor, “Fuck. I’ll have to eat off the roach coach truck”

Mick Jagger says: “Bring me dead flowers to my wedding

… and I won’t forget to put roses on your grave”

Jersey turnpike, rolling towards the oil refinery, New Order

How Does it Feel? Tell me how Does it Feel? Finish my coffee.

Weave in and out of traffic, steering with my knee

awash of static on the radio, Blue Monday, Tom Petty,

“Was he the guy who’s mail I used to get, the nameless faceless

one behind the door to 14B?”

Tuesday

Duck outta work early

make it out the gates of

the job at the oil refinery

gravel lot,

chain link fence,

mimic Paul Newman

in the Great Escape

fires from the flare stack

burning up the white sky

got my car keys in one hand

checking my phone with the other

my girl is on a train

from New York City

coming to me

Linden, New jersey

try to time it right

be there, waiting at the station

take her into the west

for a car ride

first, navigate

through a maze of blocks,

red lights, stop signs, gang kids

lounging on the stoops

trash cans, basketballs hoops

what a strange place to have to live

industrial row house

chipped brick wall waste

cross over 1 & 9

cut through the 99 cent store lot

Wood Ave, gas n go, office stationary

post office, Army Navy,

a park with no lakes and no swans

I park under an unidentifiable shade tree

my neon sneakers kicked out in front

sitting on the last of the green grass

drinking a Dunkin Donuts Coffee

I smell like fuel

but I can’t tell

cars running/windows down

stereo growls

Bruce Springsteen insinuating

“This is my hometown …

this is my hometown”

keep checking my silver Timex Indiglo

everything in life is supposedly scheduled

not much longer now

her time, her light, her life, her mouth

looking up the rails for Spout

when the train comes in

she’s the last one on the platform

flower dress

dark hair, dark everything

sea green dayyglo purse

she takes my hand, says,

“Want me to drive?”

“No,” I answer

I need you navigate and play music.”

Spout nods, “That’s much more important

you’re right.”

any direction will work

but we can only get there

set to the perfect soundtrack

Wednesday

on payday

all your problems

temporarily lift

and everything

becomes a ladder

that leads

wherever you wish

Thursday

clicking around the internet aimlessly

free association, Queen under pressure David Bowie

trying to figure out what the fuck with Halloween

what we gonna be, which demon, which ghost

where we going? where we rolling?

big suit, David Bryne, record reviews,

lusting for my time machine

a meet up with 1976 Debra Harry

drinking pumpkin beer like a pumpkin patch pimp

hanging with Spout in the pink room

new chair from “the dead guy” that was out at the curb

“Think there’s bed bugs in it”

“It’s a chair”

“Bed bugs can still be in a chair”

“Oh, chair bugs?

Totally has chair bugs”

Astral Weeks, Moondance

Van Morrison sings like a god damn saxophone

guy couldn’t have been human, “everyone, everyone

everyone everyone everyone, everyone

everyone everyone everyone, everyone

everyone everyone everyone, everyone

everyone everyone,” Royal Tenebaums”

“Ethel, I’m dying” Angelica Houson, Gene Hackman

then, Spout gets up and goes to make burritos

she puts on Daft Punk and I hear the chopping

the sizzling, the ‘Harder Better Faster Stronger’

I’m rolling around on my trash found Herman Miller chair

thinking about lit mags to submit to:

jmww, killpoet, the big jewel, thrush review, modus operandi

elimae, word riot, pank, full of crow, a-minor

sometimes I feel lost. website after website

but when a friend out there there there in the ether

takes the time to drop a hint on their timeline

I add it to my blue notebook and I refer back motherfucker

pop music, beer after beer after beer,

I’m writing a novel on my Iphone at my oil refinery job

it’s about me when I was 23,

I’m gonna be a character in my own book

and I’m gonna tell you all about death

and life and pink that I’ve seen

like an Ipod on shuffle, Robert Zimmerman

Bob Dylan Blonde on Blonde

into Dusty Springfield

singing, “Only one that could ever reach me was the

son of a preacher man”

I see the subtle ways the universe aligns

I’m dumb and numb and happy

and when I fall asleep

I’d like you to lean in

and kiss my eyelids

so I can dream like a movie about a band

and write about it during the working hours

at the oil refinery, the machinery trembling

and my thumbs skipping across the LCD

as if my life depended on it

Friday

hang out in the rain

not worried about anything

books I should be reading

things I should be finishing

too many projects,

too much hope on the line

there a buzz in all the blood

if you keep your heart open

there’s a truth you can learn

if you don’t care to look stupid

all the ways you are here for me

all the ways I hide the car keys

life is just a typo

that everyone edits a different way

be careless and be unoriginal

and don’t walk too straight

take every chance to stumble

laugh at all you come across

forget all the bad times

glow neon undoomed and

shake yourself til something pops