Two poems by John Grochalski

Two poems
by John Grochalski


looking through all of you

poets tell me about
poetry readings
while the birds die
outside now,
and the seasons turn
to mush.
poets go to poetry
readings
as the world continues
to give in,
heading toward some kind
of digital apocalyptic shit.
but the poets don't care about
this.
they will continue
talking about readings
or their "work."
they will talk about their
books
as if the things are great
monuments of knowledge,
understanding,
and faith,
instead of cheap dimestore
words
and self-involved musings.
we can never remember a time
when the poets were gods,
or when they said things
the world needed to
hear,
because
we are beyond that time.
we remember whitman like
a grandmother's birthday,
as we scrounge and look for meaning,
as the poets shop for new shoes
and the latest itunes downloads,
as the poets throw down money
to see some indie-darlings new
film, so that they
can talk the thing to indie death
over weak
import beer in dim indie bars.
we try to make sense,
as the poets write new poems
to share with the soulless,
looking at themselves in the
mirror,
and we burn as the poets congregate
on street corners
to wipe away the bums,
paving a new path toward the classroom
door.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

indian rez

this is just like
adrian louis wrote
the beat-up trailers
the flat tire swings
the dog by the
highway
eating god knows what
out of a plastic bag.
angola, new york.
angola is small town
death.
and i am in
a commercial van
going seventy
on the backroads
while my co-worker sleeps
in the passenger seat.
he holds the directions
to this place,
and i am forced
to listen to his
shitty punk rock music,
as the decimation
of another american pact
falls along before me.
when we get to the site
we meet this indian dude
with a carthart jacket
and a long white ponytail.
he takes us back into
his work shack
so he can give us the check
for the windows we delivered.
he's a potter,
and the shack is full
of tea cups and bowls,
and sculptures of
crying indians
holding out their hands,
looking for either rain
or god.
but what hits me most
is the collection of
sports patches he has
tacked to the wall
the chicago blackhawks
the cleveland indians
the washington redskins,
next to a poster of uncle sam
pointing his limp finger,
saying he wants me
for the u.s. army.
uncle sam wants us all,
and he'll take us either
dead or alive,
red, white, black, or yellow.
when we leave,
my co-worker turns off the
punk and puts on talk radio.
it's a conservative station
and the talk show host
is really giving it
to the black folks today.
he says it's equal opportunity
and nothing personal.
and we move on
to the next job
on our list.

Author bio:

John is a published writer whose poems have appeared in Avenue, The Lilliput Review, The New Yinzer, The Blue Collar Review, The Deep Cleveland Junkmail Oracle, The ARTvoice, Modern Drunkard Magazine, The American Dissident, Words-Myth, My Favorite Bullet, The Main Street Rag, Thieves Jargon, Underground Voices, Why Vandalism, Eclectica, Zygote In My Coffee and forthcoming in the Kennesaw Review and Re)Verb. His short fiction has appeared in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, and his column The Lost Yinzer appears quarterly in The New Yinzer (www.newyinzer.com). His book of poems The Noose Doesn't Get Any Looser After You Punch Out is coming out via Six Gallery Press in 2008.