I try to find the joke
in everything I write
but it’s not easy.
There’s bad shit out there
and no one’s trying to stop it ‘cos
that’s the next guy’s job.

Well the next guy’s
bunkerin’ down. This time
you’re on your own.
I’ve got drinking water,
canned meat, and corn.

I’ve got an old VCR
and batteries.
I’m mottled w/memory
but fun when I’m drunk.

I’ve got mea culpas
up the wazoo.
My attorney’s
on retainer
and the wife’s on drugs.

I’ve cut momma’s cord
from the grid. I’ve got gas,
no windows, and toilet paper.
All the base essentials you’ve
been too dumb to garner.

c.2014 mj


New York Horses

New York Horses

I wandered ’round Wollman Rink
‘cos I could, but it had TRUMP
engraved in red ’round the rim of the rink
so I wandered elsewhere
singing the blackbird’s concerto.

I never get enough of this city.
Born as I was in ol ’55,
when brunettes hypnotized squirrels
and still do. Somethings never change,
even here where you always walk
to the outside
of any given street
so you can hail a cab
if need be.

I’ve gotten so distracted
dictating this poem
that I find myself somehow
on West 57. Too close to a guy
backing – backing – backing up blindly
to frame the perfect picture
of New York Horses. Who,
stoically cosmo,
drag our sad-asses
along the sidebars
of the city.

Civilization needs stop signs,
stupid red sweaters, and
more Irish pubs ‘cos
you can only enjoy so much
until it catches up to you
like Threadbare, on a long shot, in the fifth,
demanding interest. Big interest
because it’s a big city
w/lots to do
and the people
w/big sunglasses
are tired of waiting.