Issue |
 |
Sept |
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a poem by John Grochalski (2 of 2)
barely, love
my sweat weaving lines
like bullets or blood.
we walk houston street
wishing for summer to die,
crawling behind the packs
of fat tourists
taking pictures of buildings
and half-dressed celebrities
on massive billboards.
i think, two more years of this
and new york will have
me by the balls, again,
begging mercy with its
merciless hand.
so i say "we've been back
two weeks here, and i can't
take this anymore.
the throngs of assholes
the heat
the billboards and neon
promoting nothing
the dimestore fashionistas.
i got two more years here, baby,
and that's it."
then you say "if you go, you're
going alone."
so i say, "fine."
and we continue to crawl down
houston street
behind the obese masses,
and on mercer they are filming a movie
and more people are piled to watch.
movies being filmed in new york
are worthless mirages within
the worthless mirage.
i ask you if you want to stop
and watch,
though i don't know why.
maybe it's the new york
thing to do.
maybe it's a peace offering.
but you shake your head
and keep going.
and when we reach the theater
you tell me, in the dark,
that i barely love you, sometimes,
which isn't true,
but maybe sometimes is true,
at least today.
today i don't love anyone.
you or new york, or even
myself.
today i wish i stayed
in the apartment with the blinds drawn
and the wine bottle at my side.
that's just the way it is.
no mirages here.
no use explaining it
so i don't.
and the theater goes black,
and the screen lights up.
like bullets or blood.
we walk houston street
wishing for summer to die,
crawling behind the packs
of fat tourists
taking pictures of buildings
and half-dressed celebrities
on massive billboards.
i think, two more years of this
and new york will have
me by the balls, again,
begging mercy with its
merciless hand.
so i say "we've been back
two weeks here, and i can't
take this anymore.
the throngs of assholes
the heat
the billboards and neon
promoting nothing
the dimestore fashionistas.
i got two more years here, baby,
and that's it."
then you say "if you go, you're
going alone."
so i say, "fine."
and we continue to crawl down
houston street
behind the obese masses,
and on mercer they are filming a movie
and more people are piled to watch.
movies being filmed in new york
are worthless mirages within
the worthless mirage.
i ask you if you want to stop
and watch,
though i don't know why.
maybe it's the new york
thing to do.
maybe it's a peace offering.
but you shake your head
and keep going.
and when we reach the theater
you tell me, in the dark,
that i barely love you, sometimes,
which isn't true,
but maybe sometimes is true,
at least today.
today i don't love anyone.
you or new york, or even
myself.
today i wish i stayed
in the apartment with the blinds drawn
and the wine bottle at my side.
that's just the way it is.
no mirages here.
no use explaining it
so i don't.
and the theater goes black,
and the screen lights up.