fat poetry editor

By John Grochalski

the fat poetry editor
has his face on a dozen web sites
standing in front of a microphone
like some third-rate comedian
he’s not fooling anyone with that tweed blazer
and a faded concert t-shirt
that he bought at target or wal-mart
the fat poetry editor
is short and squat and hairy
he belongs eating potatoes in middle earth
instead of looking at my poetry
but the world isn’t fucking fair
i’m not rich or good looking
or very talented
plus i’m kind of overweight too
and the fat poetry editor gets to look at my poems
then send me back rejection notes
telling me that my shit sounds like a bon jovi song
usually after something like that
i sit in front of my machine
and think of ways of getting back
at the fat poetry editor
like i’ll google him and read his shitty poetry
just to make myself feel better
or i’ll jack-off to internet porn
to stave off the thoughts of creative suicide
but the feeling doesn’t last too long
because i still have that rejection letter
sitting in my inbox
thus proving that the fat poetry editor wins in the end
i’m sure he gets his poetry rejected too
with poems like his he must
but i’m also sure that the fat poetry editor
has made a lot of friends in this shabby business
so he’s assured himself a place in many an online rag
plus there’s some quid pro quo going on there, i think
the fat poetry editor scratches someone’s back
then they comb their fingers through his furry haunch
it has to be like that
otherwise i sound like a bitter man here
and bitter men
never have their pictures up
on literary web sites
the way that fat poetry editors do.

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the smell of fish

By John Grochalski

the smell of fish
gives me a dizzying sickness
in the stomach
as he sits there like a turd
legs open
elbows wide on the table
steam and stink rising up
off of his plate
the smell of fish
the scent of a dying asshole
he has one earbud is his ear
the other dangling down to his gut
1980s music infesting this small room
as he chomps away
his cellphone beeping endlessly
cackling at comics in the daily news
someone asks him to turn
his music down
he says, oh, i didn’t know that it was so loud
but he makes no attempt
to lower the sound
just shrugs and goes back
to the smell of fish
as wake me up before you go-go
chokes the silence
i grab my shit off of the table
the smell of fish embedded in my flesh
figuring i’ll go outside
to kill the hour
letting the sun do what it will to me
looking at him one last time
this steaming dung pile of american ingenuity
our eyes meet
and he says, you’re not leaving on my account, are you?
no, no, i say
i just hate 1980s music
and the smell of fish
he laughs
goes back to tearing flesh from bone
as the summer of ‘69
comes on his ipod
and i think about how easy it is
to want to commit murder
in this vast and disparate land.

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the saturday people

By John Grochalski

the saturday people
have strange faces
they look lost
like they don’t know what
to do with themselves
with all of the free hours
that they’ve been given

they sit in diners
smiling
hating the people sitting next to them
drink weak coffee
and freshly squeezed orange juice
eat runny eggs and limp bacon
laugh at everything
the waitress says

the saturday people
love the smell of cut grass
and newly washed clothes
they pray for warm weather in october
hope the blinds are open at home
and the sunshine is soaking
their bright, generic rooms
roasting their lonely pets

the saturday people
stand in long lines
to try on new jackets and jeans
to buy computers and music gadgets
and scarves
they go and see this week’s bad film
they wear grins
that say buying this product
will fulfill me
standing in this line
for this bad movie
is what the work week was all about

they brunch in cafes
with the college game on
taking up seats at the bar
to root for their alma mater
the saturday people
with their ugly college colors
and bloody marys
with their common talk about television shows
and their idiot kids
with their futures down the shithole

they wouldn’t know a mass suicide
if it smacked them in their wallet

the saturday people
begin talking about where to go
for dinner
as soon as lunch ends

to the saturday people
it is a big deal where to go to dinner
italian or thai?
valet or street parking?
wine beer or brew house?
you never see the saturday people
riding the bus with a hangover
on a sunday morning

i watch the saturday people
every week
i look at them with their shopping bags
their constipated grins
and their well-groomed faces

i think the saturday people
are aliens
government operatives
dropped here on friday evenings
when the jobs let out
dropped here with smiles on their faces
and money in the bank

sent here to make us mad
lunatics foaming at the mouths
slap-happy fools
who want what the saturday people have
good bodies and christian souls
with a side order of french toast
and a lobotomy to go.

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