Crying on the Blue Line L

—Poems by John Grochalski, Brooklyn, NY
—Anonymous Photos of the Chicago Blue Line L

the ice cream man

the ice cream man
is drunk on the avenue

he keeps walking past the ice cream shop
where they serve
double-scoop artisan cones
like red velvet donut and green tea

the ice cream man
is shouting at all of the pretty families
finishing up another pretty day
under pretty blue skies
tired from playing in pretty parks

the ice cream man
walks in the middle of traffic
he brings cars to a halt
he runs up behind women
and hugs them until they scream

the ice cream man gets yelled at
by the ice cream shop clerk

some pimply teen kid
who just wants a girlfriend or a boyfriend
who just wants to make a summer buck
slinging scoops of red velvet donut

some dumb kid the craven manager threw out there
to yell at the ice cream man
and chase him away

so that pretty families
can continue eating their ice cream cones in peace

for at least a few minutes

before the ice cream man comes stumbling back
stinking of brandy

trying once again
to ruin america for everyone
who knows how to be tame

and play by the stupid rules.     

      

this black and blue

there
it
is
this
black
and
blue
palm
from
swatting
at
house
flies
with
my
bare
hand
a
whole
apartment
full
of
old
newspapers
and
i
do
this
not
even
drunk
sitting
on
the
couch
a
cold
drink
pressed
to
swollen
palm
swollen
thumb
thinking
there
are
a
lot
of
idiots
outside
but
only
the
king
reigns
supreme
up
in
here.

man crying on the blue line L (chicago)

it’s probably true
that in big cities
you can sob on a train
and people will most likely
leave you alone
it’s not even rush hour here
in the great city of chicago
and we’re packed on this train
some people coming home from work
others doing touristy things
like me
talking to my wife
about deep dish pizza and wrigley field
about maybe moving
out of new york city and coming here
he’s in a seat midway
down the train car
head buried in his hands
sobbing openly
chest heaving into his knees
the seats around him empty
even though people have to stand
the seats around him diseased
with his sadness
he doesn’t look homeless
so i wonder what else
america has done to him
in these dark days
it could be any number of things
in this country
we treat each other like animals
we watch america chew
someone up
take in the spectacle
like it’s on video and not right before our eyes
then we check the weather
and our twitter feed for more
i don’t know
what’s happened to this guy
but, jesus christ,
there should be some comfort
only i know
i’m not going to be the one
to ask him what’s wrong
i know my role in this hard land
only too well
and that’s to get off the train
at the next stop
just like everyone else
pull myself up
by my worn-out bootstraps
shake that scene out of my mind
his crying
his bellowing into flesh
and metal and plastic
pray to god that’s never me
then turn with a smile
to ask my wife
what it is that she thinks she wants
for lunch.

america

chew us up
spit us out
every single day

america

maim yourself
murder yourself
every single day

america

hurl these lifeless bodies
that you’ve robbed of liberty

back into your violent abyss
and scream.

too old to be

i am
either hungover
or still drunk
but the sun is too much this morning
crossing the street
unwashed and a ball of sweat
smelling of last night’s vodka
i pass the president of the company
close-cropped beard
silver shirt tucked into
designer slacks
he nods at me
and i wave back
a death rattle
of my tingling gaseous hand
in the bodega
that stinks of raw eggs
grabbing gum to cover my breath
and water to keep me from vomiting
up the scent
of hearty american breakfasts on the go
i spy him across the street
playing on his cell phone
still looking like a million bucks in the summer sun
and i think
some people can just keep it together
better than others
how maybe i’m just too old to be
living this way
and i pay for the gum
the water
from an angry bodega owner
who hates my kind upon sight
then hobble back outside
into the glaring gloom
of people racing off to work or nowhere
and wait for the big boss
to go on his merry way
before i even think
of trying to get my shit together
while crossing back
along that sun-soaked street.


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Today’s LittleNip:

As if a great creature had grown old without being able to express its feelings. Not that it didn't know how to express them, but rather it didn't know what to express.

—Haruki Murakami, A Wild Sheep Chase

_____________________

Welcome back to the Kitchen, John! John Grochalski appeared on Medusa’s Kitchen a few times in the Fall of 2016, and now he’s back with poems from Brooklyn—and we’re all the better for it!

Tonight in Sacramento at the Avid Reader on Broadway, Speak Up: The Art of Storytelling and Poetry will present stories and poems on the theme of New Beginnings, 7pm. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa

 John Grochalski
Celebrate poetry!—and prodigal poets…

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