Thursday, June 30, 2016

On Being in the New Yorker

On Being in The New Yorker

I'm in The New Yorker this week
(A little profile about my history
With my band, King Missile)
And, although I am a grown man
(Fifty-five years old, as, sadly, the profile
Points out)
I find myself on the subway
Looking around
To see if anybody's reading it
To see if anybody is noticing me,
and thinking,
Hey, there's that guy who's
In the Goings On About Town section
A grown man, I guess, but still a child.

I managed not to tell the woman
Carrying the Strand Book Store bag
With the New Yorker magazine cover on it,
"Hey, I'm in The New Yorker this week."

When the woman came into my office
Saying, "Did you see this?
You're in The New Yorker!"
I said, "I saw it, thanks."
She said, "I got you a copy."
I said, "I'm a subscriber, but thank you."
And she left.
And I felt like a dick.
But I had seen it,
And I am a subscriber.
Still, I felt like a dick.

The woman sitting across from me
On the train is reading New York Magazine.
If she were reading the New Yorker,
Maybe she'd be impressed
That she's sitting across from me.
Not that I want to impress her.
She is, after all, choosing to read New York Magazine Instead of the New Yorker.

My dear friend Julian
Suggested that by virtue of knowing me
(A guy who is in The New Yorker this week)
He can claim secondary bragging rights
And dine out it for years to come.
I'd just like to point out
That so far no one has taken me to dinner.
Just saying.

I realize
That if I were to submit this to The New Yorker,
And they were to publish it,
I would again be in The New Yorker.
But I'm not going to submit this to The New Yorker.
It's highly unlikely that they would publish it,
And I don't deal with rejection all that well.

Next week, I will no longer be in the New Yorker.
I will look back fondly on this week,
When I was in the New Yorker.
I will move forward and try not to live in the past,
When I was in the New Yorker.
And if I ever have grandchildren,
I will try not to bore them with stories of
When I was in the New Yorker.

June 30, 2016

Monday, June 6, 2016

Monday Morning, On the Way to Work

Monday Morning, On the Way to Work

The loose fitting pants
Hanging off the homeless guys ass
Were not a sartorial affectation
The ‎motherfucker clearly didn't give a fuck
And I can't say I would either
If I had nothing.

If I had nothing
I wouldn't give a shit
That I didn't have a belt
Or that the crack of my ass was exposed
To some asshole
On his way to work at 
Some fucking law firm.

On the subway platform
The schoolgirl
With the short pleated skirt
Looked like a deer caught in the headlights,
Made‎ me think how fucked up it is
That girls are made to wear that shit
Although maybe it wouldn't be a big deal
If men could behave themselves.

Did you hold a breakfast or a lunch?
A cup of coffee?
Pixie dust?
A handful of magic beans?
The song of 100 angels?
A box of nails or screws?
A blueberry muffin?
A promise?
A lie?
Why were you left lying there?
Why? Why?

A thoughtless gesture.
Today, I appreciate the thoughtlessness.
June 6, 2016