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UNDERGROUND VOICES: POETRY - 10/2011
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JOHN GROCHALSKI the inventor the inventor comes into the job every day talking on his cell phone snapping his fingers at me for paper and pencils to write down important information the inventor talks to me about patents and $3,000 dinners with corporate headhunters reality shows where tech wizards turn nobodies into somebodies the inventor says that his design is going to turn the tech world on its head he tells me that when he gets famous he’s going to spread the wealth get me some new clothes a new haircut because when his product drops the inventor is dropping it right here at the job because this is where it all started this place is going to be packed with the media the inventor tells me i think he better tell the administration about this i’m going to be the biggest thing the inventor says even though he smells perpetually of whiskey and weed and has been wearing the same clothing for a month the inventor whispers a haiku patents $3,000 dinners the cover of wired and time he has his golden future planned out he’s getting out of this place and to think i was the one who handed him all of those pencils and paper i was there from the beginning listening to his dull schemes for hours on end thinking that he was crazy i hope to christ he makes it, the inventor becomes a millionaire with private jets and expensive women $1000 bottles of champagne condos on both coasts and the most brilliantly subtle hangovers i hope the inventor buys an island i hope that he moves there with all of his talent and genius with a brand new idea to help pad his wealth i hope the inventor makes more money than the crown prince of saudi arabia and that i’ll never have to see his face at this job again. humidiocy fat gut pale white underwear cold beer on the belly trapped in the whirl of the air conditioner brooklyn is humid after the rain but i long for the days with the windows open in the summer it seems crazy but i miss the noise of the street enveloping me like a soiled blanket the cars the people the dogs barking you just don’t get that with this mechanical hum blowing cold air up your ass there’s nothing to rail against in this cave of a living room you end up arguing with the cat bass music boat horns from the estuary motorcycle engines teen posturing on street corners and some asshole telling his life story on his cell phone this is the stuff i need right now the stuff of life, i guess i need an enemy or a savior sitting here fat gut pale underwear the last beer empty sweat rings on my flesh beethoven on the radio the stock market crashing as london burns outside as i laugh the madman’s laugh shaking my goddamned head never believing for a second that i’d miss any of you. John Grochalski's column The Lost Yinzer appears quarterly in The New Yinzer, and he can be found at his blog Winedrunk Sidewalk (www.winedrunksidewalk.blogspot.com). His book of poems The Noose Doesn’t Get Any Looser After You Punch Out is out via Six Gallery Press, and his book Glass City is out on Low Ghost Press. |
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© 2004-2011 Underground Voices |
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