Holy Crap,
They Sold My Name!

No big deal, your name, your email, bought n' sold daily,
Like a baseball card, your picture and vital stats are on the internet,
Your credit card in the fine print tells you they love you much,
But the data they collect, might get credited to such and such.

You're fair game if your sign up for anything.

Now I know I am getting on in years,
Tho spry rhymes with die, I flatly deny
Any notion that
My great beyond is just around the corner!

But Holy Crap,
They Sold My Name!

Got a color brochure
Suggesting that when my travels are over,
A nice place to rest my head might be
St. Michael's Cemetery.

St. Michael's Cemetery
7202 Astoria Blvd, East Elmhurst
(718) 278-3240
Friday hours 7:00 am–5:00 pm

In case you want to check it out too...

Tho I live not in the Borough of Queens County,
My zip code but a hop, skip and jump away,
The cemetery adjacent to the Grand Central Parkway
Which is actually quite thoughtful of
The mass marketer who dreamed up this scheme
(And got paid a plentiful amount of bounty!),
My kids could wave as they drive by,
On the way to LaGuardia or JFK airports
And say, guilt free, they visit me regularly!

Sadly, their plot foiled,
I will be buried in
New Jersey soil,
Near to my pop, who liked the
Wide open spaces of suburbia
And shopping on Route 4,
Where the selection is great
And there is no sales tax.

But Holy Crap,
They Sold My Name,
And I am now target marketed,
Niched, pretty soon the boys from AARP
Will come calling, reminding me of the gap
Tween Medicare and the poor house!

Ok ok,  grow up you say, tho your hair is full,
And not even a hint of baldness shines forth,
Nonetheless, its color is zebra striped gray,
And when someone says they got my back,
I think, please, please take it and keep it....

Oh yeah,
Dear St. Mikes
You might ask for some of your money back,
Cause this sily scribe is a member of the tribe,
Some call "those dirty (hint: it rhymes with mikes),"
It starts with K and ends in yikes!

But thanks for thinking of me anyway.

She was sitting there in her grey cardigan and self-satisfaction
And she said, "They're going to be putting a cap and gown on a chair for him."
And I said, "That makes me so sad. It makes me think of our 8th grade graduation.
Oh god. That makes me so sad." picturing a freshly ironed gown for a dead graduate

It was a few minutes later and the kettle began to whistle
And someone made some smart remark about some stupid topic
And I sighed and I said, "I just can't do it"
And she said, "Jeez, you’re just lacking emotional maturity today”
I excused myself and avoided her for the remainder of the day

I found myself a few people I might consider my friends (if anyone)
I sat down for a minute and said, "I just can't do it"
And the one turned his cigarette-yellowed teeth to me and said,
"They just aren't as cynical as you, huh?"
And I looked him in the eye and he smiled, meant nothing by it
Maybe just, "Shut up, will you? Just breathe for a minute"
And the other, with his slicked back hair and Tom Waits voice
Said, "Not everybody can be a female Louis C.K."
And I smiled and said, "Screw you"
Then I excused myself

And I found myself a quiet corner where I could collect the pieces enough
To hold myself together for two hours of calculated performance
Until I could go home
And quietly fall apart again

Drifted off into a lovely slumber, dreamt a little, even. I've never worked for a company thats actually valued me and maybe cared about what I felt or said.. (until now) I dreamt I was on a tennis court, it may have been basketball, hell, even netball, and I was introduced and had something to do with the implement of this brand new sports court. I gave a few words, there was a crowd listening, it felt like an important moment. I was wearing a suit, as I was talking, from the corner of my eye I spotted my dad, he was beaming at me, at the people, at the situation. I finished my speech and instantly wished I had done it better. But he got up and wanted to grab a moment in the spotlight too, he was so wrapped up in the glorious moment! It felt nice that I could have made him proud, made others or myself proud.

Why kill something innocent
Just because it isn't to your liking
Why step on someone's dream
Just because it isn't yours
Why ruin someone's chance
Just because you didn't get one
Why swat the spider sitting in the corner
Just because you think it's ugly
Why trip the runner
Just because you aren't as fast
Why push someone down
Just because they're taller than you

When I get in a car
and I look out the windows
I see faces of full storied people

and I create scenes in my head
about what their lives are like
so I pretend that the man in the corvette
is going to pick up his daughter that he
hasnt seen in months

and the girl driving the truck
is going to the mall
so she can buy a dress for
her highschools annual mini ball

and the family in the mini van
is going on vacation
to a beach in florida
but first they have to stop at the
gas station

but this is all in my head
and none of it is probably true

the man is probably buying some ciggerettes
while the girl most likely goes to see a boy
to give him lots of sex
and the family is going out to eat
at an arbys but the dad just lost
his job so he cant buy his two daughters
anymore barbies

but thats also in my head so im not really sure
and so I stare at the window until I think some more

and there's a wreck on the side of I-35
so I take a moment inside my soul
to wish whoever goodbye
and I picture their lover at
their funeral
clenching chin about ready to cry
but maybe I'm just overthinking
maybe they made it out alive

at the nearest stop light
in my favorite city
sits a homeless man at the corner
clenching a sign scribbled with
"Will take any"

We keep on driving
it starts to rain on the way
I wonder what the homeless man
is thinking as he's drenched in
gods dismay

and the sky is crying hard now
for the lives of the full-storied people
but maybe thats all in my head

because in 20 minutes its sunny
I get out of the car
and forget what I thought

We argued over that Marc Bolan record
That I knew wasn’t mine anyway
We argued over that Marc Bolan record
It’s my demented way of passing the day

I love to see the lines on your forehead appear
They run so incredibly deep
I love to see the lines on your forehead, my dear
When you’ve got the bit between your teeth

So when I hear ride a white swan
I can’t help but think of your face
Fighting your corner for T.Rex
That cosmic dancer in outer space

We're all running from something
We all want to hide at times
From whatever it is eating us alive
Inside
Clever names and a unique photograph
That was never you
And never will be
We can hide behind
A sagacious sonnet
Ten words, haiku
Whatever the fuck that is
Obviously I dont care enough
To look it up
Down a beer
take a shot
Grab the mic
And let it out
Or retreat to the warm
Gently worn
Seat in the corner
With your name on it
And continue to watch
Life pass you by
Through the dirty
Smudged window
Taking notes diligently

I have no idea why I come to this bar every night.
But I just do.
I just leave it feeling jet blue with the weight of the wanders of the world crushing down on my shoulders.
And I leave with questions and grief for anyone I see there.

Of pity for the girl behind the counter who isn’t very pretty.
She’s washed up on the wrong side of the great Mississippi.
Now she’s working shitty shifts and pulling pints filled with misery for the bums of the city.

Of shame for the alcoholic with his alcohol frozen brain.
Standing by the bar eying up his drink before he chooses where to take his aim.
But it’s his own fault he got dragged into this whole addiction game.

Of humiliation for the boy in the couple corner alone with his head filled with that question he shouldn’t have asked her.
At least he now knows his place for it finally been confirmed.
And so it’s time for him to forget it by sucking up his bottle of Estonian liqueur.

Of frustration for the poor taxi driver who picks up drunks stumbling up to his car under the influence of the pale moonlight every single night.
I ask him if he’s been busy even though I know he has been asked this by everyone he has picked up tonight.
Despite this he answers me just to be polite.

Of eternal embarrassment for my own self when my face hits the pillow and I ask what I’m doing with life.
Why I’ve went to that hellish bar another evening to get drunk off my face and spend all my of savings and come home alone to go to bed and cry again.
Worst of all is I know tomorrow it will be a repeat, like the next day and all days after that.

I have no idea why I come to this bar every night. But I just do.