He sits on the bench
Cheering his team on
All the time wondering
When will the coach put him in?

His mom and dad look on smiling at him
He knows they will ask why he didn’t play more?
He doesn’t know himself
He will hear the, “you need to work harder” speech

There is a small chance he will do something great
But not really
He only gets to play
When the team has a comfortable lead
Or a starter needs a rest

Sometimes he gets lucky
A starter will upset the coach
And the coach will punish the starter
By letting him, a sub, play longer than normal

Thoughts confront him
What’s worst?
Not playing?
Fine with not playing?
Not fine with not playing?
Playing a little but playing well?
Playing more but playing bad?

He must break free
He must not let the coach, the team, the parents define him
He can’t be pushed aside
He has to be a fighter

The coach is not his friend
He is the enemy
He must convince himself of this
The coach stands in his way
He must stand out and play the game his way
Not the coach’s way
Or else he will be a sub the rest of his life
And all he will have to show for it
Is a pat on the back and job well done comment
And memories of others getting basking in their own glory
While he sits on the bench

wandered over the midnight
demarcation line, and in but
a few secs, it will click,
1:00am in my head
in the not so mystical
Eastern Standard Time Zone

and I hear voices saying,
Last Call, Last Call,
drink up, write down
those faint sounds,
that have yet not drowned,
succumbed to drowsy purrings
that the body is steady making,
a chorus of yawns and sighs,
time's due, you pay at the exit door

Succumb!
succumb, for no one,
will read this good nitro night poem,
anyway

give in to temptation and risk,
will it be,
nightmare or dream,
poem or horror story,
sleep yet brings us,
gift wrapped  
or
brown bagged


Last call, last call
I am a summer man
and soon I to bid you adieu,
as I board my sleepy
summertime cruise

It's been a long time
Six months now has it not
I thought we agreed to never see each other again
But skeletons in the closet don't smell to great after a while
And your the corpse always in plain sight
So why not greet each other one more time
After all your the reason I'm still here
Every scar you gave me made me stronger
Now here I am talking to you like a stranger
Your my trusted side kick
The vault I always threw my secrets in
My last resort when I'm feeling down
My dear friend its been a while
Now you're all rusty
Collecting dust in the corner as you wilt away
Flowers bloom and flowers decay
But my love for you against my skin
Will never decay
Now my old friend dance across my wrist once again
Cleanse yourself in the rain your dance made
Hello my friend
It has been a long time indeed
It's nice to meet your friendship again
I missed you
Now help me clean out my closet
I have a story to tell you of my adventures
While in your noticeable absence

from the musky mist
of anonymous readers,
all takers of low repute,
stopper-by's on a voyage of
self pleasuring

I give you my pain,
my infrequent joy,
my five sensory historical compilation
of voyeuring into
a multi-felled, a multi-celled
organism

and u can't lift a finger
to acknowledge
your presence

here is my rule of opposable thumbs,
Mary Elizabeth,
read not the last line,
read not the last chapter
like a novel,
a cheap way,
a teenage way to
decide what to read

if you read a poem all the way thru,
top to bottom,
if it holds you enough to make you
go thru
the whole of a body of art,
if you hated it or loved it,
or just sniff indiff

the mere fact that it held you
the mere fact that you held it,
means that in some manner
you liked it, or it captured
your lazy eye

so don't be a lazy ****,
click the like button,
otherwise
you are just a john or a *****

did you like that last line?
2:48 am

A few of you
have seen my face

One of you
has kissed my cheek

so ***
you can now see me
in full frontal ******

I am the ruggedly handsome
man,
who as usual
is on the floor looking for
something to hug
beside the *****

What do you think of the ****** of the Prime Minister?
Yes, what do you think of the ******
of the Prime Minister?
And what do you feel?
Are you in shock
or depressed?
A question was asked.
And do you stutter
or are you unsure of what will happen,
or do you speak with such bewilderment
because of the future or the present—
A question was asked.
And perhaps you feel stupid
or without a point of view?
Answer.
And I reply:
All that you say is right
and you are a dear person.
And I want to add one more thing:
The Prime minister died a happy man.
Peace to the dust of the Prime Minister
Husband and father and something more:
the son of Red Rosa.



Translated from the original Hebrew by Karen Alkalay-Gut.

He is sad
He is hurt
He is dying
He is alone
He is lonely
He is a mess
He is judged
He is ignored
He is suicidal
He is stressed
He is confused
He is ****** up
He is depressed
He is misunderstood
He is tired but still living
He is hurt but doesn't show it
He is screaming but silent
He is in pain but still smiling

Yup, that's right.

Don't be offended or upset.
It's very environmental,
recycling words.

True, the quality of literacy,
(have mercy on it!)
is getting quite strained
(not-so-good poems
droppeth as the
gentle rain from heaven).

Certain words are grumbling,
talking, overworked and overuse,
in poems that say nothing new
(they got their pride too!).

Rumors of unionizing going around,
increasing the minimum wage
to a passing grade,
and something like
a penny a letter,
and double for words,
not of the English language...

The ringleader I'm told
is the word itself

Words

tired from being in
59,649 poems (plus 1 now)

Death, heartbreak and depression,
scars, cutting and sad,

the most overwrought ones,
the children's beloved,
their never-ending
plastic ones trending,
under the weight collapsing
of boring and from
the pressure of overuse, bending.

The words have brought
the unrisen, alabaster body
of poor dead (oops)

Love (137,207 + 1)

as evidence of this
too long a verbal
season of victory.

Make no mistake,
among the guilty we be,
our sweet tooth
for these miscreants,
documented in black and white,
resting uncomfortably,
among our total of
171,500 words we've purportedly
recorded and employed.

The Writer's Guild,
all a titters, arms, up and akimbo,
the cries of poetry poverty
among the living thundering,
no longer
suffering silently,
ere the mendicancies cries
from Ye Olde York emanating,
seeking contributions
and donations,
minimum on PayPal,,
one whole dollar!

Well I have paid my dues,
much more than one
and much more than once,
would so again, annually,
as I could no more
surcease this gig,
for where to find
another profession that
pays so handsomely?

Let it not go unnoticed
like so many poems
left footed born,
themselves, unread, unnoticed,
that the ever increasing number of

Poets

is a good thing for the universe.

So many new humans each day,
from the black forest of
daily life's lessons emerge
choosing poetry to
conquer life's ailments.

For they bravely
having taking the
road less traveled by,
and that has made all the difference,      
and the world,
a better place for it...