"gavalik" poems
On the bicycle trail, a middle-aged
woman in spandex biking gear
had her bike flipped upside down.
I dismounted next to her.
“You need a hand?”
She kept her eyes fixed
on her bike wheel. “Why do I need
your help?” Her voice was filled
with contempt. “It’s only a flat.”
I didn’t respond.
Pedaling along the river,
I made the decision
to keep offering assistance.
Someday I’d need it.
-Ron Gavalik
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 4:46 PM UTC
The clerk behind the coffee counter,
she stares out the window
onto the sunny street, lost in thought.
Her half smile on that young face
is an art exhibit of a daydream
about a possible future.
An old woman at a nearby table,
she stares out the same window.
Her eyes glossed over,
they indicate she's remembering
the good moments long past.
The coffee shop daydreamers
have much in common.
-Ron Gavalik
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 12:17 PM UTC
I came up in Pittsburgh,
the Rust Belt of hard labor
with a deep love of community.
As children, we collected railroad spikes
from the tracks and we cut our shins
on random iron shards in **** hills.
Some of us were union middle-class
and others breathed the gray air of poverty.
That hardly mattered. As we stood atop
foothills that overlooked the city skyline,
soot embedded under our fingernails,
we lived as kings and queens
that oversaw the future.
-Ron Gavalik
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 2:18 PM UTC
At this sushi joint,
she searched for the words
to describe her dinner.
‘It's heaven,’ she said, ‘Yes, heaven.’
Call me a simpleton, but divinity
on Earth is the sweet tinge of bourbon,
the smoke of an acid 60 gauge
that rolls over the tongue,
and the music of Pink Floyd
with the lights off.
-Ron Gavalik
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 8:26 PM UTC
Sometimes I think I love best
from afar,
observing impossible conquests
from behind crowds
of maniacs on sidewalks.
Sometimes I love through written notes
to people in far away places.
When up close, reality stops
the imaginings.
I dream of far better love
than I live.
-Ron Gavalik
May 6, 2018
May 6, 2018 at 9:09 AM UTC
Her kink was to watch
as I stroked one out in the car
in suburban parking lots.
One night, a guy in a ball cap
walked by. That poor man
was her unwitting accomplice
to ecstasy, but he just shook his head
as he strolled into the pharmacy.
I figured stroking was easier
at home on my own,
but that's the ****
we do to see
her smile.
-Ron Gavalik
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 12:51 AM UTC
Sometimes we crush a bug
in self-defense.
Other times we crush bugs
in annoyance.
However, there are times
when we go out of the way
to step upon a lesser life form.
Such ********** arouses
a sadistic pleasure
we cannot savor or even admit
in civilized society.
–Ron Gavalik
Nov 13, 2019
Nov 13, 2019 at 8:56 PM UTC
That bartender poured my bourbon
and took an interest in my life.
'What's wrong, pal?
You can tell me.
I have all the answers.'
'Great,' I said. 'I don't know
any of the questions.'
For the rest of the night,
he left me with my typer
and silently refilled
the bourbon.
-Ron Gavalik
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 7:16 PM UTC
After a tough week at the job,
a coworker slid on her coat.
"It's a Long Island Iced Tea kinda night,"
she said in a flat tone,
and with a straight face.
"Whatever gets the job done,"
I said, hoping she’d smile
at our brief liberation.
Instead, she stared through me,
as if I'd spoken some great truth.
She then walked out of the building
without saying goodbye.
-Ron Gavalik
Jan 23, 2018
Jan 23, 2018 at 10:36 PM UTC
The last generation
asked for success.
Our generation
asked to be left alone.
This generation
asks only to mitigate
the pain.
–Ron Gavalik
Feb 7, 2022
Feb 7, 2022 at 3:20 AM UTC
Back in the small town,
we hung around the gas station
in the afternoons and at night.
We drank cartons of iced tea
and laughed about nothing.
We watched others live
the lives we wanted,
but weren't quite ready
to begin.
—Ron Gavalik
Mar 25, 2019
Mar 25, 2019 at 5:44 PM UTC
sometimes
sidewalks appear
as graveyards
full of open mouths
and closed eyes
beauty goes unnoticed
and love
unfulfilled
–Ron Gavalik
Sep 14, 2021
Sep 14, 2021 at 7:25 PM UTC
Drunk on the orange light of dusk.
High on drink in a thick glass.
Cocooned in cigar smoke that hovers,
it carries the scent of a sweet menace.
The best part is knowing your ***** hang
out of sweaty boxers on the back stoop
while the neighbor lady stares
out the window, ashamed
of the visual **** of her orderly life.
At that moment, you realize, that's it baby.
The concert of life has reached its crescendo.
A spontaneous smile begins to form,
as you also begin to understand,
that's all you ever wanted
in the first place.
-Ron Gavalik
Jul 13, 2018
Jul 13, 2018 at 2:26 PM UTC
The writer’s job
is to build the words,
not perform for applause
or join cheap cliques.
The printed word, baby,
that’s the nervous anticipation
for the 300 pound *****
who ***** the best ****
Words are the hit of whiskey
after the sun drops
below the buildings.
-Ron Gavalik
Dec 20, 2018
Dec 20, 2018 at 6:15 PM UTC
Bourbon whiskey
and dark chocolate
are tender injections
of love
for the people
who are not
in love
–Ron Gavalik
Jan 23, 2020
Jan 23, 2020 at 10:01 PM UTC
Laying in bed alone, again,
in gray boxers and a whiskey stained t-shirt,
half drunk at 3 AM.
The few rational thoughts still rattling around
are pushed aside by creeping madness,
clobbered by the disillusionment of worthlessness
and death.
Closing my eyes brings anxiety.
Fifty-foot brick walls erupt from the ground.
The walls tower over the bed.
The walls imprison me
from the beautiful, ignorantly blissful people.
THEY do not enjoy reminders of their racism,
their hatred, their greed.
When the inevitable arrives,
THEY will barely remember
the fat nobody, the over-read slob,
the abrasive writer, with no cash and
no woman.
In this sick fantasy,
two simple-minded jerks spew a few flippant lines
and that’ll be all she wrote.
‘Ever hear from Gavalik?’
‘Who?’
‘Big guy. Writer or something.’
‘I think he's dead.’
‘Really? These are some good mozzarella sticks.’
‘THEY really are.’
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 4:52 PM UTC
I’m a *****
who sells himself
for the privilege of food.
Existing in your world
of surface beauty
and splendor,
that’s the only payday
I’ve ever known.
–Ron Gavalik
Dec 18, 2019
Dec 18, 2019 at 3:50 PM UTC
The poet
regularly battles the mob
and displays those scars
carved into his heart.
The poet
is despised in his time
and admired
by the generations
he never meets.
–Ron Gavalik
Jul 15, 2021
Jul 15, 2021 at 2:17 PM UTC
Sometimes I'm the boy
who stood helpless
on my grandmother's porch
looking down the hill
upon Hell's fire
and the black plumes
that pushed men
into early graves
–Ron Gavalik
Feb 23, 2021
Feb 23, 2021 at 12:20 AM UTC
A sparrow landed in a city park
near a black cat sprawled out in the grass.
The bird began to chirp, chirp, chirp,
in the way drunkards ramble in bars.
Clearly irritated, the cat crouched low,
its ears back, ready to pounce.
After about a minute, the cat relaxed.
It must have figured killing the bird
would ruin the mellow mood of the day.
A moment later, the bird took off
and vanished in the trees.
The cat flopped itself
back into the grass.
-Ron Gavalik
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 3:02 PM UTC
A young writer
sat in my regular chair
inside the bookstore cafe.
He banged at the keys of his typer,
angry and without mercy.
Once he drained his coffee cup
the writer kept ******* at the rim
for a few remaining drops.
After staring blankly at the wall
for several minutes, the writer packed up
his supplies into a ratty backpack,
and walked out of the joint.
Finally, I figured, my chair had enough
of the games. It felt my presence
nearby and thus decided
we had sins to paint.
-Ron Gavalik
Jul 5, 2018
Jul 5, 2018 at 12:23 PM UTC
There’s a psychopath
at every job, a guy ready
to talk your ear off about socks
or a woman who admits
she has a fetish for hairy *****
I met them in restaurants,
on construction sites,
and in bland offices.
As time went on,
the psychos disappeared.
I mentioned this to a coworker.
He stared at me cold,
the way I once looked at a guy
who went on and on
about his ****** addiction.
-Ron Gavalik
Jan 25, 2019
Jan 25, 2019 at 6:54 PM UTC
Inside the café, a cute artist
with blackened fingertips
sketched in her notebook.
A handsome boy took the next table
and waited patiently for a chat.
Sketching with a fervor,
oblivious to her surroundings,
that artist and I shared a truth.
Imagination is often preferable
to the daily realities
****** upon us.
–Ron Gavalik
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 7:33 PM UTC
There are moments,
frozen capsules of time
burned into our brains.
Those memories feel
as if they'll outlive us.
Then there are the moments
that are forever lost,
and when a lover or friend
tells the story years later,
we quietly mourn
that memory's death.
-Ron Gavalik
Apr 12, 2018
Apr 12, 2018 at 5:57 PM UTC
...from behind the counter,
she smiled at me in a deeper way.
Her eyes told stories
about ecstasy and the prison
of family life.
So, I went back to the table,
drank the coffee,
and I tried to exorcise
the temptations
through words.
The typer has always been
my most loyal lover.
–Ron Gavalik
Oct 30, 2019
Oct 30, 2019 at 8:54 PM UTC