Category Archives: Poetry


It was the year 2011 and women were still overworked and underpaid in the workplace. To this end, Jason’s company enthusiastically practiced affirmative action when it came to hiring members of the female sex.

Toby, who considered himself a leftist, liked his ambiguously liberal neighborhood newspaper; which is published by a multinational media conglomerate owned by a right wing billionaire.

Maria, who is disabled from the waste down, had been calling 311 about the pot holes on her street for what was going on three years. She never asked for a bike lane.

Laura, who couldn’t afford the company health care plan, worked less hours in order for her family to qualify for Medicaid.

Sherman’s family emigrated from China for a better life. After grad school and seven years of dedicated service at GE, Sherman was picked to travel to India on the company’s behalf; to train his $5,000/year replacement.



Filed under Everyday People, Fiction, Kvetch, Poetry


It was too late.

I came off the N train at 745 AM.

Enough time to buy breakfast but not to eat it.

I walk into Blimpies and order my usual

A western omelet on a roll with jalapenos

When I eat at home, I always have a bottle of hot sauce on the table

I cannot understand someone NOT liking it.

I rush to the concierge desk and there are already a line of people waiting.

I’m too late.

I’m supposed to open the desk at 8Am


The air conditioning in the hotel I work in is not functioning properly

The thermostat says it’s 91 degrees.

The front desk manager speaks with a lisp in an effeminate Brazilian accent.

I take off my suit jacket, the front desk manager tells me that his General Manager has instructed him to tell me to put it back on.

I put it back on.

I get a chair from the bar to sit on.

The front desk manager comes over to tell me that his General Manager has instructed him to tell me that there is no sitting at the front desk.

I tell him that this isn’t the front desk, it’s the concierge desk; I tell him that this is an inhumane work environment. He says that it’s not him.

It’s orders.

I quit my job and begin working for a bookie.

I learn the ropes; how to intimidate without getting physical, how and when to get physical; most of all how to use psychology to get a degenerate gambler scared enough  to pay.

My new boss tells me I’m the only one he trusts

It’s good, honest work.

I go to see a debtor with the intention to collect

A young, effeminate white Brazilian man opens the door to the apartment.

It’s the front desk manager.




Filed under Poetry

A Kid Called Dutch

Photo by Sarasea via Urban Plants (

When we were growing up

There was a kid we called Dutch

He said that his family went back to the days of Indian trails

His people were settlers and farmed

Made a living on wheat and livestock

They suffered and sweated

Cleared ailanthus plants from the land

To maintain their bucolic lifestyle

He didn’t know what he knew from a history book

It was folklore, plain and simple

But Dutch is still here

His children growing like trees of heaven

They help him clear the weeds in the backyard

Making a life not that different from the settlers

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Filed under Poetry