the politics of not giving up your seat

to a little kid on the subway or bus

my advice is to keep your head down

when the walking abomination enters

your line of sight

read a book if you have one

or if the little bastard starts moaning and wailing

about having to stand for his one stop

listen to music on your fancy device

play a video game or pretend you’re meditating

stretch your legs and wince

tell the man sitting next to you that it’s a war injury

you’ll find at least three people willing to call you a hero

and give their seat to you even though you already have one

act like the fake pain in your leg is a genetic defect

it’s not like you have to wear a handicapped sign

when you’re sitting on the subway or bus

(at least not yet anyway)

whatever you do don’t feel bad

it’s a kid for christ’s sake

they cry for sport and can’t color within the lines

they can’t even articulate their emotions or thoughts properly

remember that one day this kid will probably be your boss

tell yourself that you’re just doing the lady next to you a favor

by not letting the child sit next to her

she’s busy with the new york times anyway

and it’s not like anyone else offered to get up

know that you’re still a good person

even if the kid ends up falling on the floor

rolling from one end of the train car to the next

while his mother frantically chases after him

as if he were a dollar bill blowing in a breeze

you’ve given up your seat for plenty of people

the sick and the old

women that you were almost sure were pregnant

the occasional hot chick who’s just not hot enough

to have someone else pay her freight

look at the kid’s mother

nod and empathize with her plights

as she struggles to pick her son or daughter

off of the piss-stained floor

be sure to tell them to have a nice day when you depart

because it’s not only polite

but it’s the right thing to do.

where have you gone eddie murphy?

up to cartoon donkey heaven?

hiding away in a bubble hill mansion

of the mind?

on some film set in l.a.

waiting to drop another cinematic turd

on your old fan’s heads?

i remember when you were the baddest motherfucker

to stroll across the stage

the thing is…do you?

ten years old and getting up in the middle of the night

to watch delirious

trying not to piss myself while my parents slept

then sleeping through school the next day

eddie, the way you made Mr. T look

man, i could never watch the a-team

with a straight face again

eddie murphy, every white suburban mom’s nightmare

on a hot summer day with the ice cream song

i don’t know a drop of shakespeare

but goddamn it, man

there are entire bits from raw

that this pool fool can recite by heart

where have you gone eddie murphy?

knocking up spice girls and hiding behind prosthetics

another beverly hills cop movie in infinite development

i think of those years buying used vhs copies

of 48 hrs., trading places, beverly hills cop

and the golden child

hoping that the pimple-faced fuck

working the video store counter wouldn’t give me shit

hiding the movies underneath my bed

like illegal contraband

eddie, i suffered harlem nights for you

i did it for jasmine guy too

and now she’s gone as well

i even bought both your shitty albums

i don’t want to think this has all been a waste of time

can’t you see we need you?

it’s not just the tranny prostitutes on sunset boulevard

who want you back

what’ll it take to get you to make another classic?

five million?  ten million?

fifty-percent of the profits on another hit?

if we could just get you up there on the silver screen

think coming to america, boomerang,

robin givens in a horizontal position

eddie, whatever it is that you need

just come on and give us something new laugh about?

bill cosby is still out there

he’s having a coke and a smile

so go on and dust off that purple leather outfit

and take it out for spin

i’m sure it still fits

hit the comedy clubs and give them all a scare

eddie, stand under those hot white lights

and tell us a joke or two

then turn to the crowd and do that magical laugh

make this tired, cruel world

bust its big fat gut

porphyria

the doctor told my girlfriend

that she had porphyria

i don’t remember which doctor

because there were so many of those quacks involved

checking her blood and her urine

digging through her bloody stool sample

the same one she’d made me view that morning

while she writhed around in pain on her bed

i’d never heard of porphyria

i was worried that it meant pregnant in greek

i was just twenty-one and i was going to bars with my friends

i knew what alabama slammers were

i knew who sold watered down drinks

i knew that a club full of women gyrating to tainted love

was the closest that i was ever coming to heaven

my girlfriend was still twenty

this porphyria outbreak seemed to coincide with my birthday

it kept me from going to more bars and clubs

it kept me in her bedroom on friday and saturday nights

listening to her horrible music

as she and her mother read medical brochures to each other

like they were reciting wordsworth

porphyria caused my girlfriend to quit her mall job

so i was back to paying for mexican dinners and shitty movies

porphyria never seemed to affect her appetite or bad taste

to me the disease meant selfish bitch

at least in english

i wanted to get the hell away from her

but i felt like such a heel leaving in her time of need

so i stuck around

as did porphyria

the sickness lasted all spring and summer

then it seemed to magically disappear that fall

right around my girlfriend’s twenty-first birthday

on a night she met me at the door

full of color and glowing like she hadn’t in months

to announce that she was cured

and would soon be able to come to the same bars and clubs

with me

the porphyria is gone, she said

yes, yes, i answered, hating her anew

and soon baby, soon so will i.

crossing abbey road at forty years old

it’s a beautiful day

only there’s this guy at the famed crosswalk

he’s got a tweed blazer on

and he’s wearing his abbey road t-shirt

like that guy who wears the band t-shirt

to the same band’s concert

his wife looks pissed

because he keeps directing her on how to cross the street

how wide her gate should be

how far apart her arms should swing

like mccartney, like lennon

do it like them, he’s shouting across the street

there are a number of people waiting to do the same thing

rainbows of flesh and blood from all over the world

trying to get to that other, magical mystery side

the cars are patient enough

i mean no one honks at the horde like they would in america

my wife and i are waiting at abbey road

to get to the other side to look at the graffiti

scrawled on the walls of the studio

we don’t need the photo op

we crossed abbey road five years ago

and it wasn’t the enlightened experience everyone claims it to be

i’ve had much more in the way of visionary moments

just crossing the street to buy a six pack of beer

but it would be nice to pause and stop for a picture

just to ruin tweed blazer’s fashion spread

have a laugh when he makes his old lady cross the street yet again

but she’s given up anyway

she’s sitting on a bench by the bus stop having a smoke

while other people are checking their cameras

to see if they got it all right

tweed blazer keeps screaming at her to give it another go

like george harrison, he says  like ringo

she tells him to go to hell then checks her phone

so he takes a picture of the famed pavement instead

and when my wife and i cross abbey road

she sneaks a picture of me

making musical history with a dozen others

my tired eyes and drunkard’s slouch

snapped for posterity

that fab, fat forty year old belly and all

John Grochalski