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TEN HOURS NORTH OF DAYTONA AT A REST STOP ON I-95

pissing away
three cups of
acrid, black
vending machine coffee
alongside men in wife beaters
who force deep coughs
and spit gobs
of tobacco staind phlegm
into a magical piss trough
where all things
suddenly
become equal.

(featured in the poetry forum 01.22.10)

room 1101 at the buckminster hotel

in the morning
when the dawn splinters our room

and her mouth
could melt butter

the cliché of
her legs

long and drawn out
like a lie told one too many times

gets chewed up and spit out
in a full metal jacket

of love and blood, and wars
fought with teeth clenched

in delerious
fits of rage

(featured in the poetry forum 06.22.09)

Alphabet City

Twelve stories up-I hate heights-
but I hate lows more

so I follow her
up twelve flights of pain and

piss soaked stairs
that spiral downward

like
me.

High above Avenue A
in her apartment in the sky

I try not to stare at the
horror hung on the walls

are they dead or alive?

Black and
bloody-blue police photos

women--battered and bruised--
she said they were her sisters

but I couldn’t look
preferring instead to slump back

feet up
buzz-killed and spent

in a leftover chair
from her dead neighbor on eleven.

I studied the glow of her cigarette
high above Alphabet City

me, crumpled in the chair of a dead man
wondering why she would dance

wordless and stiff
in a room soaked with pain.

(added 05.26.09)

Rant In A Bar

Dumb Bitch
bars are meant for drinking,
not texting.

In better days,
men would come here
to talk of books, and life,
and women, and sport.

Men of letters would cry,
and drink, and smoke,
and write in filthy notebooks
with curled up edges

on cocktail napkins
and matchbook covers
that became novels,
and stories, and poems.

Wisdom borne of Scotch and Bourbon,
The Brooklyn Dodgers, and
not a frilly umbrella drink in sight.

Dumb bitch
stay out of my bar.

(featured in the poetry forum 05.26.09)

On A Walk Through Chelsea

drinkers
are never pretty

at least
not in “that” way.

poets
are damaged goods

in most
every way.

and bars
should be dirty

reeking
with scotch

and not so pretty
prose.

(added 05.26.09)

A.g. Sinclair

A bit about A.g. Synclair: A.g. Synclair is a rather unprolific writer of poetry, an occasional blogger, frequent writer of letters to the editor, and road warrior in the Sales game in order to pay the bills. His work has appeared in Aftertaste Magazine, Beginnings, The Plebian Rag, The Black Seal, NavWorks Press, Clockwise Cat, Lit Kicks, Opium Poetry, Lit-Up Magazine, Gloom Cupboard, Circle Publications, and will appear in the June 2009 issue of The Foundling Review. He drink's way too much coffee, suffers from long bouts of writers block, and greatly admires the work of Charles Bukowski and Billy Collins. He resides in Western Massachusetts with his extremely patient wife and 4 brilliant children.

Find A.g. acting silly on MySpace.