“Wow, I Made This?” (prompt: new start poem)

There’s a new start

at the end of each old year.

I need a new start

because I know how

all of my old starts

end,

and if I can’t have a new start

then I want a new middle

and a new

end.

So, I will keep trying

reaching

punching

for something new

something to surprise me,

something to look at and say

“Wow, I made this?”

much like God must’ve felt

after creating

the platypus,

the orgasm,

and the bursting orange horizon

where the sun sinks

dutifully into the

beautiful blue Pacific

everyday.

There’s No Magic (Prompt: Magic)

There’s no magic,

just unknown things

scientists haven’t wrangled into

submission yet,

and until they do

I’ll take my place among the

primitives

who stand in awe of

the perfection of a rose

the tingling of sugar

the impulse to move to music

the massive silent afterglow of orgasm

and I will enjoy them

all the more

for their untamed mystery.

While You Were Gone (Prompt: While You Were Gone)

First, I tried reading that book

you got me last month

but kept getting distracted

by the sheer overwhelming 

silence.

Then I decided to make sure

everything in the kitchen

put away

and the floors were swept

so you wouldn’t have to do it

when you got home.

I watched TV for five minutes

and since there was no one

to comment on it with,

I shut it off.

After that,

I ate the rest of the cookies

in broad daylight

not having to sneak them

because you were here.

Finally, I laid on the bed

and I smelled your hair

on the pillow,

closed my eyes

and daydreamed.

While you were gone

I just waited for you

to come back.

Against the Odds (Prompt: Against All Odds)

Against the odds

I still watch falling objects

and secretly wish

they stay suspended

in midflight

and imagine dinosaurs

climbing over the mountain range

as I stand watching

in rapt awe

and sheer terror.

Against the odds

I sit at the piano

and hope that my fingers fall

into a beautiful random

melody,

and peck at the keyboard

praying for an idea

I haven’t had

a thousand times before.

Against the odds

a tiny flapping bird

takes on the endless sky

trying to make its way home,

as all living things

resist the weight of gravity

and reach ever

higher and higher

to the Sun.

Against the odds

every morning

a former atheist

puts both

the Mogen David

and the Cross

around his neck

and remembers

he is both

an agent for the Christ

and a temple for

his Jewish soul.

Against the odds,

I believe

and love

and persevere.

November 29, 2002 (Prompt: Day and Evening)

The yacht could only hold

50 people,

so it was a necessarily

small affair.

We told everyone

to be there at 3:45,

as we were sailing at 4 sharp.

Predictably,

we didn’t leave the dock

‘til 4:09.

Minutes before sunset,

my deceased father arrived

in the form of a

rainbow in the distance

and blessed the ceremony.

I looked at

the assembly of faces

some representing my past,

and some representing my future,

with the calm confidence

that comes from knowing

the wisdom of one’s decision.

Then,

my new family came down the aisle,

one by one

until she took her place

beside me.

We listened

we assented

we kissed

we laughed

we ate

we danced

and as evening draped

the Newport Harbor,

Christmas lights twinkled

their silent code of cheer

and good fortune,

inaugurating

the best time of my life.

Playwright Story (Prompt: ______ Story)

I wanted to be a playwright,

as I fancied myself a modest god

who would make these players

do my bidding,

live out my revenge fantasies.

I aimed for

verisimilitude,

the illusion that it was

just like real life.

I wrote scenes of dialogue

and action

and characters

who all sounded like me,

but as a sheltered 16 year old,

I didn’t have enough material

to work with.

I’d create scenes,

situations,

snappy patter,

but I could never write

a proper end of a play,

and they would each limp

to their eventual final curtain.

Three years and

five plays later

I gave it up,

and went back to writing

songs

poems

jokes

temporary literary ephemera,

and I still watch

with palpable envy

and awe

when a writer pulls it all together

and finishes the story.

Now,

when I write “poetry”

when I am done with an idea

it just ends,

and I go on

to the next thing

just like real life.

Tribute to Myself (Prompt: tribute)

On days like these

when every step is a misstep

and every word is misspoken,

I feel completely

misunderstood and unappreciated

and I think it perfectly

reasonable to pay tribute to

myself,

as no one else knows

the trouble I’ve seen

and tried to fix

and eventually gave up on.

It veers closely to self-pity

but in essence,

I congratulate myself

on not diving into drink

or otherwise deserting,

shrinking from this fight.

I just recognize that

today I have lost,

but with a dollop of grace

I’ll be given another shot,

perhaps to endure

masterfully enough

so that I’ll have it

in my heart

to look beyond myself

and my collection

of impossible, miserable

personal

puzzles.

Reruns (Prompt: Good Old Days)

Growing up,

life wasn’t abusive or neglectful,

but it was staid, Spartan

and security minded.

My parents were too busy

trying not to lose their status

in the lower middle class

that there was rarely

time for laughter,

time for joy.

I don’t look back and see

the good old days.

I see reruns,

mostly sitcoms.

All I was allowed

to do was watch TV,

so I did.

I even learned to read

by matching the synopsis

to what was on

in the TV.

Now I use

DVR technology to watch

shows I saw as a kid

and I recite the scripts,

perfect in memory and intonation,

I even know the rhythm

of the laugh tracks.

To this day,

some of my fondest memories

are found in episodes of

“All in the Family”

“Sanford and Son”

“Green Acres”

“The Honeymooners”

and better than family

they will all

outlive me.

You Can’t Have Everything (prompt: comsumption)

“Limitless movies on demand”

“this ereader can store a million books”

“all you can eat for one low price”

“unlimited broadband access on your smart phone”

“access to our 8 million song music library”

all I can think is

you can’t have everything,

where would you put it?

Seen and Unseen (Prompt: Gather)

If I gather

all my good deeds

seen and unseen,

then subtract

the sum of

all my bad deeds

seen and unseen

and total it up,

and then stand it

next to one man

hanging on a cross,

no matter how

I size it up,

I’m not worthy,

but still

I’m welcomed in,

so

I give thanks.

Traveling Light (Prompt: Travel)

I’m traveling light

through this shared illusion

because thinking

I need to bring anything

is also an illusion.

If I put on certain records

and open that box with the

scented letters,

I am taken to yesterday.

When I see little babies

laughing, safe and adored

with softly wrinkled grown-ups

I travel to tomorrow.

When I have the

Chicken Cashew Nut from

the Royal Thai in Riverside

I travel to Heaven’s kitchen.

When I write

that rare combination

of perfect thought and feeling

I travel to places

previously unknown

sometimes wondrous,

sometimes scary.

So, I travel light.

All I need to pack

is my brain.

The Lime (Prompt: Fruit Poem)

Lime sits

in lemon’s shadow,

smaller, darker

maybe even a little unfriendly.

Rarely the centerpiece,

often,

an afterthought.

Usually relegated

to being sliced in half

and squeezed over

the star of the dinner show.

But then,

take a bite

and she sizzles with cool zing

makes the mouth water

and brings out something

exquisite,

hitherto unk—

ach –

I just drooled

onto my keyboard.

Whenever I Hear Julie London Sing “I’d Like You for Christmas”

Whenever I hear Julie London sing

“I’d Like You for Christmas”

I am instantly transported

to that doleful yearning

before you were mine.

Once I heard her

I needed to know

what it would feel like

to slow dance

to this song

with you

in front of the fireplace

on Christmas Eve

in our very own home,

in our very own life.

Now,

more than a decade later,

her whispered plea

still causes me to catch my breath,

close my eyes,

thank God

for this answered prayer,

and wait for the

next Christmas Eve

to slow dance this

with you.

The Best Advice Ever (Prompt: Best Ever Poem)

Scanlon,

the obese TV writing instructor

who insisted upon being addressed

as “Dr.”and then didn’t return

the manuscript I sent him

which was my final grade in the course,

gave me the best advice I ever got:

I don’t even recall

the exact question,

but I always remember

the answer.

With admirable passion

and eloquence,

he exploded

“Bullshit!

Don’t be

a second-best someone else!

Be the first-best You!”

I still

quote

him.

The God that Made the Platypus (Prompt: Suspicious)

I’m not sure

what I have to offer you

but it  must be something

for you to

say love me.

I will not believe you

until I convince myself

of my lovability,

for surely,

I cannot be worthy

of love

just because I exist.

So I trust that

the God that made

the platypus,

flatulent giggling,

and other

mysterious,

silly

phenomena

loves me too

because in my own

strange, confused way

I think

I must amuse Him.

Market Research Information for Poets (Prompt: It's Too Late Poem)

Egotists!

Narcissists!

Poets!

(Forgive the redundancy.)

After a thorough analysis

of the activity

of this website,

I offer the following

analysis to aid you

in your writing endeavors:

First,

if you want

to maximize

the comment count

for your postings,

make sure that your poems

are no longer

than 22 lines,

which seems to be

the tipping point

for inattention.

Second,

and more important,

please ensure

your submissions

occur before 3pm EST.

This will allow

ample opportunity

for the majority

of site traffic

to view / comment

on your work.

Further analysis exists

to support the hypothesis

that contributors/readers

who visit earlier

in the day

typically do not

revisit the site

later in the day

to read /comment.

Third,

if you are only posting

so that someone

will stroke your ego

and validate your worth

as a writer,

then the previous comment

about time of submission

is irrelevant:

it is already too late.

My Invisibility Switch (Prompt: Revelation)

I possess the ability

to make myself invisible

at will.

I can disappear

if there are chores to be done,

or when solitude is preferred,

and I can re-materialize

when I need help with heavy lifting

or when I’m feeling especially lonesome.

Unlike the magician,

I’ll reveal my secret:

the default value for

my invisibility switch

is always “ON”

it’s only when

I do something

designed with an

audience in mind,

any audience,

that I’m actually switching it

“OFF”.

So,

I can make myself

invisible at will

as long as I

do not will

myself

to perform

for anyone.

Ta-da.

Once Upon a Fitting Room (Prompt: Once Upon a _____)

At first,

we were strangers,

trying on each other.

While some parts fit

perfectly,

others needed

immediate alteration.

I always wear her

with pride,

and to her credit

when she wears me,

she stares down

anyone who dares

question her style.

Through these years

though styles have changed,

she still wears my coat

with its food stains

and frayed cuffs and collar,

and for the first time

in my tortured life

as a hideous self-dresser,

I am proud

to be seen in what I wear.

There is No Cure for the Hole in My Soul (Prompt: Love Poem)

There is no cure

for the hole

in my soul

for when I keep trying

to fill it,

it still remains empty.

God hasn’t filled it,

nor has Anita,

the same for my kids

and my beloved animals.

The writing

sure as hell doesn’t help,

often it makes it worse.

The only thing

resembling a cure

appears

when I lose myself

in loving others.

I know

this doesn’t cure

the hole in my soul,

but it keeps me

from obsessing

over

my incompleteness. 

“Funny What Goes Through One’s Mind” (Prompt: Deadly and dangerous poem)

On that sweaty August afternoon

after I committed adultery with

the married psychobitch,

I was driving her back

to where she left her car

and I was in

the fast lane of the freeway,

trying to get this day

over with as soon as possible.

She was still trying

to convince me to ask her

to leave her husband,

but I wasn’t giving in.

Then she did this thing

I only read about

in “Penthouse” magazine

and saw alluded to

in the movies.

Let’s just say

the others drivers

thought I was alone.

I was smug,

then aroused,

and then immediately

panicked

as I realized

the accelerator

in my Honda

was revving

but not speeding up.

I instantly broke out

in a cold sweat

and I heard her

just giggling cluelessly

as she continued

making her case.

“Kim…”

“Kim...”

Then I saw it-

her chest had knocked

the gear shift

out of drive

and into neutral.

I shifted back

and half-sighed

until I saw

the taillights of

the cars ahead

of me

getting closer

faster and faster

and piling up.

Simultaneously,

I slam on the brakes

grab her by the hair

and throw her head back

into the passenger’s seat.

She laughed

with that wicked uncontainable

cackle of the truly

insane,

barely catching her breath,

“OHHH, YES!

THAT WAS GREAT!”

and there I was

parked in the fast lane

on the freeway

drenched in sweat

and jangling from adrenaline,

and the first thing that

came to mind was

“How would I have

explained that to

Allstate?”

Kindness Poem (Prompt: kindness)

If you seek me out

from the googol of

websites

self-aggrandizing blogs

cobwebbed social media,

I am so thankful

for your devotion.

If you leave a note

then I know you’ve seen me

and you’ve invalidated

my presumed invisibility

and most days

that is the kindest thing

of all.

Gluttony (prompt: excess)

I looked I the pantry

and the only thing there

was self-discipline.

It needed something.

So I dusted it in powdered sugar

deep-fried it until it was brown

walloped a dollop of whipped cream

smeared some French dressing

dashed in salt and pepper

dipped it in Belgian chocolate,

then let it marinade in a

mixture of balsamic vinegar

and peanut M&Ms.

Then I baked it in ginger

chopped it into squares

butterscotch fondued it

and after it hardened

I glazed it in Devil’s Spit

barbeque sauce

and sprinkled it with

brown sugar

and once it cooled

I popped it in my mouth

and it was ambrosial,

so I went back and

ate the whole

disgusting

mess.

Moskowitz Vital Statistics

Marriage #1:

Length of Courtship: 260 weeks

Length of Engagement: 63 weeks

Length of Marriage: 21 weeks

Age at wedding: 30 years

Children: 0

Regrets: Too many to count.

Marriage #2:

Length of Courtship: 30 weeks

Length of Engagement: 9 weeks

Length of Marriage: 467 weeks (as of November, 11, 2011)

Age at wedding: 39 years

Children: 3 (from spouse’s previous marriage)

Regrets: 1 (not marrying Anita sooner).

Uncle Tom's Plea (Prompt: Different Perspective)

C’mon guys,

we’ve had it pretty good.

That farmer and his family

they treat us pretty good,

and we get fed regular.

Why,

I’ve never been so full!

Look at your feathers!

They’ve never had

a sheen like

this.

And your wattles,

they haven’t bounced that much

in years!

You gotta admit,

it’s been a pretty sweet

so far.

Don’t listen to them

young upstarts,

they’re just trying

to upset the apple cart.

Those stories about the

Fall Holocaust,

they’re just trying

to scare you.

No,

we’ve taken and taken

and now it’s our turn

to give.

Remember,

the humans

have treated us well,

be should be honored

they make us

the centerpiece

of their holiday.

Wait or Chase (Prompt: ____ or ____ poem)

I didn’t have

the requisite confidence

to wait

for the pretty girls

to flock around me

so I could

take my pick

of any of them

just like

my mother

told me

they eventually

would.

No,

I had a mirror

and perfect eyesight.

So, I began the chase

and I learned to charm,

gently cajole,

listen for clues

and win their hearts.

I got very good

at 

it.

The formula was

finding out their likes

their secret dreams

unspoken passions

and then

fulfilling them,

with brazen,

unflappable

creativity.

Yes,

I could’ve and

would’ve

loved every one

of them.

l won many, many hearts

but I rarely got laid,

because while they all

desired someone

who acted like me,

they didn’t want someone

who looked like me.

(Again, that infernal mirror.)

I still chase

my beautiful

muse,

baring my soul

and my skin,

laying it all

at her feet.

I earn her approval

as she giggles

and the poem

blooms before her

and she breathes in

its rose-like scent,

smiles

and pats

her seeing eye dog.

But to Whom? (Prompt: Paranormal Poem)

One day

all I saw was a leafy tall tree

against the cloudless sky,

and off in the distance

birds sang purposefully

in another language

and the brook giggled

past my feet

and it was a tangible

empirical reality,

then

something turned over

in my heart,

and it wasn’t enough

just to observe it all,

I had to express

my thanks

for all this wondrous

mysterious beauty,

but to whom?

So,

now you know

how I took

my first steps

on this walk. 

Now Won’t Wait (Prompt: Won't Wait Poem)

As insistent and selfish

as a puppy wanting to

be let out,

Now

crowds around me

and messes up

my well-laid plans,

for every decision

is a pivot point,

and I’m smart enough

to know

that the moments

cling to one another

as randomly

as a chain

made of figures

from the Barrel of Monkeys game,

I played forty years ago

which appeared instantly

in the very front

of my Now

right now.

A Predictable Headache (prompt: addiction)

She is a beautiful,

tragic corpse

these days,

but I can recall

halcyon days

just her and me

riding the highways

no map

no empty pockets.

We just kept calling

out to each other

and we kept answering

“sure, why not?’

It was only after

many, many nights

did I sense her

disenchantment

and the part of her

that came alive

from my touch

became perfunctory

a dull routine

a predictable

headache.

Impulsively

I said goodbye

and divorced her

very publicly

to help gird my decision

and while some doubted

her sway over me,

I knew the truth,

and I still visit her

in the liquor aisle

of the grocery

almost smug

at my 21 years

of sobriety,

but still

afraid to

step back into

her embrace.

Broken Peace (Prompt: Broken)

Sarah and I

can be sitting watching “Glee”

and something will slip

from a shelf

or my breathing will be too loud

or a sad thought will enter,

and she will explode

in a rage usually reserved

for life threatening traffic maneuvers

and the peace is broken,

the illusion of normalcy

is shattered.

Most days

 it’s an hourly occurrence,

whatever this is

in her dysfunctional cerebellum

that catches afire

and causes her to become

an angry flamethrower

and when its run its course

burned  to the ash

she comes back somewhat contrite

pitiful and apologetic,

and there is no medicine

to fix this,

no surgery,

only time,

occupational therapy

and love,

the only antidote that ever restores

broken peace.

Rachel (November 4, 2011) (Prompt: Something Unexpected)

When we first met

I thought I’d play

the wise old sage

and you’d

be my eager pupil.

Even in those early days

you were always teaching me

about kindness

about self- sacrifice

about faithfulness.

Your laughter is among

my favorite sounds in this

whole wide world

and I will always remember

that you were

the first of the kids

to make me consider

that there might be

something valuable

in (step)fatherhood

waiting for me.

So,

I thank you

for prying open a door

I thought

was sealed forever.

Happy Birthday, Rachel

Love,

Pop-o

Sort of Famous (Prompt: Sort of...)

I Google Buddah Moskowitz

and am immediately

second-guessed.

“Did you mean

Buddha Moskowitz?”

in that snotty italicized font

with its implied superiority.

No, I intentionally misspell it

like the 1970’s record label.

Then I see

all the sites where I have

scattered my “poetry”

to the winds,

my mutant seed spread

in the hope

they’ll find forgiving

and fertile land.

I tell myself

it doesn’t matter if I’m “famous.”

I’ve followers

from all walks of life,

and some even part

with their hard earned money

to buy my “poems”.

So what do I want?

An Oscar?

A Pulitzer Prize?

The respect and admiration

from some obscure

“poetry” “journal” publisher?

Nope.

I just want one of those

seemingly in-depth

interviews

like I’ve seen in

Rolling Stone,

where they try to discover

what drives me

what excites me

what disgusts me

what inspires me.

They’d make me sound

important

relevant

and essential.

But,

I know the odds

of that ever happening

so,

I keep adding

to the interview

I am conducting on myself

one poem at a time.

Two Lessons, Too Late (Prompt: epigram)

“The way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.” – Oscar Wilde

I knew it was wrong

when I did it

but I did it anyway

because she promised me

“no one will ever know.”

Being an ethical contortionist

I trusted my logic

and believed my rationale,

but when he called me

at my office

screaming

that he knew what I did,

where I lived

and that he was going

to shoot off my testicles

with his shotgun,

I learned two lessons:

first,

it is impossible

to talk your way out of

a problem with a party

unwilling to listen,

and

second,

never sleep with

another man’s wife,

schmuck.

Now! (Prompt:Pro-Active Poem)

There is no later,

the time is now!

Tomorrow is an illusion

and yesterday is one collective

implanted memory,

so roll on,

breathe in the air

dance in the sun

and lose yourself

now!

Even if

you’re just planning

for tomorrow,

you’ve got to do it

now!

Sure, the Mona Lisa was painted

way back then,

but she does not become relevant

until you see her now!

That big meal you’re planning

for the end of the month

is only a collection of passed-down recipes

and unbought groceries,

and only becomes Thanksgiving

when you’re eating it

now!

That great vast

afterlife

some of us cling to

is also a mirage

for there is no Heaven

waiting off

in the foggy, cloud-strewn

future,

but rather

Heaven is in this moment

now!

So,

knowing the primacy

and the urgency of

now! ,

I ask you

my dear reader,

without irony,

was it worth it?

Carpe Diem, Catch and Release

Carpe diem,

and then
let it go.

Often I’ll replay
the most recent interaction
I had with anyone
and judge it
like a glass of wine.

Sometimes I’m satisfied
with its perfection, it’s profundity,
but often I wish
it had gone better.

This dissatisfaction
keeps me alive,
digging deeper into this
mucky human soil
to find hidden treasures
and cherish them,
but not
to possess them,

which is,
of course,
the whole point
of the lesson.

A Predictable Terror

It works a predictable terror

every time I see it

and I know all the behind the scenes

of how George Romero made it

how they couldn’t afford

real paid actors

or even color film stock

and it’s in the public domain

and you can download free copies

from archive.com

but something about those zombies

plodding forward

relentless

unassailable

irrational

inevitable

busting through that the walls

and doors of that rickety old house

headed for the cellar

that doomed cul-de-sac,

where everyone is hiding…

I never watch it

with all the lights

turned

off.

Grandpa Dracula

He used to be sexy

with his slim figure and

sharpened fangs.

His cool demeanor

and sartorial elegance

mesmerized women

into breathlessly

offering up their necks

as prelude to

their pulsating

sweet

essence.

Flowers with

thick eyelashes

shiny red lips

and pendulous curves

would avoid his gaze

for fear they’d be tempted

past the point

of redemption.

But now,

he’s Grandpa Dracula,

fat, toothless

and domesticated.

They look

straight into his eyes,

and chat with him easily,

and it is

worse

than being invisible:

he is deemed

cute and harmless.

The eternal life

he coveted,

remains forever elusive,

as he replays his memories,

which mock him

like an endless stream

of Viagra commercials.

Between Teal and the Blues

The name

Sensory Processing Disorder

doesn’t do justice

to the confusion

disorganization and

chaos inside her.

Her problems are so subtle

that describing them

sounds like I am grasping at

a ghost,

a fantasy diagnosis

that doesn’t really exist.

I’m sure some see her

as a demon

as a freak

as a misfit.

If she could perceive

the world clearly

then she would see

there is more to the world

than rules and unsolvable puzzles,

and

if the world could

perceive her clearly

then they would see

there is more to her

than anger and misery.

How do you describe

to a colorblind person

the difference in hue

between teal and the blues?

October in Southern California

In So Cal it’s always summer

until the second weekend in October

when everyone stops wearing cutoffs

and the beaches get emptier.

The same violent Santa Ana winds

that sweep brushfires through

the canyons

also blows the summer smog away.

The leaves find their way

off the branch

exploding in vibrant splashes

of orange, umber and ochre.

Walgreens becomes schizophrenic

as nativity scenes bump up against

displays of Zombie makeup

and costumes.

Everything slows down,

it gets darker faster

and the kids come inside earlier.

The night air

brisk and frisky

brings forth sweaters and jackets

and memories of new love,

smelling her perfume

in the early evening sky,

and we still sleep

with the windows open

but now it’s cold enough to

curl up together,

lost in the warm

narcotic sweetness.

Fortune Cookie Poems

#1

Regret is Desire

sitting on the sideline

never attempted.

#2

Every kindness

no matter how small

advances world peace.

#3

The path of the butterfly

only seems random

if you’re not a butterfly.

Formatted for Mobile Devices

The smart phone

the iPad

the iPod

(the iGod?)

the laptop

bought from

the big box

crap shop

and Bluetooth

is not the

new truth

and last decade’s

PDA

is DOA

and unless your

USB

is version 3

don’t talk to me.

Technology dictates

how we think

and create

and share

and sync

and I don’t want any scrapple

from the fanboys at Apple

and I’m kind of frugal

so I roll with Google

and in principle

I like things open source

but only when they work

of course,

still, all these

gidgets and gazmos

polluting the cosmos

obscure the reality

they don’t want us to see:

that we do not possess them

they possess us

we are their slaves

and in them

we all trust.

and if this thought

causes you to frown

then

power down

and repeat this

not once

nor twice

but rather, thrice

“I am not a mobile device.”


[NOTE: Submitted for Meeting The Bar at http://dversepoets.com/ , May 10, 2012]

The Businessman Speaks Yet Again

The technology is

smart enough and

fast enough

to envision that

perfect product:

a sleek, sexy pad

with infinitely expandable memory

and perpetually updating software

designed to give us

more

faster

everything,

compressed

in a handheld destiny.

Imagine

every song

every book

every film

every painting

every sculpture

and all poetry

formatted for

mobile devices.

Everyone will know

that intoxicating feeling

of owing every work

of the Beatles

Michelangelo

Dorothy Parker

Aeschylus

Gustav Klimt

Mozart

Charlie Chaplin

William Shakespeare

Aesop

Beyonce

Salvador Dali

The Dalai Lama.

No longer

will we seek out

these rare artifacts

these books

those dusty albums,

or travel to lonely museums

to experience this world,

we’ll bring it to you

wherever you are.

All the centuries

of civilizing innovation,

those lines that separated

artist from patron

rich from poor

ignorant from wise

and sacred from profane

forever blurred

and portable.

And, if the device dies

(or if it accidentally

goes through the wash),

we’ve partnered with

Best Buy

Amazon.com

and participating Wal-Mart Superstores

to be the exclusive providers

of replacement

“MyCulture 2.0” modules.

Yes, I agree,

we’ll have marketing

come up with a better name.

Early Education

In Mrs. Brown’s

first grade class

we had to learn

two-place addition.

Adding one-place numbers

vertically

like

3

+

5

_

8

was easy enough

but

11 +

22

__

well, that was

from another

planet.

I didn’t understand

and I was kept

after school

struggling with this puzzle

until

the light finally

came on.

I arrived home

late,

scared as hell

because I knew

the fate

awaiting me,

because

according to my father

only bums and

miscreants

stayed after school.

I was summarily

beat

with the thick leather belt

and, in time,

I became an

overachiever,

an anxious, nervous-stomached

overachiever.

Today I am

a dean

at a college

my father could only

dream of attending,

and

as my 14 year old daughter

struggles to complete

her homework

saddled with

cerebellar dysfunction

dysarthria

dysgraphethesia

dysstereognosis

dyspraxia

obsessive compulsive disorder

general anxiety disorder

and sensory integration dysfunction

I remind her

that while I like that she’s smart,

I love her

when she’s kind.