I Thought I Saw Jesus

I thought I saw Jesus
at the freeway offramp

but it was just

a homeless man

with a crudely written

cardboard sign

reading “Please help”

and since the light

turned green,

I kept driving.

I thought I saw Jesus

standing in front

of the Circle K

convenience store

but it was just

a toothless meth crone

asking for a buck

and since I had no change

I moved on.

I thought I saw Jesus

in the intensive care unit

at the UCLA medical center

but it was just

a middle aged man

dying of brain cancer

and since I wasn’t

an oncologist

I silently walked on.

I thought I saw Jesus

standing by the side

of the freeway

but it was just

a black-haired toddler

holding her mom’s hand,

waiting for someone

to rescue them,

and since I was

two lanes over

I couldn’t reach them

and I turned my mind

to my destination.

I thought I saw Jesus

hanging from a tree

but upon closer inspection

his arms weren’t outstretched,

they hung lifelessly

and I thought

this must be Judas,

and as I came closer

I squinted up

at the blue

and puckered face

and saw

it was me.

[Written for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com - a home for wayward poets.]

Just Friends

For a young man

who never made 

women swoon,

never caused

the blush of blood

in a woman’s breast,

her stories were,

at first, titillating.

In her many

business travels

she would arrange

to meet men

in foreign cities,

and with only 

the slightest wisps

of personal data,

she would

offer herself

in anonymous hotel rooms

as a submissive,

to be tied up,

beaten,

swatted and flagellated,

her ample plump frame,

objectified

for a crumb of attention.

Distance demanded

that nothing would ever come

from our email friendship,

so I just listened

without judgement,

trying to understand.

She had an estranged father,

a mother dying from cancer,

and it wasn’t my place

to do anything but

be a friend.

So I just listened

as the phone calls mounted,

laughing and mirroring

each other,

each call affirming

each other.

Months later,

one spring afternoon,

she cc’d me on

a mass mailing

that she sent

to the dozens of partners

she’d met along

her loneliness,

and she told them

she decided

she wasn’t

doing that anymore.

She decided

she didn’t want

that

anymore.

In a separate note,

she credited me

with giving her the strength

to move into

the next phase of her life,

where she eventually

fell in love,

got married

and had a son.

So,

to all you women

who weren’t

attracted to me

and I either had to learn

to be “just friends”

with you

or lose your friendship,

thank you.

Public Service Poem #3

When ranting in writing be mindful,
as pride always precedes the fall,
careers and affairs can be ruined
if you err and click “Reply All”.

[Written for a colleague who just made this error.  Posted for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com - come along and share your song!]

Parking Structure

I drove past

the old parking

structure

to find it

had been

torn down

and my heart let

out a little gasp

and a silent

sigh.

In our early days,

when we couldn’t

go to her place

or my place

(because

other obligations

were there),

for a brief

intoxicating

moment

we’d park in a

structure

and we’d kiss and

caress and

make love

hiding in plain sight.

The best parking structures

were the busy ones

at the courthouse,

where you had

to pay to get in.

In those, everyone was

too consumed with

trying to find a space

and get on

with their business

and they had

no time to waste

looking for

pulled down pants

breasts exposed

tongues darting

closed eyes.

We’d pay our 50 cents

find a spot

and go at it.

50 cents,

the cheapest motel

of all.

But times have changed

and we now have

the privacy of our

marital bedroom

and it is

a different excitement

but still,

there’s nothing quite like

making love in public

as cars drive by

knowing that

each one of them

is too busy

to notice

young new

wet slippery

nervous awkward

love.

They were in their

businesslike hurry

to quickly park

make their deals

cash their checks

make their transactions

and get richer,

but I’m sure

every one of them

would’ve traded places

with me

in a heartbeat.

Personal Revisionist History (a cinquain)

Virgin,
threw it away,
now she pees on the stick,
hoping she can recast him as
perfect.

[Written for #FormForAll at www.dversepoets.com - my 2nd favorite poetry site, after my own.]

The First Record I Ever Bought

September 28, 1973,
a day after my 10th birthday,
I bought my first 45
for 79 cents.

It began with her
dusky whisper
against a lone piano:

“No one in the world
ever had a love
as sweet as 
my love...”

and as the song
tumbled forth,
I surrendered
to her secret confession,
dreaming that I
was the object
of her longing.

Drums slowly emerge,
a harp glissando strikes
and violins obscure
the kettle drums
masterfully laid
under this luscious,
dramatic declaration,

“We go on
hurting each other
without ever knowing 
why.”

By the middle of
the second verse,
I am swept away
by her voice
hopeful and vulnerable,

“All your life 
you could love 
only me...”

from here
the record keeps spinning,
imploring its incessant
refrain,

and as the
two minutes, 45 seconds
winds down,
I go to my grave,
my love
for Karen Carpenter
forever unrequited,

and the piquant flavor,
the bittersweet yearning
that animates this
magic piece
of black vinyl,

I will try to emulate
and insert
into virtually
every poem
or song
or story
I will ever come
to write.

[Written for #OpenLinkNight at @dversepoets.com - a poetic wonderland for you!]

The Myth of Geography

Moreno Valley
(literally “Brown Valley”)
was in such need
of rebranding
they actually voted
and renamed
my zip code area
92555 to
“Rancho Belago.”

It’s not fooling anyone.

It’s still Moreno Valley,
and to the outside world
it’s a ghetto of Browns
and Blacks
and poor Whites.

It’s where you live
if you can’t afford
Riverside or Redlands.

I didn't come here
with such prejudices:
my wife has lived
her whole life,
and when she
and the kids
became
my whole life,
I moved here too.

In this hyperconnected world
where statuses update
unceasingly
and Google Earth
can show you a bird’s eye view
of Uzbekistan
in a split second,
the primacy of geography
is a myth.

Surely, no place is better,
no place is worse,
as we all share
the glorious sun,
the dolorous moon.

As I sit on the backyard swing
watching the sunset,
in a house where I make love
to the most beautiful woman
in the world,
and watch my children prosper,
and chuckle at
Magnolia and Mona Lisa
terrier-romping and tumbling
around my feet,

I've no doubt
I’m in the best place
in the world,

inside this lucky skin,
humbly inhabiting

this grateful soul.

[Written for #MeetingTheBar at dversepoets.com, come and share a poem!]

(View from my backyard in Moreno Valley, California, 92555.)

Not Alone at the Bible Study (a haiku)

The time came to pray,
there is no mate for my grasp,
breathe in her spirit.

Why I Probably Won’t Cry at Paige’s Funeral

Tears flowed
in abundance
last December
when I thought
of all the joyfully
purchased and wrapped
Christmas presents
that would go unopened.

Tears flow
when my soul witnesses
true altruism
and selfless love,
unmooring my cynicism
and restoring my faith
in innate human
goodness
for a little while.

Tears rained down
when my father’s
undiagnosed heart disease
made its appearance
and claimed him
only two days after
his own mother died.

Tears gracefully appear
when art
finally captures
and articulates
the formless echo
that signifies truth
and it cannot be denied.

Tears bullied
their way in
when the world
came off its axis
temporarily
in September 2001.

Tears
occasionally override
their self-restraining
autopilot
and I have learned
to surrender to their
temporary sovereignty,

but
when a beautiful
20 year-old woman
whose life promised
so much goodness
and happiness
goes into cardiac arrest
from a potassium deficiency
and never awakens
after a 21 day sleep,

I don’t have tears.

I have only
muted anger,
silent confusion,
and a modest prayer
that God
will guide and comfort
those grieving
through this inexplicable
tragedy.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com - come and share your poems!]