How I Became a Human Being

I cry easily now
and I wonder
“when did this start?”

When did I become
a human being?

As a boy
I was taught to feel
invincible.
I had to learn
to make I on my own.

I didn’t expect anyone
to help me.

I had to believe
I was the master
of my own fate,

a god unto myself.

This was a necessary delusion
because without it
I would’ve froze
and been someone’s
punching bag forever,

but now I’ve grown up
and I see how small
my domain really is
because
in my kingdom,
people still die
hearts are still broken,
women and children still go hungry,
and trying to stop
all the death and sadness
was like trying to hold back
a flood with a broom.

So I figure
mostly
I’ve just had
some lucky breaks

and undeserved grace

when I stopped trying
to be a god
I became a human being

and I haven’t stopped crying since.

The Utility of Secrets

The secret
sits like
a land mine,
waiting for
accidental discovery.

It may never be
activated,
but that gives me
no comfort.

Perhaps
the secret will go
all the way
to my grave,
as, happily,
all the witnesses
will have met
with tragic accidents.

The secret
reminds me
that when I look
in the mirror,
I do not see
a free man,
but rather
an indentured servant
forever paying
interest only
on a debt
only blood can satisfy.

Most days
I forget the secret
is there,
but when things
are running smoothly (too smoothly),
and my heart is light (too light),
and the sun is shining (too bright),

I tempt fate, pondering
what could
possibly
go wrong?

The secret ensures
that I am never
too happy
and never too secure.

It keeps me
necessarily
humble,

and if you knew
my secrets,
you’d know why
I need the lessons
of humility.

[Written for Poets United - come out and play.]

Chicken Today, Feathers Tomorrow (for Grandma Irene)

I heard that song today
and I pictured you
in your floral print muu-muu
in your overstuffed chair
in that stuffy duplex
in San Fernando Valley.

Has your limp healed yet?
Are you finally at peace
and not worried
about your wayward children?

I can still hear your voice,
comforting and cautious
"Chicken today, feathers tomorrow."

Your gently acrid humor
would sure come in handy now.

There was so much
I could've learned from you,
but you died too early
and I became a parent too late

I hope they're playing
Englebert Humperdinck
in Heaven for you.

Immerse Yourself

Don’t catch the butterfly
but listen to it sing.

Don’t take her photograph
but kiss her into delirium.

Play the piano
until you’ve coaxed out
your tenderness
but don’t try to record it.

Take your notebook
and be a servant
to your pen
and never show it
to anyone.

Sigh deeply as you
savor the taste
of coconut milk and curry.

Immerse yourself
in the pulsing, demanding
force of life
but don’t try to capture
any of it.

Life keeps flowing
like a waterfall
smoothing the stones
as waves crash below
with a pure abandon
no artist can exploit.

Marvel at
its incomprehensible pattern
its mystery

because someday
it will all stop.

Everything ends sometime
and when it does
surrender those joys
and embrace
the next mystery.

[Posted for The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads ]

This Perfect Moment (for Anita)

Skip the laundry,
dump the chores.

Come to me!
These open arms
long for you,
ache for you!

This perfect moment
doesn’t come everyday.

So let’s dance,
in this kitchen.
Close your eyes
it’s a ballroom.

It’s not everyday
the radio plays
the Del-Fonics.

[Written for D'Verse poem quadrille challenge ]

We Never Said Goodbye

It’s not goodbye.

Growing up,
we never said
goodbye.

My parents
always said
“be careful.”

They also
never said
"I love you."

It used to
bother me,
until I realized
“be careful”
meant

“I love you and
I don’t want anything
bad to happen
to you,
so be safe and
come back and
see me again,
sit with me,
talk with me,
laugh with me.
Just come back
because I love you.”

So,
I’m not good
at goodbyes.

Be careful.

Perpetually Friday

Downtown Riverside, California, April 29, 2016, 12:45 PST

This is
just like
I dreamed
how being
an adult
would be:

there would be
bright sunlight,
a cool breeze,
I’d have
a nice job in
a clean city,
and it would be
perpetually Friday,
happily
anticipating
a weekend getaway
with my beloved bride.

Just like
this photograph.

So,
then,
why am I stuck
obsessing
over

the unintended
vertical
reflection

found in the
middle third
of this scene?

[For Real Toads Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads ]

Bio

California-born
but Hollywood-fed,
Moskowitz
loves to create.

His defiant, contrary
iconoclasm remains
his preemptive
defense against rejection.

His modesty prevents him
from self-identification
as an artist;
his ego deludes him
into foisting his therapy
onto an unsuspecting world
and calling it art.

He is a married,
Mexican,
post-theistic
Christian
existentialist.

[Written in response to Kelli Simpson's prompt at Words Count with Mama Zen at Real Toads. ]

The Opening

The opening,
the blooming of the rose,
still does not explain
its beauty,
its mystery.

The opening
of the window,
still does not ensure
birds singing
or even fresh air.

The opening
of one’s self in word
still may not help
this lonesome
misunderstanding.

The opening
of myself to you
still does not explain
who I am;
thus, my pseudonym.

[Written in response to the Poets United prompt .]

There Is No Purple in This Poem

There is no purple in this poem,

nor mentions of paisley,

no crying doves.

It wasn't his
fashion sense,

his androgyny,

his apocalyptic

religious beliefs.

No, what soul'd me
on Prince
was the liner credit
on the "Controversy" album
(the first Prince I ever heard):

"Produced, Arranged, Composed and Performed
by Prince."

A true auteur,
who could seemingly
do it all
like Charlie Chaplin,
like Stevie Wonder,
like God.

As time went on
the music got
funkier
and he became
stranger,
branched out
into formless movies,
pastel clothing,
ponderous poetry
CD-ROMs,
almost daring the fans
to stay attached
to his decidedly
unpopular
vision.

(To prove my devotion
I wore a fuchsia silk suit 
when I graduated 
from college,
my version of 
Gangsta Glam.)

It was this belief
in himself,
in his prodigious
iconoclastic abilities,
that inspired me,
a fat
Mexican American
kid
in the Orange County
suburbs

to think
I can make myself
into whatever I want
to be,
just like Prince.

So now,
at 52
I still write my poems,
record my songs,
plan my movies,
and I still wish
I were Prince.

[For the good folks at http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/ ]

Origin Story

I am from
a suburb close enough
to see the fireworks
of the Magic Kingdom
from my backyard
but too poor to visit.

I am from
the middle child cell
and I come out
to soften arguments
and distract people
from their petty scrapes
and I am largely
ignored,
except when I
say something funny,
which is still
my most powerful
form of validation
and my proof
of worth.

I am from
inside a fortress
of books
where I hide
away from
my pragmatic
and prosaic roots
and dream
of alternate endings
to what seems to be
the fate of my life.

I am from
a land of the blind
where my appearance
is secondary
to my song,
and when I sing
I not only fit in,
I transcend.

I am from
a bloodline
of small, scared people
who never ventured
and consequently,
never gained,
but we had carpeting
and never missed
a meal.

I am from
the comfort of
the television
always playing
in the background
as a reminder
there's another world
out there.

A Bad Poem

You are
what you do,
not what you
say.

If you don't
write everyday
how can you say
you're a
writer?

Not everything
you write
will be
a hit.

A bad poem
is better
than no poem,
even it's
shit.

The Power of Life and Death

"Give
Me
My
Gun.

It's
My
Right

And
Who
Are
You
To
Say

That
I
Shouldn't
Have
The
Power
Of
Life
And
Death
Over
You

Because
Weren't
We
All
Made
In
God's
Own
Image?"

Safe

Oh my love,
when will you succumb
to the good fortune
we've been granted?

I don't know
who you think that I become
when you allow doubts to
undermine us.

You must decide
that this world we've made
is more than a dream
and worth banking upon
even with an end
we can't see.

Yes, you've a man
whose adoration is real,
and though he may
be ugly,
his heart is pure gold
and he truly desires
to fulfill
your every desire.

Until you decide
to step out in faith,
entrust your world
In my care,
we will remain
in a bubble,
shallow but safe.

My Soundtrack, 1982-1998

I can't understand
all the things people say.
Am I black or white,
am I straight or gay?

Let's pretend
we're married and
do it all night.

You're gonna have to fight
your own damned war,
'cause we don't wanna fight
no more!

Mommy,
why does everybody
have a bomb?

Darling,
it appears to me
that you could use
a date tonight,
a body that'll
treat you right,
am I qualified?

Maybe
I'm just like my father,
too bold.

Everybody's looking
for the ladder,
Everybody wants salvation
of the soul.

Life can be so nice.

Until the end of time,
I'll be there
for you.

Lovesexy is the one
until my day is done.

I've seen the future
and it works.

Live 4 love.

My name is Prince
and I am funky,
when it comes to funk,
I am a junkie.

Push your way
up to the front and
shake your motherfucking 'do
loose!

Could you be
the most beautiful girl
in the world?

All that glitters
ain't gold.

Everybody's here,
this is the jam of the year.

What if everything
you've been told
turned out to be a lie,
how would you know
the truth?

Welcome 2 the dawn.

Be Careful What You Ask God For

I asked God
to give me an experience
to write about,

one to illustrate
the human condition,
visceral and exciting,
to make my writing
sail through the blank pages.

Be careful what you ask God for.

So when
the hell broke out,
and Lauren left me
for another man,
I asked God for
something
to take away the pain,
and along came Kim,
and with
a giggling acquiescence
without a struggle,
she disrobed,
and climbed upon
the dessert cart,
naked and splay-legged,
and invited me
to partake.

And take I did.

Be careful what you ask God for.

I thought I could
talk my way out of it.

If her husband
ever found out,
I'd just deny it.

(yes,
I know, I know.)

But when he called,
three months later
screaming and blood
furious,
(she told him
I raped her)
telling me he was
going to shoot
my balls off
and he knew where
I lived,

the police told
me to go into hiding
until they could
calm him down
and I could get
a restraining order.

So, as I began
recounting
this sordid tale
I realized,
that I was writing about
the human condition,
visceral and exciting,
I just never guessed
it'd be for
a police report.

Be careful what you ask God for.

Offload

Don't think
just because
we've seen
5,000 sunrises together
that today is
any less exciting
than the first time.

The balmy breeze
on this April night
echoes the tremble
of that first embrace.

My memories are rosy
and I know
I'm only recalling
a few of them.

I don't hold on
to the dark times,
the unavoidable
bruises and scratches
that all great loves
gladly suffer.

No, I just want
today with you,
and the day after that,
and the day after that,
until my memory
is completely full,

and to make room
for new memories,
I will happily
offload
the old memories,
the sad days
before
you came along.

Plumbing Mishap Haiku

Flooded living room,
turn the water off and breathe;
dance with squishy toes.

On Sleeping Again in My Childhood Bed

These rooms are all
smaller
than I remember.

The life,
captured within these
plain but sturdy walls,
was smaller than
I remember too.

Tucking myself in,
feet hanging past the
foot board,
I realize I've outgrown
my modest beginnings,

and I am
simultaneously
proud and sad.

Objectification Lesson

To objectify women,
measure their bodies,
is abject exploitation.

To objectify men,
measure their power,
is male socialization.

Thoughts Elsewhere

Friday afternoon
in the mandated workshop,
I long for her touch.

The Aftermath, August 1994

This loneliness
I wear like
a prayer shawl.

I’d talk to God
but I never
get a response.

What did I expect
anyway,
for the good luck
to last forever?

No,
our wedding waltz
barely lasted
to the end the song,
and when she left
it was without a tear.

She couldn’t even
fake a tear,
but she could fake
a wedding vow.

Now,
I sit in this
rented room
aftermath
wishing she was
missing me,
but I know
better:

she’s going down
on him,
letting him
spew his hot paycheck
all over her face,

and I l know
someday
I’ll see this clearly,
but right now
I can’t,

so I’m going to
eat
at some other man’s
banquet

and wonder
what fresh hell
it will bring.

Eye Contact, Guilt and Shame

When she does not
make eye contact,
I know something’s
wrong.

I know it
in my bones,
like I know
when infection
is creeping inside
waiting for the moment
to strike.

Maybe something I’ve done
has caught up with me,
or an old primal fear
found its way back to her door
like a bad habit,
like an IOU owed
to an impatient loan shark.

There’s no way
to escape
her indictment,
as the shame
and guilt
sear me.

My guilt
and my shame
have been in here forever
and they’ve have no expiration,
so I don’t even try
to sweep them
from my pantry.

But now, she’s not talking
so I’m left in the dark
just guessing
the reason
(if a reason even exists)
why she’s not making
eye contact,

and why it
worries me so.

Bumpersticker

“Be the change
you wish to see in
the world”
says the self-assured
bumper sticker.

When I went
to check the attribution
of this quotation,
the New York Times
declared it
was not even a quote
from Gandhi.

So,
write the poem
only your days
have inhabited.

Sing the song
that threatens to
burst your heart
in ecstatic fantasia.

Make the movie
and give light to
the madness and serenity
of your dreams.

Create what
no one else can,
sign your name,
then go create
some more.

“Be the creation that only you can summon.” – Buddah Moskowitz

The Free Will Sales Pitch (Jesus Never Said This)

“Before you decide,
let me remind you
that after you die
you will either go
to Heaven or to Hell.

Heaven’s great,
because that’s where God is
and it’s always clean,
everyone gets their own mansion,
and you’re never hungry,
and you live forever.

Hell is a place
disconnected from God,
you also get to live forever,
but there fires burn eternally,
and you will suffer
and be tormented
eternally
by Satan and his minions.

So,
those are your choices.

Choose freely.”

Three Songs for the Rain

When the clouds 

are dark like dirty cotton,

and the air

is heavy with moisture,

in my mind I hear 

that tikki-tikki-teek-teek

of the raindrops

and I hear

Tina Turner's voice

"I can't stand the rain

against my window,

bringing back sweet memories."

As the rain gets stronger

and the sheets are

purposeful and unrelenting,

I remember seeing

Prince and The Revolution

in 1985 

and I remember hearing them

from the cheap seats singing

"let the rain come down,

let the rain come down"

Being a 

southern California native,

after an hour

I've had enough,

and I am taken back 

to a Terence Trent D'Arby concert 

in 1988 

when he sang

"rain, rain,

go away, go way,

rain, rain,

come back again 

some other day."

Humble Bumble

When I read
Moses was
the most humble man
in the whole world,
and that he had
God's favor,

I knew I wanted
to be
even more humble
than that.

The sin of
prideful folly
must be
in my DNA.

No Poem Today Haiku

Be honest with me,
did you quietly rejoice
at your good fortune?

What Has Changed

I used to walk
the streets of
the foreign city,
window shopping,
dreaming and
observing,
touching different
cultures,
new media because
it inspired me.

I looked for
strange inspiration,
the latest stimulant
because there was
something in my
soul, wanting.

Now
I walk the streets, 
and it is not
the same.

I no longer have
the same drive.

What has changed?

I have changed.

The streets
are still there,
all the stimulants
still there,
but now I am
missing you.

What happened to me
was you.

I think
I am looking
for inspiration,
but I am
only
missing you.

Probabilities

It's tempting

to wrap yourself up

in statistics,

but if you remember 

that they're only

probabilities,

you won't be 

as surprised.

Some people think

Death comes 

like a royal flush 

or a twenty in the gutter: 

once it comes, 

it'll be awhile 

before it comes again.

On Saturday,

February 27, 1999 

my long-suffering grandma 

Trini, 

took her rightful place 

among the angels.

She was 96 

and we silently figured 

we'd have some time 

before Death would re-appear 

and compel 

another family reunion 

via funeral.

Two days later, 

March 1, 1999 

my father, 

(Trini's son)

who never had 

a bad medical report 

(because he never went 

to the doctor) 

died quickly and quietly 

from an undiagnosed 

clogged artery.

I used to be angry, 

now I'm just amused, 

but I'm rarely ever 

surprised 

anymore.

Ritual and Artifact

Power on
and flip some switches,
open up that envelope
and turn down
that filter.

Hear that
digital buzz and zwerp,
as I dial
the resonance up
and down.

Really listen,
hone in on the vibration,
and let my body feel it.

Groove to
the low frequency oscillator
tripping down the timbre
and let that bass
bubble and wash
over you.

Nee-wruh-ruh-op
and shee-oouhuhooo
sheeeee- wah.

My mouth mimics
the sound wave shape,
my hips swaying
naturally,
like the sagging belly
on Sadie the Cat
as she slips by
to get more food.

I am alive
and connected
via headphones
to the Everlasting Now,
to the Great O(h)m,
to the Alpha and the Omega,
to the divine itself.

This is my religious ritual.
This is my holy artifact.
This is my synthesizer.

I Almost Walked Away

There was a melody,
a sad, plaintive tune
that I followed
all my life,

and it brought me
to the doorstep
of the true love
I thought lived there,

but when the door
opened,
you weren't there
and I thought
I'd made a mistake

and I almost walked away

but I could smell
something warm
simmering
in the kitchen,

and she invited me in
and we sat
on the couch,
disregarding boundaries,

time melted and
years fell away,
and I found myself
17 again,

and she told me
all the ways
I was told
I was wrong
were wrong indeed,

and though
I'd never been
there before,
everything fit
as though it were
custom made for me,

so I stopped searching
for you
when I found her,

and,
if you're still waiting,
sorry,
but I'm off
the market now.

The Fan Letter

Dear Buddha,

First off,
I'm a real big fan
of your writing.

I especially like
how you don't use
words that are too big.

I don't usually read
poetry,
but I can understand
yours,
so I think
it's pretty good. 

I think I know why
you don't put your picture
on your site.

From your poems,
I figure you're pretty
insecure
about your body
and face.

I understand: I'm an
uggo too.

I also like
that your poems
are funny,
especially the ones
about your first marriage

(like the one when
your ex wife asked you
not to kiss her so much
during your
wedding reception!)

I need to
confess something to you:

for the past three months
I've been taking
your love poems
and giving them
to my girlfriend,
telling her that
I wrote them for her.

Guess what?
I've gotten more pussy
with your poems
than I did with Axe body spray,
and that's saying something.

So you'll understand why
I don't publicize your site.

Anyways thanks, bro,
David

The Longing

Those beautiful
mid-century homes
I grew up walking past,
dreaming of
are still there.

My longing to know
how life is
within those walls
still lingers. 

I resist the urge
to peer inside,
enjoying the mystique
and fantasy,

knowing the reality
will never measure up
to a lifetime
of delicious wondering.

I Kill Myself Nightly

I do not count on
being reborn everyday,

so I kill myself nightly,
and collect the days' missteps,
wipe away the unnecessary
ugly sentiments,
the emotional fecal matter
from the bung hole
of my self.

I cherry pick
the two or three
good moments
of my day,
the divine reminders
of charity and grace
and take their snapshot,

and in my evening
prayers,
I place them on the pyre
of impermanence
of regret
and light that holy mess
on fire.

The evil ashes
float to heaven
for forgiveness,
and the near gold
is heated in the hope,
that it will become
purified,

and I take these
few shiny nuggets
and start again
upon awakening.

The time is at hand
for my nightly sacrifice
of self-destruction.

See you in the morning.

The Nineties

There were still
payphones

and you could watch tv
over the air
for free
with a bent coat hanger
for an antenna,

and there were
countless chat lines offering
respite from loneliness
for $3 a minute,

and his name was still
Prince,

and OJ was not guilty
of murder,
but then he was responsible
for Nicole and Ron’s death,

and there were still
bookstores
and record stores
and video stores,

and I was still
young and single
and spent money
like time,
and days
like water,

and everything
I thought was
so fast,
now moves slowly
through my mind
as a lumbering dinosaur,
bathing my memories
in a romantic,
dreamlike patina,

or so it seems
from the vantage point
of this on-demand culture
I find myself
running alongside
just to stay current.

I Pray

It's not my business
where the prayer goes
after it’s released.

Still
I find myself
searching for a place
outside
of my ego
to send
my thanks
and modest petitions.

When the smoke
clears away,
at the end of play
at the end of the day,
I pray,

and take my place
among the strivers,
the jivers,
the connivers,
the late arrivers,
and the stay alivers.

Counter-Terrorism Strategy

[The tv goes click]

“What’s that?

Human madness
running through
the smoke and confusion,
blood and anguish,
screams and cries.

Another attack?
A suicide bomber?
Hm.

They found an
un-detonated belt?
Well,
that’s something new.

It matters
less and less.

I was wondering when
the latest threat
was due.

No,
if they’re trying to scare us,
a random explosion
in an airport
a thousand miles away
won’t do.

Hell, they shot up
a Christmas party
20 miles away
and that barely held our attention
until December 17th.

Sure,
I’m angry and
I’m outraged,
but I won’t let them
see my tears,
my fears.

I cannot.

I watch
from a distance
and keep hidden
these wounds,
refusing to let them see
what  it’s doing to me.

If I let them
kill my soul,
my body will
surely follow.”

If I Could Fly, I'd Find You (for Anita)

The sky is bright
yellow and blue
and if  I could fly
I’d find you,

and we’d glide high
over the freeway,
past all the traffic
in the beach
parking lot,
to find that spot
that’s too far away
for people to walk to,

and I’d be the
richest bird
in all the world,
our basket
full of insect snacks
and sugar water,

and we'd share this
private shoreline,
just you,
my fine feathered
lovebird
and me.

It’d be
the one gift
that everyone
would covet:

time alone,
all alone,
watching
the infinite waves

crash and retreat
crash and retreat,

content to breathe in
the ocean spray,

and you’d still
love me,
even if I were
only a cuckoo.

Are You Really Experienced?

I saw her
in the bookstore
but she didn’t see me.

We went
to junior high school
together
but she fell off
the radar screen.

It was four years later
and I was
a high school graduate.

I knew a thing
or two
and I was going
to the university
next fall.

I won
a national
student journalism award
and gave the commencement address
at my high school graduation.

Most importantly,
I lost 50 pounds
and I started dating
and maybe even
broke a heart or two.

Yes, the world
was my oyster
back in that
summer of 1981.

So,
I stealthily
snuck up
behind her
and said

“Teri?”

She turned around
and smiled
“Hi”
crooking her head
in an inexplicably
cute way.

The conversation flowed
and I knew
she’d say yes,
so I looked
for an open window
to toss my invitation
into

and just as I was
about to ask her out,
she said

“Would you like
to meet
my son?”

As if on cue,
like a perfectly planned
prank,
a brown-headed
preschooler came ambling
around the corner,
holding a book out
to his Mom.

Dumbstruck,
my words stumbled,
I stammered out
a compliment or two,
and made a graceless,
hasty retreat.

Suddenly,
I didn’t feel
as sophisticated
or experienced
anymore,

but on the other hand,
I wasn’t
so embarrassed
that I was still
a virgin.

[For Open Link Night at D'verse Poets at http://dversepoets.com/2016/03/17/openlinknight-168/]

Driving Through the Fog (for Sarah)

All fog
does not come in
on little cat feet,
resting on silent haunches
over dark, picturesque harbors.

Some fog is
unforgiving, maddening,
dangerous and dense.

When driving through
such fog,
slow down.

So much
unintentional damage
can be done
with one wrong reflex,
to one unseen victim,
especially to yourself.

If you can’t witness
the fog
safely and serenely
from a distance,
pull over
and let it pass.

No,
all fog does not
come in
on little cat feet.

Sometimes
it masquerades
as anger
or depression
or relentless pain.

Don’t let it
drive you
into the side
of a mountain.

Roar/Shock

Serious business,
this Christianity.

Willingly,
I traded
my skepticism
for the Holy Trinity,
and gambled
that I'd find
something that
I could not find
any
other
way.

I was new,
hungry 
to find my answer,
my place
in this family.

Flash forward
nine years:

I read the entire bible
(took seven years),
countless tracts,
books, blogs
trying to
untie the mystery.

The mystery
still exists, but
this I believe:

God is neither
frightening
nor boring
nor grim.

God is a metaphor,
(or perhaps an
extended allegory),
not intended for
literal interpretation,
pointing the way
to something,
someplace
wordless and inspiring.

Like the movie
"Eraserhead",
or a Jackson Pollack
action painting,
or any breathtaking art,
God is a Rorschach test,

a outward projection
of our inner selves:

So, then
my God must be
beautiful,
funky,
explosive,
funny,
creative,
loving,
forgiving
and alive.

Nines

I look for
nines
everywhere.

My birth month,
my birth date
a multiple thereof,
my year in the century,
yet another multiple
of nine.

The highest digit
to stand on its own.

Perfect multiples
18, 1+8;
27, 2+7,
36, 3+6,
you get it.

Even 9 times 564,821=5,083,389,
which breaks down to
5+0+8+3+3+8+9=36
36 becomes 3+6,
it's damned near magic.

Just before
the odometer
clicks over
into a milestone,
the nine holds on
for just
one
more
moment.

The whole nine yards.
Picking up
a nine-pin spare.
Lennon's #9 Dream.

Thesis, antithesis, synthesis
(count the syllables).

Is there any number
better than nine?

Nein!

[Written for http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2016/03/kerry-says-lets-count-on-our-fingers.html ]

Holy Communion

Everywhere I look
I see the flock
lost in their prayers:

young and old
rich and poor
Jew and Gentile.

Each in holy communion
huddled around
their electronic beads,
their mutant rosaries.

Speaking in tongues
to unseen companions,

each believer
in holy solitude
connected
to something greater
than themselves.

In gratitude
they offer
the abstract sacrifice
of their time.

At last,
the world is of one accord.

Bridging the gap
between human loneliness
and cosmic emptiness
is this
God With a Hundred Names:

Verizon.
AT&T.
T-Mobile.
Sprint.

[Posted for http://dversepoets.com/2016/03/03/open-link-night-167/ ]

On the Slick, Black Rock at Monterey Haibun (May 2002)

In the gray fog of dawn, on the rocks at Monterey, I thought of the woman I left, with all the blood and messy entanglements of heartbreak. I also thought about the woman with whom I’d recently fallen in love.  When this newly-found romance tried to bloom, pangs of guilt kept my joy confined. Lost in this misty, damp morning, the fog enveloped me, forgave me, encouraged me. Then and there, on the slick black rock, I decided to start a new chapter, the best chapter, of my life.

The view through the bars
might appear discouraging;
it was never locked.

Reality TV Emotional Epiphanies, Explained

It's all
in the
editing.

The Hypochondriac Speaks

How I hate to visit
Urgent Care,
as unseen germs float
in virulent air,
and nothing I can do
will quell my despair,
just find a safe spot
and try not to stare.

I know you can't control it,
but try covering your sneeze.
By the look of your symptoms,
no one wants your disease.
On my left, he's burning up
On my right, she's in the freeze.
Hurry, doctor, hurry,
I'm feeling weaker by degrees.

My chest is feeling tighter,
Please make this wait more fast.
Finally, they called my name,
Thank God, some care, at last!
Check my vitals, ask a few things,
It's worse than thought, alas!
What I thought was a myocardial infarction,
turned out to be only gas.

Polished Dancing Shoes

Still yourself
until you feel
the vibration.

Sharpen your senses
until you can hear
the thrumming,
pulsing life
in every living
being.

Listen to the world
turning on
its weary, aged axis
and attune your breathing
appropriately.

It may feel like
a night lasting a year,
but it is only
darkness,

and just when
you’ve adjusted
to it,
a flash will blind you
for a moment,

and out of the glare
a meadow will bloom,
the ocean will sing,
and your heart will know
the music
of the spheres,

this planet
whirling in
its blue-black space,
within a larger galaxy,
twirling within
this infinite cosmos,

and when that happens
you’ll be ready
to put those
polished dancing shoes
to good use.

[Inspired by Belinda's post at http://busymindthinking.com .]

Finding 1974

Climbing

over the mountain

of memories,

it looks more like

the city dump,

everything tossed

about,

no rhyme,

no reason,

no hope

of ever

finding 1974

and the

innocent skin,

the naive eyes

I once possessed

before the erections,

insecurities,

and self-abnegation

took me hostage

for the next

few decades

and refused

to let go.

One Week Shy of 26 Years

I am the sexy line of
Long Island Ice Teas
and the salacious,
intoxicated solicitations
that never happened.

I am the morning
Bloody Mary
with raw egg and Tabasco
as a cure for the hangover
that never came.

I am the frosty can of
ice cold beer
waiting in the 90 degree
afternoon heat
that I never opened.

I am the nondescript
bargain whiskey
on self-pitying lonely
and moonless nights
that never left the bottle.

I am
one week shy of
26 years of sobriety,
but on days
like today,
I want her so badly
that I can only
define who I am
but what
I don’t drink.

Raincloud Haibun

She tried to process what he'd just said, but all she kept thinking was "it's not good having a 4 o'clock meeting on a Friday afternoon with your boss."  Breaking her reverie, she looked up and heard him say "I have to flatten the organizational tree in higher administration." What the hell does that mean?He proudly championed his commitment to diversity, but here he was telling here that in the upcoming reorg, there was no room for a woman of color who has been with the organization 28 years.  He spoke some more, but her shock left her temporarily numb and mentally elsewhere. Gathering her thoughts and her dignity, she waited for a break in his monologue, and said "I think we're done here," and walked back to her office.

Rain can fall or storm,
ultimately, it brings growth;
the clouds never stay.





[First #haibun attempt, photo by BusyMindThinking (many thanks as it inspired this writing).

Nightmare (Twelve Problems)

I awaken
in darkness
alone in my bed
(problem #1),
and I hear someone,
something,
slamming against
the front door
(problem #2).

The alarm wails
(problem #3)
and before
I can panic,
the familiar
beep-beep-beep-beep
of the code
is entered
which quells
the alarm
(problem #4).

I call out
"who is it?"
and there is
no response
(problem #5)
save for the sound
of breathing
and the opening
and closing
of kitchen drawers
(problem #6).

I attempt
"Who's there?"
but my voice
suddenly strained,
is whisper quiet,
(problem #7),
and I hear
the familiar squeak
of the knife drawer
(problem #8).

I try to kick off
the blankets,
but I'm inexplicably,
inextricably,
tucked in
(problem #9),
as heavy footsteps
plod up the stairs
to my room
(problem #10).

In the moonlight
I see the glint
of the blade
in the hand
of the approaching intruder
(problem #11),
as my body,
frozen in fear,
eyes closed hard,
awaits the plunge
(problem #12).

The Un-Commented Upon Post

Inspiration wafted by
and grabbed imagination
by the collar
and they wrestled
and rode each other
naked and sweaty
until conception
was complete.

During gestation,
the second draft
brought needed
revisions
until finally,
this child,
their beautiful offspring
was ready.

Press “Publish”
and wait.

Every baby
in this nursery appears,
more or less,
the same,
and a hundred more
were born
since you started
reading this.

What did you expect?
It’s just a blog post.

It’s not like
you cured cancer.

[Written for http://dversepoets.com/2016/01/28/image-ine-dverse-meeting-the-bar/, inspired by your Hostess, Victoria C. Slotto]

The Night Watchmen

The night watchmen
see it all.

They slip into midnight,
their natural hue,
and witness the hunger,
the desperation
of those who live
and scurry by night,
but don’t do
or say anything about it.

Their slick black
trench coats
make each one
indistinguishable
from the other.

Last night,
they witnessed
a break-in
at the printers,
a break-up
after the bar closed,
and a breakout
from the county prison.

They betray no one,
they have no code.

In the dawn
they gather
in their murder,
but there is
no conspiracy,

each crow
searching the morning’s
detritus,
stray fast food wrappers,
uncovered garbage cans,
just looking for
something to eat.

The Unacceptable Weirdos

Give me
the unacceptable weirdos,
those artists
sweaty, passionate
and forever
misunderstood.

I don't believe artists
who look like
movie stars
or fashion models,
because they always had
other options.

An artist
so ugly that
all they have
is their talent,
their lifetime isolation,
and their pulsating pain;
I find
in these outcasts,
succor
and understanding.

This is the story
I tell myself:
I'm not a pretty boy.
I'm an ugly,
unacceptable weirdo,
so therefore,
I must be talented.

Anyone else
see the flaw
in my logic?

Lifetime Movie Haiku

Perfect male misanthropes,
doe-eyed, speaking mannequins;
I can't look away.

Room Service Banana Split Sundae (for Anita)

The only way
to improve upon
a room-service delivered
banana split sundae
is to slowly lick it off
the naked backside
of a freshly
blooming
paramour
in a furtive,
anonymous hotel room
in a city
far, far away.

[Written for http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2016/01/poets-united-midweek-motif-food.html ]

Little Napoleon

Little Napoleon
ruled his world,
with an iron appendage
taking whoever he wanted,
whenever he wanted.

Although a stump
of a man,
a troll with bad breath,
a lazy eye
and a crooked nose
with oversized
nostrils,
word got around
that he was blessed,
gifted, as it were,
and the women swore
the rumors were
true.

For years,
it was an endless,
breathless
orgy of sweaty,
fleshy excitement
with an ever changing retinue
of hungry femininity,
who wanted nothing
to do with him
once they collected
as many orgasms
as they could carry.

Little Napoleon
didn’t care.

He’d rather read a book
than talk to 99 percent
of the population anyway,
but still,
there were some cravings
that a book would never satisfy,
like
who was staring back at him
in the motel bathroom mirror?

The end crept in,
covertly,
manifesting itself
in ever diminishing
performances,
softer and softer,
gentle like his
grandmother’s
skin.

In desperation,
he tried pills,
shots,
prosthetics,
even resorting
to cognitive-behavioral therapy.

Though he was found
in a most undignified
position,

hanging from a shower rod,
bathrobe sash around his neck,
extension cord wrapped tightly
around his engorged
junk,

he would’ve been
mighty proud of this
erection.

De-Christmasing

Before the
new year arrives,
I de-Christmas
the house.

Fold the festive linen,

exile those ceramic
snowman to their
cardboard Siberia
in the garage,

fade out all those
wall to wall
yule tunes.

The lights,
the music,
the handmade ornaments
from the children,
these things
stay the same
year to year.

We change.

I change.

As I re-seal
the yellowed boxes,
I relive
the blur of memories
attached to each
thing,
before I store it
away
with a blessing
and a wish:

"see you next year,
God willing."

One year,
I won't be so lucky,
and these things
will outlast me,

and I hope
I am part
of someone else's
Christmas memories,

remembered,
at least,
for a season.

New Year's Resolution (for Sarah)

Just on the other side
of the dawn
a new year waits.

It is
merely potential,
now,

waiting for something
or someone
to set it into motion.

Be that activity!
Be that energy!
Be that spark that starts
who you are to be!

It might take
a long time
to find your light,

but when you do,

nurture it,
feed it,
and then
set it on fire!

The world is waiting
for you.

It is incomplete
without you;
the day is incomplete
without you.

Bring who you are
to the party
that starts right now
and never ends.

I Believe (My Testimony)

Nothing will prepare us for
that angel waiting at our final door
who'll beckon us to come explore
an afterlife we can't ignore.
Unlike the view we've learned before 
no flames are coming through the floor
and there isn't torture, fear or gore
only love everlasting and nothing more.

So listen now, as the truth I tell,
I believe there is no everlasting hell.

Your life unlived, full of regret,
you've dug your grave with a pile of debt,
as eternal challenges go unmet
and childhood dreams you must forget,
but please don't worry or even fret
this rollercoaster ain't over yet,
there's still time to change and get
all that cannot be lost on a bet.

So before this situation worsens,
I believe God will save every person.

Immerse yourself in sacred pages
decode prophecies of ancient sages
but literal interpretations so outrageous
can lead to justifiable rages.
Don't surrender logic in subtle stages
or let fear of death become contagious,
ask the hard questions, be courageous
and let God free you from any cages.

It doesn't matter how it is said or done
I believe, the Lord, our God, is One.

Cherry pick what you believe
and earthy praise you might receive,
a pious halo you might achieve,
but you'll be the only one deceived.
I've been called worse than naive
but I've nothing heretical up my sleeve,
for my Savior born on Christmas Eve
loves us more than we can conceive:

In His family I am your brother,
so Love the Lord, our God 
and love one another.

[Posted for Real Toads' Tuesday Platform; http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2015/12/the-tuesday-platform_22.html - Happy Holidays, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Kwanzaa, Happy New Year y Feliz Navidad, mis amigos!  Dont drink and drive! Don't text and drive! Love, Moskowitz the Humble]

The Lady Who Never Says No

The Lady Who Never Says No
whispers that no one will
ever know.

She's all dressed up
for the holidays
like a call-girl,
wearing her best
skin-tight
electro-amphetamine
frosting.

She knows how
to make that sound
with her perfectly
lipsticked
mouth
that makes even the
most innocent utterance
sound slutty
and tempting.

She's giving me that
"Take Me into
That Darkened Corner
and Do Whatever
You Want" look

and she's right
no one will ever know,

but I know me.

And one time
will tumble into 20,
then into a hundred,

and we'll go at it
cheap and angry
in my car
in the far end of
the Wal-Mart parking lot,

and then I'll be
sucking down mouthwash
before coming home,

and I probably
will only stop
when the red and blue lights
stop me,
and I lose my license
for a year.

Then,
everyone will know.

Fuck,
just keep on walking.

For Christ's sake,
it's just one aisle in the grocery store.

After 26 years,
ain't you got over her yet?

Size Doesn't Matter

“Listen, brother,

you ain’t missing

anything.

Bigger women

got bigger everything,

and that ain’t always

good,

if you know what I mean.

Wear your size

like the badge of honor

that it is.

Besides,

there's always a few

who’ll do us

because

of our size.

That’s when you

show them

what a real freak is."

[For http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2015/12/words-count-with-mama-zen.html  ]

Andy Warhol's Quote, with an NRA Rewrite

In the future
everyone will know
someone caught
in a mass shooting,

but the wound
won't be forgotten
after 15 minutes.

So, Wayne LaPierre,
where the fuck
is that Good Man
With A Gun?

Like Magic (for Anita)

Like magic
the sun went down
and when it came back up,
the world was changed.

Like magic
he went from affluent bachelor
to husband-stepfather
with the utterance
of a few words.

Like magic
thirteen years whiz by,
faster than memory
can capture.

Life is sweeter
and richer than ever imagined,
and as I stand in the middle
of all this wondrous,
miraculous happenstance,

I know it wasn't
accomplished
by magic,

for there is no secret
to reveal,

only love.

Thankfulness, a list from Moskowitz

Dear Colorful Ones:

Smarty Fireblossom
Mama Super Zen
Angie Inspired
Shadorma Girl Paula W
Difficult Degreed Amy Jo
In The Corner of My Eye Mary
Brudberg, wherever he is
Di Domino
Kimolisa
De Whimsy Gizmo
Sue the Laundry Goddess
Candy Bug
Clairey Love
Writing Outta the Mary Bachs
and Joanna the Tenth Muse,

it's easy to feel
invisible
in this virtual world.

Thanks for seeing me,
reading me,
writing me back.

Thanks seems so small
when your words feel so big,
and on many days
are the best part of being me.

So,
anyways,
thanks one and all.

I hope you know
how much your reflection
means to me.

Amen and
onward.

Vanity

With a fierce determination,
these architects plan
and sculpt
and build
their bodies
into monuments
of self-discipline
and sheer will power.

They are temples
worthy of awe
and admiration,
but some display
their weakness
as peacock feathers.

Those who graffiti
their bodies
until they've no more
skin left uninked,
display the worst
kind of weakness:

vanity.

Today's High: 81

Rust in the trees,
turkey shopping
in short pants,
Thanksgiving
In Moreno Valley.

Brown Privilege

I can arrange
to be around people
of my own race
most of the time,
whether I
want it or not.

I can avoid spending time
with people whom I was trained
to mistrust,
mostly because
I’m unwelcome there.

I can go shopping alone
most of the time
at la carniceria,
la panaderia,
or any of the price-point,
mini-mall variety stores
pretty well assured
I won’t be followed
or harassed.

I can turn on the tv
or read the front page
of the newspaper,
and see people
of my race widely represented,
mostly in stories about
illegal immigration,
narco-trafficking,
and quinceaneras .

I can be pretty sure
of having my voice heard
in a group where
I am the only member
of my race,
as long as I am
amusing and
non-threatening.

I can do well
in a challenging situation
without being called
a credit to my race,
although I have been called
“one of the good ones.”

I can worry about racism
perpetrated against
white people
without being seen
as self-interested or
self-seeking.

I can take a job
that I am overqualified for
with an affirmative action
employer without
my co-workers suspecting
I got the job
because of my race.

I can be late to a meeting
of MECHA
or La Raza
without my lateness
reflecting on my race.

I will feel
welcomed and “normal”
in the usual walks of public life,
institutional and social,
provided I know my place
and stay there.

Naked Body Insight

Self-delusion
is self-defeating:

there's no such thing
as secret eating.

The Queen of QVC

The parcels arrive daily,
like seaweed and shells
from the tide.

She keeps calling,
buying,
collecting,
gifting and re-gifting.

She’s hates if someone
calls her a hoarder,
and can’t understand
why she was prescribed
an antidepressant.

When I visit
there’s no place to sit,
and it resembles less
the home I grew up in
and more a packaging
and shipping depot.

In a rare moment
of lucidity and candor,
she confessed
she’s trying to find the
perfect gift
to give so people
would like her.

Digging further,
she knows
she’s trying to find
the perfect gift,
and I ask her
what’s the one thing
she wants.

I already know
the answer,
and she sobs
and I just sit there
unable to do
anything about
my father’s death.

Micropoetry Microaggression (a haiku)

Micropoetry:
I'm still outside, looking in:
microaggression.

The Only Golden Time

I play these records
until the grooves
are etched deep
in my soul.

They remind me
of growing up,
when Christmas was
the only golden time,
the only magic time
of the year.

These days,
I often see my parents,
and my heart aches
because in my memory
they are together,
not separated
by an early passing.

"...through the years
we all will be together, 
if the fates allow..."

These days,
we have our own
private tradition,
and I live to fulfill it
every Christmas Eve,
and I look forward to it
because it is
the single best
moment of the year.

Everything after that
is just a
thankful exhale.

Allen Toussaint (1938-2015)

Dipped in elegance,
funky grace from your left hand,
infinite encore.

The Weight (for Sarah)

When The Weight returns
just nod,
but don't try
to make friends.

He doesn't hate you,
but he sure ain't your friend,
and he especially loves
kicking down
your lovingly built
sand castles,
while sitting on your chest
making breaking difficult.

No one knows why
The Weight
chooses who it chooses,
but it's clear
it's tragically random.

I'll try to distract you
from it,
and even though
I'll probably fail
miserably,
I'm here,
and I love you,

and as best as we can,
we'll get through this
together,

eyes forward,
waiting out
The Weight.

Squint

Don't get
too comfortable
because everything
changes
all the time.

Everyday has
its own problems,
so don't feel like
you must
solve them all
upon awakening.

Don't forget about
the sweetness
In the breeze,
the music
in the flowers,
the kindness
In the small animals.

Hope is always
hiding in plain sight.

Just squint,
And you'll see it.

Which One?

If I tell someone
"I believe in God,"

and they reply
"Which one?"

then I know
if I am talking with

someone holy
or merely
religious.

The Strongest Fragile Person

Her injury didn’t happen
on a battlefield,
but rather in an unsecured,
off-site Army barracks,
with a poorly locking door
that she reported
immediately upon notice.

They did nothing.

She would have to replay
the memory of
her rape at knifepoint
everyday for a year
(that’s how it felt),
until the matter was
closed.

She wasn’t offered
psychological counseling
at the time;
it was 1968.

She quickly married,
and her husband’s only advice
was to try and forget it.

When I met her in 1994,
she was the strongest fragile person
I ever met.

Eventually,
she received treatment for
her PTSD,
and a partial medical disability
from the Veteran’s Administration.

That assault
cost her so many things,
including our love,
and Teresa,
I’m sorry
I couldn’t help more.

When you can’t see
the injury,
it’s hard to know
how deep is the wound.

Kiss Me

Kiss me
like a fall leaf kisses the earth
like the sea strokes the sand
like a misty November moon.

Kiss me
like a quiet cup of coffee
like a poem you’d forgotten
like an Eric Clapton solo.

Kiss me
like a rose pressed in a yearbook
like Thai tom yum soup
like an eternal haunting melody.

Kiss me
like its déjà vu
in the emergency room
before we jump.

Kiss me
before I drift to slumber
like the first time
like it’s the last time.

Thankfully

I wish I knew
what brings her
rotting, pathetic soul
to my door.

She is sick, ravaged
and promises nothing
good.

She is a bony hag,
splotched skin,
mottled hair,
decaying smile
offering me
a blow job
for a hit.

Still, in the right light
or a bored moment,
I recall

her empty company.
insincere embrace,
loving facade.

I hear
her voice,
a coo stifling
mocking
laughter,

and,
thankfully,
I close
the door on her.

How I Became a Racist in 1973

Imagine my confusion
when my fourth-grade teacher
kept correcting the way I
pronounced my cousin’s name.

Mr. Brown (ironically named)
confidently proclaimed:
“Roza Linh-deh”
and I countered with
“Rosa Leen-dah,”
which is how I heard it
my entire life.

We did this two-step
for about a minute
until I realized
he was getting mad,
and I didn’t want
to cause trouble
because my Mexican father
would have no problem
belt-whipping me
if he found out I disobeyed
the teacher.

I pretended to struggle,
pronouncing her name
in his blanched,
sterile way,

and then finally
it came, stumbling out
“Roza Linh-deh,”
and I faked smiled
as though I were proud
to have mastered
this deficiency.

He smiled,
genuinely oblivious
to my ruse.

It was one
of the few lessons
I remember from
grammar school.

Pat's Worst Season

November through March
Is Pat's worst season.

It's nothing but anniversaries
and holidays
and commemorations
of days passed,
days before her mate,
my father,
died.

When the hurt
is this big
there is nothing
bigger
that will take away
the pain.

So I went smaller,
and brought her Trini,
the cast off I found
in the Jack in the Box
parking lot.

Trini can't take away
the pain,
carry on a conversation,
or even watch tv,

but Trini can love
and be loved,
and can be embraced
if needed, when crying,

and I know
she carries
something divine
in her,
and I trust that will
find its way
and comfort the wounds
in my mother's heart.

Sleep, A Plea

Sleep,
wrap yourself up
in the sweet narcosis
of letting go.

When you awaken
I’ll be right here
and we’ll pick those apples,
paint the kitchen,
and do all the other things
we never have the time
to finish
because we’re too tired.

Just sleep now
and everything will seem better:
every worry, diminished,
every sadness, lightened.

Sleep is just
what we need,
so don’t let me wake you
as I slip in at your side
and take your hand
and follow you
into dreamland.

An Old-Fashioned Judas Day

"Remember, people,
it’s not about
who has the fanciest
Betrayal Cakes
or whose Lights of Regret
flash on and off
to the updated versions
of the traditional
hate-spew carols.

The shops may start
hanging effigies
earlier and earlier
each year,
but neither are they
the reason
for the
Judas season.

And it’s certainly
not about which kids
get the latest, flashiest
Judas Day toys.

No, we must remember
those who sacrificed
themselves
so that we survivors
would band together
in hate
against a common enemy.

Remember
Lord Benedict Arnold,
Saints Julius and Ethel Rosenberg,
and of course
Mohammed Atta and the
18 other al-Qaeda martyrs,
who gave of themselves
so that we could have
glorious unification
in their self-destructive
aftermath.

This year,
let’s try to remember
what Judas Day
is really about."

[Written for Real Toads Out of Standard prompts at http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2015/11/out-of-standard-remember-remember.html .  Thanks, Isadore.]

Tranquility

Tranquility
is the moment just born
and the moment just died
and the understanding
that these are the same
moment.

Tranquility
is the breath drawn in
and the breathe sailing out
and the knowledge
that they are
the same breath.

Tranquility
is remembering
there is no You,
no Me,
no Other,
but rather,
there is one
continuous
existence,
infinite and forgiving,
and once
this is known,
all that remains
left to do
is smile.

[Written for Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Tranquility,  http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2015/11/poets-united-midweek-motif-tranquility.html ]

United/Untied

We are united by blood,
untied by skin.

We are united by country,
untied by party.

We are united in Christ,
untied by denomination.

We are united in wedlock,
untied by death.

We are united in cooperation,
united in competition.

We are united by attraction,
untied by distraction.

We are united in each other's eyes,
we are untied looking past each other.

We are united at good luck
We are untied by bad breaks.

Surrender

Surrender
to the rhythm
of your beating heart.

Do not do.
Do not act.
Do not react.

Just be,
and surrender
to whatever
fate or God or luck
may bring you.

Our misery is caused
by fighting that which is
bigger than all our
wishes and dreams,

so
stop fighting.

Surrender
to the sweetness of sunrise,

to the soothing random song
of the birds outside,

to the warmth of the sun,

because you
didn’t cause these,

because they are
what you need.

March 2, 1999

I slept soundly,
head sunk into
a cool, feathered pillow.

The morning sun,
soft and bright
gently roused me,
bestowing upon me
the sweet blessing
of disorientation.

Nothing stuck in my mind,
I just enjoyed the warmth
and softness of my father's bed,
not remembering why
I was there.

In an instance,
I remembered,
and it obliterated my peace,
and nothing was ever
the same.

So, I got up,
summoning all my strength
and praying with every exhale,

the morning after
my father died
from a heart attack.

Ofrenda (A Dia de los Muertos Offering)

Were I “that kind of Mexican”

I’d make an authentic

ofrenda,

instead of this:

por mis abuelos,

for Trini

who always had hugs and

warmth in her smoker’s rattle voice,

y Juan

and his ever present stubble which

scraped my face with each embrace,

y Irene

whose caustic humor

belied a broken life and body.

Then there are mis tios:

Rudy the bear,

Ray the quiet genius,

Fernie the garage philosopher,

Eddie the passionate spark,

Kiki the gentle soul,

Carmen the humble and strong,

y Nancy the loud, proud eagle.

Then, there are my cousins,

Celia and Johnny,

both taken too damned soon.

Finally,

mi Pop,

Daniel (pronounced Dan-Yell),

called Copi,

short for “el Capitan”

who gave me everything he could.

I send my prayers

to God

in thankfulness,

in wonder,

and I pray

for each of you

to send me

what I need

from wherever you are

now.

The Things I Love the Most Are Not Things (for Anita)

You don’t need to
write me a poem,
or pen me a song,
or bring me a fist full
of fresh picked daisies.

A mountain of possessions
will not persuade me,
nor will a watertight argument
convince me to your side.

The things I love the most
are not things,

so bring me your passion,
long for me in your breast,
swaddle me in gold compassion.

Your joyful laughter,
your melody
sweet and true,
is the dream
from which
I never hope
to awaken.

Written in response:

http://dversepoets.com/2015/10/27/im-going-to-miss-you-when-youre-gone/

The Kissing Contest

The theme of
her 8th grade
boy-girl birthday party
was “Tonight’s the Night”
by Rod Stewart.

Barely teenage couples
slow-danced and
laughed in the
nervous darkness.

Then came the
hotly anticipated,
much whispered about
“who could kiss
the longest?” contest,
a gauntlet
presumably intended
to discern some kind of
bravado and boldness
for its participants.

Despite my overweight
bookworm status,
I knew I could win this,
and I was matched up with
Debbie,
the only other Mexican invited.

The timer started
and the competing couples
all lunged in:

the others catcalled, hooted,
vicariously enjoying the
implied bravery
of this all,
but,
it was just an act,
there was no passion –
just lip-to-lip suction.

Like most guys,
I learned how to
disassociate my feelings
from my body
in kindergarten,
when boys are taught
to ignore their boundaries
of privacy
and learn to urinate
standing next to
some random 5 year old
in an accompanying stall.

Compared to that,
kissing a girl
was a piece of cake,
a party game
to be won,
and we did,

and I still have
the prize:
a 45 single
of Peter Frampton’s
“Do You Feel
Like We Do?”

Imprisoned

Even in your
unrelenting, oppressive darkness,
we see you
because your light still shines,
your spark still dances.

Imprisoned
as you are,
we keep writing letters
to the warden,
and searching
for the key
to release you.

The next time
you go over the wall,
we’ll go to the library,
sing all the verses of ”American Pie”
when it comes on the radio,
and practice driving in reverse
so you can get
your license.

Mija,
the sun is always shining
somewhere on this planet,
the trick is
putting ourselves
where it is.

Golgotha 5-1479

After meeting with
his press agent,
campaign strategist,
personal adviser
and astrologist,
Pilate thought
creating a martyr
would probably
come back to bite him
in the ass
in the long run.

There was something
about the demeanor
of the accused.
He was too cool,
too controlled
and it made him
rethink his initial
assessment.

"This Jesus probably
had some kind of trick
up his sleeve,
like that
cockamamie
loaves and fishes schtick,
and maybe I should
find a way
to bring Jesus
into the Roman fold.

Besides,
don't I always say
“keep your friends close,
and your enemies
closer?”"

He summoned
his Chief of Staff
to put in a call
to Mount Golgotha
to stop the execution.

As the rotary phone dial
slowly zuzzed and whirred

each

of

the

seven

digits,

one of his lackeys
sauntered in,
sucking on a lamb-pop,
causally announcing
that Jesus had just died.

With that,
Pilate hung up the phone
and stared out
at the desert,
vast and unforgiving,

wondering at
the array of
the ramifications
now before him.

[For Fireblossom's Friday Challenge - here's the linkarino 

http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2015/10/fireblossom-friday-beechwood-4-5789.html .]

The Rivulets of Desire

These wet
and slippery
tongues caress one
another,
as lovers share
the same
hot breath.

A niggling,
ticklish
drop of sweat,
waterslides
down the small
of her back,

and joins the droplets,
the rivulets of desire,

the slick anatomy
finding and
reuniting with
one another,
resulting in
the grandest,
and most sumptuous
mystery of all:

how can so much
moisture
cause so much fire?

Even She Deserved Her Dignity

There were tales about her,
rumors and gossip:
she doted on the
decrepit star,
plied him with compliments
and sexual pleasure,
orchestrated his return
to public life and relevancy
as his days waned.

A friend of mine
who also liked
Hollywood’s dark side,
worked in a mental hospital
in Norwalk, California.

Once night she smuggled
contraband out of the hospital
she knew I would appreciate.

I looked at the photo ID
and I confirmed:
yes, that was her.

She gave me the card,
knowing I’d appreciate
it’s macabre and unique value.

I looked at her face:
crone’s wild hair,
wide blue eyes,
wrinkly
weather-beaten skin,
and wondered
about each ignoble step
that led her to that place.

I stashed the card
away.

Through the years,
I learned when the star
died,
she was kicked out of the house
where his children decided
she had milked his fortune
for too long.

Without an income
or an address,
she descended into a world
from which she never
returned.

I don’t know
if she really
was his savior,
his paramour,
his twisted puppeteer,
and probably
never will.

Years later,
I found the card
I’d stashed away,
with the shallow hope
I could maybe sell it
to an even more callous
and selfish freak
than I.

But I threw it away.

I no longer
wanted the proof,
the indictment,
of her insanity,
her weakness.

Whoever she was,
she was a daughter,
maybe a sister,
maybe even
a mother,
and even she deserved
her dignity,
her privacy,

even if the rest
of the world
thought she was
just a starfucker.

The Mutant Messiah Speaks

“I hate that it’s come to this,
but this world just doesn’t unite
voluntarily.

We need tragedy.
We need chaos.
We need an attack.

Only then is the world
unified,
set in the same direction.

Only then is there
cooperation,
brotherhood,
a shared recognition
of life’s preciousness.

A plane flying into a skyscraper.
A twisted warrior in a kindergarten class.
Unidentified white powder in an envelope.

These are the things
that unite us.

Fear binds us
and perhaps
in our vulnerability,
we will learn trust,
and find love.

If you’re no longer
afraid of God,
then be afraid of me:
I’ve strapped on my explosives
said my prayers,
and am coming for you.

I am not trying to be
some mutant messiah,
but please remember,

I am
sacrificing my life
for you."

My Review of The Holy Bible

It took
seven and a half years,
a chapter a day,
five days a week,
but I finally finished
reading the Bible.

My review:

keep most of the
red letters
where Jesus spoke,

interpret those
red letters
with the same
breadth and imagination
as an avant garde
filmmaker,

red-line everything else,
except Proverbs,
Ecclesiastes,
and James.

Ignore the Book of Revelation.