Every Year at the End of August

Every year
at the end of August,
I try to remember
what life was like
in those weeks
before
that September 11.

I search newspaper archives
for what was happening,
listen to the music
of the day,
I reconstruct
my own recollection,
trying to understand
where we were,
where I was,
to somehow
quantify,
to measure
the effect,
from then
to now.

Every year,
I try but
ultimately decide
it’s pointless,
because no matter
how much my mind
can understand
such historical
artifacts,

my heart,
my soul
only knows the horror,
the division
of life
into segments of
“before 9/11”and
“after 9/11”.

The bumper sticker says
“Never Forget,”
as if I had
a choice in the matter.

[Alicia Keys, from "America: A Tribute to Heroes" 2001]

Welcomed Silence

The saving grace
of the funeral service
is rather than
the awkward volley
of stilted talk
with distant relatives,
it is perfectly
acceptable
to sit silently,
and offer
a supportive smile.

In this rare,
welcomed silence,
it becomes
profoundly clear
there are
no words big enough,
no sentiment tender enough,

to explain
what has been done
to my 49 year old cousin,
Johnny.

Posted for Poets United .

ASMR (Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response)

Chasing that feeling,
that giddy calm
ticklish sensation.

It is something
in the feminine voice,
and it cannot be
demanded.

Take me wherever
you can,
your vibrating
vocal cords
and my submissive
aural surrender.

I cannot prove it,
but I know
it exists.

Feed the Desire

Who are you
waiting for,
by the windowsill
looking up, longing
at that indifferent
moon?

Your thoughts are
dancing in imaginary ballrooms,
lounging in
candlelit hotel rooms,
waiting to slip
in between rented
silk sheets.

The beginning and middle
are always exciting,
but somewhere between
the middle and the end,
the magic vanishes
leaving you with
the moment
of realized sadness,
the emptiness
and thus,
the search begins
again.

Feed the desire
but you'll never satisfy it,
and if you can
it's better to leave it
somewhere off
in the distance,

where the perfume
never stales,
the bottle never empties
and the dream
never awakens.

Commencement (for Sarah)

I’m more thankful
than articulate:

for every doctor
who looked at her
and helped her through
cerebral palsy,
visual spatial deficits,
even the quacks
who made the true healers
shine brighter,

for every therapist
be they medical
or physical
or psychological,
who never lost hope
and kept trying
even though
there were many dark days
and almost as many
misdiagnoses,

for every kind
and loving soul
who wished her well
and didn’t think we were
bad parents because
we didn’t know how
to quell
the inconsolable, crying child
who turned out
lived in depression,
suicidal ideation,
and crushing desolation,

and to those
never relinquished
the dream
that she would be
standing in
the foyer of life
in her graduation robe,
deciding which door
to approach next.

Countrypolitan

The sadder the song
the sweeter the sting;

tales of regret
spun around
countrypolitan arrangements
call to me
as sirens
cutting through the AM static.

Why I am helpless
to I follow them
in bittersweet masochism
though their poignant goodbyes
and scenes of
unrequited splendor?

As I watch my sleeping angel
the answer
comes to me:

once she and I lived in
one of those songs
until the day
I dared to leave
my self-imposed prison
and join my life
to hers.

As the songs play
I hear lessons learned
a little too late
and smile

that
for at least
once in my life

I got it right.

[The definition of countrypolitan, "For the Good Times" by Ray Price.]

[Go post at http://dversepoets.com/ - say hi to Anthony Desmond and buy him a drink!]

Invisible in a Hyperconnected World

This hyperconnected world

makes invisibility an impossibility. You can stay off the grid only if you want to pay for everything in cash and work under the table and not own property, even if it’s only your name. There’s just too much to steal. Give them a SSN, a street address, zip code, mother’s maiden name, 4 digit PIN, your first phone number, or your saliva off a discarded paper cup and they’ll use it to find out everything about you. I change all my passwords once a week, starting Friday at sunset and ending Saturday at sunset. It’s as close to a religious ritual as I observe. I keep all my money in my security mattress, which is made of metal and is fireproof and I change its password every day. No, you may not take my picture. Don’t invite me to the high school reunion. I ignore anything mail from the government. I have no pets, no spouse, no children, no extended family, no surviving kin. I commit everything important to memory, which leaves little room for anything else, but that’s ok because I’m safe, and that’s the most important attribute of all.

My Philosophy of Life (for Brian Miller)

When I was 7
my first poem
was published
by the Fullerton News-Tribune.

I was inspired
by a late-night
tv sermonette
themed
“people are to love
and things are to use.”

It was the first time
I remember pondering
purpose, meaning.

(My grandmother
had the clipping,
ragged and worn,
in her wallet
when she died
25 years later.)

Then came
the long silence
between that poem
and trying to listen
for the voice of God.

Hearing nothing,
I embraced
and espoused atheism,
becoming a
material empiricist.

I embarked on
a life of modest
hedonism,
a suburban epicure.

It made life so rich,
so vibrant,
but ultimately,
it felt empty.

I needed a place
for all my gratitude,
for the roses,
the orgasms,
and the pizzas.

In all those
experiences
I was connecting
to something grander,
something not material,
something divine.

Eventually,
God and I
found each other,
and surprisingly
my philosophy
hasn’t changed much:

Why are we here?
To love
and take care
of one another,

just as God loves
and takes care of me,
and just as I try
to love and take care
of God.

[Written for the great dversepoets.com and my friend, Brian Miller.  Congratulations on getting your Master’s Degree!]

Big Ass

Big ass SUV
to carry big ass man
with his big ass kids
to his big ass home
with a big ass mortgage
and a big ass pool
that distracts you
from his big ass
insecurity

and his big ass wife
wears a big ass ring
on her big ass finger
to show all her
big ass friends
the kind of big ass
love this big ass
man has for her

and they eat in
their big ass dining room
with lots of big ass
space between them
and their big ass kids
who want very little to do
with big ass mom and dad
because they have their own
big ass concerns waiting
for them
in their big ass rooms
each equipped with a big ass
big screen tv

and the big ass son has a
big ass truck
and the daughter has a big ass
tattoo just above here
big ass big ass

and they're all in a
big ass hurry to
get to the next big
ass thing
that they think will soothe
the disturbing and unsettling
big ass questions in their souls

so the next time I see
the big ass overfed and
well to do
flaunting their big ass
out of control
desire

I’ll be thankful
for my modestly placid
small
world.

[Posted for Listen to This: Anaphora at dversepoets.com - come along and have some fun!]

The Rotting Gift

“God gave you a gift,

a beautifulstrange
caramelhotbutter
cherrylippedjaggedchin
gift,

and it took you to places
no one ever knew.

You fed your darling
mutant child,
shined a light
up under all the
maggot infested
earthworm crawling
guck on the bottom
and somehow made it
all
wonderous,
and the gift led you
to where the secrets
were hidden.

You knew you were
gifted,
but you didn’t care.
You let it rot
in the back of the closet,
moldy with black fuzz.
It needed light,
it needed air.

Now, you’re this
soft, aging suburban
Beanie Baby,
no hard edge,
no juice
where it counts.

Go ahead
and comfort yourself:
tell yourself
you sacrificed your gift
to take care of
your "blessings".

You had so much
promise,
so much fire,
but you pissed it all away.

You could’ve been a
superstar.
We could’ve changed
the world.

Enjoy your widescreen TV
with 200 shopping channels
and your paid-off mortgage.

You now have
exactly
what everyone else has.

Hooray for you.

May you never regret
your decision
to forsake your gift,
schmuck.”

Pennies

I hate pennies.

They are so
not worth the effort.

They’re dirty,
they’re practically
meaningless,
especially if you use them
to buy someone’s thoughts.

They nag at me
when the check comes
and they mock me
in my drive-thru hurry.

A penny candy
can’t be bought anymore
and there is nothing
melodious about
the jangle of them.

So I say
fie! fie on you miserable
worthless pennies!

“Save your pennies”

Why? so I can take a hundred
useless dirty things and
exchange them for one
ragged filthy crumpled thing?

Nope.
Not me.
What good could a
penny be to me?

Nothing.
So, I toss them
aside
in parking lots
playgrounds
and anywhere I see people
who might need
something to believe in.

So, there, you have your answer:

I’m the one
who leaves the errant pennies
where you can find them and say
“see a penny
pick it up
all day long
you’ll have good luck.”

That’s me:
the good luck supplier.

Please,
no thanks necessary.

Don’t Wait Up For Me

Don’t wait up for me,
there’s still music playing
and something left to drink
and I am still looking for
someone,

and I get a sense that
person is here,
hiding in a quiet dark corner,
and if I turn over enough stones
and make enough chatter

maybe,
just maybe,
I’ll find what I’m looking for.

I’m not sure what this person
looks like
but my heart will tell me so,
and I’ll feel less alone
and not feel on stage,

so don’t wait up.

This could take a while,
maybe it's the search
of my lifetime

so if you’re gonna sit up
by the lamp in the window
watching the clock and muttering
I say:
go to bed now.

Knowing that you’re waiting
just makes me move slower
because I don’t want to be rushed.

If I come home,
then I'll know it’s where
I'm supposed to be.

The music is still playing,
this pulse is pounding,
bodies are dancing and
I’ve laughter and desire to burn,

so don’t wait up for me.

There are answers
in this dark night
and I will find them

and its nowhere
near sunrise.

Star Spangled Bender

Oh, say can you see
through the cons and the fright,
how so loudly we failed
to make real our past dreaming?

All the hype and fast cars
made us think we were right,
as our futures we botched
we gave in to fresh scheming.

And do we even dare
in the mirror, to stare,
and dispute, if not fight,
that we don't even care?

We'll pay if that star spangled banner
if only for a few waves,
o'er the land of the greed
and the home of the slaves.

When the Thing Dies [prompt: dead poem]

Dust for fingerprints,
scrape for DNA,
track cell tower pings.

These only can tell
what happened before.

The greater mystery
is where does that life
go,

that jumping
pumping
springing
animus
that hears the
call of the wind,
follows the scent
of food cooking,
looks up
in silent amazement?

When the thing dies,
laying there quiet, still,
it's the sad miracle
on the far end of life,

the companion piece
to the mystery
of what makes it all

go.

Her World Turns On Weakness

Feeling like a cockroach
that even God pitied,
I went to her street.

I knew she’d be there
and she surprised me
by giggling
“you looking for me baby?”

My blush convicted me.

Giving her the once over,
she looked exactly as I
remembered,
only better.

“You haven’t been around lately”
I had dreamed of her lips,
that playful smile.

“We can make it like old times.
I can’t hold a grudge,
even though you have
been a naughty boy
staying ‘way so long.”

My heart diverted the blood
from all my extremities
save for one.

She was always up for a good time.
She’d let you do any nasty thing
your mind could conjure
and I always wanted to be
the freakiest one
in her collection.

“You’re thinking ‘bout those old times,
aren’t you, Sugar?”

She knew
the phantasmagoria of carnality and excess
we’d known
but my memories were fading in and out
like faulty television signals.

She leaned closer
and tried to sweeten the deal
by whispering in my ear
“I can still suck it good
until your head pops, Daddy.”

Her bluntness told me
she was playing for keeps
and I knew the pathetic cadre
of men
she had snared
and kept.

Her world turns on weakness.

I looked at her, smiling
and shook my head “no.”

She was lousy at being coy
but she tried:
“I’ve missed you.
It’s been almost 18 years.”

Nothing.

She knew she was losing,
so she reached down
and ran her open palm
over my semi-hard Vulnerability
and fixed me with
a purposeful gaze, saying
“I know you want it.”

I continued staring.

“No one will ever know.”

We’d played this game before
and this is always how it ended.
This time would be no different.

As I turned and walked away
her singsong trill trailed behind me
“I’m here anytime you need me.”

I continued walking
thankful I had escaped
with my sobriety
intact.

Once So Perfect, Orderly and Privileged

We must move 

onward,

because there is 

little here

worth coming back to.

Some look back

with soft, toothless 

reminiscences,

while others remember

with anger

that their world,

once so perfect, orderly

and privileged,

must be shared 

with everyone else.

If you have skin

any color but white,

or genitals other

than male,

or had a love 

that dare not 

speak its name,

what is there

for you 

in the past?

By definition,

a conservative

wants to keep things

exactly the same

as before,

and the struggle

is not in bringing 

everybody,

especially those 

originally

labeled as 

subhuman,

as chattel,

into the circle,

sharing in 

the bounty.

No, the struggle

is to convince

the owners

of the wall 

to dismantle it,

before we 

tear it down.

Will There Be Bibles in Heaven?

Will there be bibles in Heaven?
or nations?
or wallets?

The first year in Heaven
will be spent
laughing
at our previous imaginings
of the afterlife,

and the Jerry Falwells
the James Dobsons and
the Pat Robertsons
of this world
will be there too
looking for people
to minister to
but they won’t enjoy it
so much
because it really
won’t be like they thought
it would
or should be,

and some of the inhabitants
of Heaven
will be expected
--like the Christians who
proclaimed Jesus as Lord
and the Orthodox who kept
every one of the 613 mitzot--

but those in the afterlife
may be surprised by the absence
of those who said
they would commit their lives to God
but really never did
and acted holy
for every reason
except the right one,

their souls may be somewhere else
and perhaps that is where I’ll be,

but as I see it
Heaven will have a bible
and a copy of the Koran
and of the Bhagavad Gita
and the Upanishads
and of all the holy books

because Heaven welcomes all books
and all those who find them holy.

Pictures of What I’m Hearing

Don’t believe the hype:
vinyl records suck.

The poseurs
can wax rhapsodic
about the warmth
of a record album,
the color…
the ritual…
whatever.

I listen
for fidelity:
truth to what
the musician,
the artist
intended.

Unless
the surface noise
was intentional,
then all the crackles,
and electrostatic pops,
ruin the experience.

Give me digital,
something that sounds
the way it was intended,
not just the first it’s played,
but the tenth time
the millionth time,
every time
it’s played.

But,
I’ll concede
to record albums
this:

those big beautiful covers
that I could study,
gaze upon
for hours at a time
as the music played,
imprinting itself
on my soul,

almost beautiful enough
to distract me
from the

chrrrcshle-sszk
b-bbrrchc-cklle
kcccrmmmlmnnkll
kkmmm-mmmmrllmm

that my music
rode upon.

Almost.

[Written for Fireblossom's Friday My Way Prompt:

http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2015/06/fireblossom-friday-picture-this.html]

The Businessman Speaks Again

"I used to be
a Christian
until I made
a six-figure salary.

Then I became
an American;
it’s easier
to give money
to the poor
when you’re
one of them.

I made it.

I now espouse
the religion
of capitalism,

which I define
thusly:

a poorer man
fellating a richer man
fellating an even richer man
until all that
hot, sticky money
trickles down.

When I was a Christian
I used to believe
“that which you do
to the least of these,
you do to me.”

Now
I believe in survival of the fittest:
it’s easier
and more rational.

Thankfully,
there’s a Walgreen's
next to my bank,
so I can buy
more mouthwash
after I
cash my paycheck."

[Posted for Open Link Night at http://dversepoets.com/2015/06/18/open-link-151/ ]

Hello, Smiley!

This year
I read the
Father’s Day cards
and my heart
didn’t crumple
from missing you.

I miss your jokes, Smiley
and your soft, brown forehead,
like weathered leather,
with natural, wide creases,
made by wiggling your eyebrows
like Groucho
to punctuate a punchline.

I have a toolbox
like yours,
a pliers-like
pincher grip
like you,
and a determination
to fix the broken things
in my house,
just like you.

I hear your voice
whenever I drop
a screw:
“don’t start swearing,
immediately look to see
where it went.”

Whenever I did you a favor
you’d thank me by saying
“your reward will be
in Heaven.”

When we meet again
in the next life,
I’ll say “Hello, Smiley”
and that will be my reward.