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.”