Follow Me

Your lips are missed
as are the long weekends
we spent as one.

Replaying those old songs,
memories come back
stripped of any imperfection.

There was intrigue
in your kiss
and I became dizzy
with the possibilities.

I could spend an hour
holding your hand
and every moment
had the thrill
of finding
an undiscovered river.

Where there was once mystery
building a life together
has brought comfort
so I’m not asking for much,
except this:
slow down our
spinning planet of noisy obligation,
tear pages out of the calendar
and come away with me.

Let the world wonder
where we’ve run off to
because I’m still me
and you’re still you

and I was sent for you.

Follow me
into the deepest
most secret part of our garden
and we’ll find a mystery
as wondrous and exciting
as the first fire.

For D'Verse Poets Open Link Night!

Sunday Morning

The world is vacant
this early Sunday morning

except for the newspaper deliverer

and the liquor store
and the customer who waited for 6am.

Mostly people are inside
sleeping off hangovers

slumbering in a warm bed
of post-coital narcosis

lone desperation
passed out at a kitchen table
splayed with overdue bills
and trepidation.

Some greet the day with reluctance
some will ride bikes
and some will never know
Sunday morning exists.

As I drive my daughter
to the early church service
I pass stray tumbleweeds
the occasional roaming coyote
and a multitude of other
holy beings,
all unaware
that it is Sunday morning
or that it is January
or that it is 2009

but they are completely alive.

They are also ignorant
of their enviable

blissful

silent

existence.

Do That (for Erica Falk)

In the 11th grade
he wanted to be loved
or invisible
but he was stuck
somewhere in between.

He failed another
algebra II test
and stood there
in the stairwell
as the flood of students
rushed around him.

He dreaded his fate:
“Pop’s going to be mad.
He’ll think I’m a bum.
How am I ever going
to get anywhere in life?
And what the hell’s
the square root
of -1?”

A disembodied voice
came up from behind:
“Don’t worry about that.
That’s not who you are,
a numbers guy.
You’re a writer.”

It was Erica.
They were just friends
as she was too tall
to be anything else.
She must’ve seen his grade.

“I remember that poem
you showed me.
You’re a writer.
Do that.”

Continuing down the stairs
she passed by
and out of sight
unaware of the fire
she’d lit.

Right there
he rearranged everything
in his life
and set out to be a writer.

He wrote
plays
songs
jokes
poems
screenplays
articles
love letters

and it comforted wounds
preserved victories
reified dreams
and it gave him
a place in this world.

So,
Erica Falk
if you Googled
your name,
and found this poem

please know

David says
“Thank you.”

The Angry Dandelion, Part 2 (January 2009)

When her biological father left
she dove head first
into depression.

The counselor provided by
my insurance said
"well, let's just handle
her problems as they come up"
not realizing there were
five screaming meltdowns
just on the car ride over.
(This therapist was in
over her head.)

Her next psychologist
affirmed that she had
depression and anxiety,
and she was referred to a
psychiatrist who
prescribed Prozac
which she took dutifully
for three years
along with cognitive therapy.

Her darkness grew
kudzu-like
into every part of her world.

Then came the snipe hunt
of diagnoses:
oppositional defiance disorder
attention deficit hyperactive disorder
obsessive compulsive disorder
borderline personality disorder…
they had the best of intentions
but they were throwing darts.

The sadness hovered unabated.

Her mood became darker,
more foul, violent
with flamethrower anger
and suicidal threats.

Her room became a cell
and she threw everything
she could
at the walls and doors
trying to escape.

Something hijacked her
and she cried long and hard
into the night, pleading
with me to make it all stop.

Her general practitioner
wanted to rule out
bipolar disorder
so she spent
the summer of 2008
enduring hours of
neuropsychological exams.

The verdict:
dyspraxia
and frontal lobe syndrome.

Yet, on she rages
with a new psychiatrist
who disagrees with
neuropsych assessment
but still cannot offer
an alternate diagnosis.

The new doctor prescribes
new medicine
and tells her to try and
“get along with
the people you live with.”

I try to hide my disappointment
as I feel we’re all stuck in this:
me, her mother and
this sad, suffering Angry Dandelion.

Unexpectedly,
her mood brightens when she
asks about
her upcoming birthday party.

She’ll be 12
next Friday.

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 ]

Abandoned Pet Store

Before the bubble burst
Kittens ‘n’ Pups
was in its prime,
a garish and glittery
anomaly
among the discount retailers
and the Goodwill store in
the less successfully gentrified
section of the downtown.

They sold rare breeds
and traded in
cruelty-free kibble
and mentally challenging
chew toys.

We almost bought
a Yorkshire Terrier there
but something
seemed amiss –
her puppy eyes betrayed
an air of desperation.

Perhaps she was able
to predict what
economists could not see.

Then the bubble burst.

Now it is
an abandoned pet store
and peering into its
shadowy shell
I recall its better days
and wonder

where do the purebreds
go
in a recession?

Charity

It’s never a question
of whether I’ll give.

I remember His words:
“that which you've done
to the least of these,
you do to me”
and with a grateful heart
I perform my Christian duty.

My policy is to offer
the bill on the outside
of my money clip,
regardless of denomination
(as I trust the Lord
and He will not leave me
penniless).

I try not to feel too good
about my modest act of charity.

Lately I've taken to
asking the recipient’s name
and telling them I would
pray for them,
presumably later.

As I hand them the money
and say “God bless you”
I shake their hand -
a token gesture of humanity
so it’s not just
about the money.

While the warmth of their
handshake is still in my palm,
I return to my car
where I keep a bottle
of hand sanitizer,
squirt a gelatinous glob of it
in my palm,
and furiously
rub away any germs.

I feel a pang
of guilt:

what are you so afraid of?

Losing the Good Fight

Surveying the front line,
the inevitability
sinks in with an
undeniable gravity.

The General confesses:

“You soldiers deserved better –
you were furious lions in youth,
each with the strength of Samson,
and standing high and proud
as a rooster’s comb.

However, we are locked
in a war of attrition
and time is not
on our side.

But it’s not in our blood
to hire mercenaries
or sacrifice ourselves
in mock-heroic suicide.

No, men we will stand here
staving off the enemy
until there is
not one of us left standing.

History will not forget
and our children
will long tell the tale
of our resolve and true grit.

We never bowed,
we never surrendered,
but rather died
with courage and honor
on this battlefield of

male
pattern
baldness.”

Predestined

As the Earth
orbits in lazy silence,
we are mostly helpless
but to do the same.

I am ever amazed by
the orchestration
of falling leaves,
ripples awakened
by the pebble,
roses proclaiming
ecstasy in the breeze
not just for their mystery,
but because they were
put here for me.

Dear Jesus,
your followers
want to put you in a box
of containable contradiction
to carry around
and show to their friends
and possibly make a sale or two.

I don’t need to know.

I just want to
feed your sheep
with humility and gratitude,

even when all I have to offer
are crummy little poems
like this one.

Soul Mates

"Look!
There he is, Eddie.
Every morning
same time
he leaves the house.

Don’t worry,
this’ll be easy-
he’s predictable
like a Timex.

Yeah, I know,
he looks like a real
tightass.

Yeah, I got your money.
You know where
he works, right?
Just give me
15 minutes.

She never needed much time.

Did I tell you I saw her
at the store
the other day?
Naw, she didn’t see me.
Looks great.
She always looks great.

What? Naw, he ain’t
gonna give you no trouble.
Kick his ass if you have to.

Just bring him back here
so he can see it
with his own two eyes.

Of course she still wants me.
We were soul mates,
she said so.

She’s just with
him for his money.
Yeah, she always was
kind of a whore.

I called last night
but when she answered
I hung up.

There he goes, man.
Follow him.

Okay, I’m hanging up now.

Got to reclaim
what’s mine."

Clean Break

You said you wanted
a clean break.

So I cleaned
the apartment
just like you trained me
(as you disdain
messiness and clutter).

I can clean anything,
but a lie
no matter how white
can never be cleaned.

Don’t bother to check
as I cleaned out
our joint checking account
and gave it all to charity.

As for my broken spirit,
a little hydrogen peroxide
should cleanse
that wound.

I even cleaned out
the barrel and chambers
of the little pre-owned
snub-nosed accomplice
I purchased
just for this occasion.

So, goodbye.

And, for the record
it wasn’t an accident
that I decided to do this
on your favorite white rug.

This is one stain
I won’t be able to clean
for you.

The Welcome Speech

Just sit there.
you’re new here, so listen up.

I don’t awaken easily
and I hate staying awake.

If you must ask questions
make sure they’re well thought out.

Don’t waste my time
and keep your hands off my stuff.

Remember
there’s just two of us in this cell

and the guards
are down the hall and sometimes deaf.

Don’t ask why I’m here
and I won’t ask why you’re here,

and when I get up
I get to use the toilet first.

I’ve been here
longer than you’ve been alive

so don’t think
you’re the boss in here.

Out there
you might’ve been some badass

but in my world
you’re just a new fish.

I’m holding back
more hate than you’ll ever feel,

so don’t get in my way
and I’ll treat you more fair than most,

and if you’re smart
you won't let me see you cry.

I really hate
people who can still cry.

The Movie of My Life

The movie of my life
will not star Brad Pitt
or Angelina Jolie
or anyone else you’d know
or recognize
or even want to look at,
but I will be played by
at least six different actors
portraying me
in different eras.

I’ll market it like an indie
(with lowered expectations)
and feign surprise
when it becomes
a critical favorite.

John Barry will write the score
and it will be triumphant,
exotic and sentimental
and it will win him
another Academy Award.

My costumes will be
specially tailored for me
and you’ll never see me
eating
anything.

The story will be
that I’m the lovable underdog,
a schlemiel Horatio Alger
and they’ll all root for me,
as David fighting some Goliath
as I’ll defy the odds
until I ultimately rise
and transcend past…

something
 (I haven’t worked that
part out yet).

I’ll hire an editor
who specializes in action films
with masterful pacing
so that every scene
builds in suspense
and tension.

In the movie of my life
everything will be smarter
faster
and better
than in real life.

All the people
I could never please,
and things I never did,
and every needless worry
I courted
won’t make the final cut,

and all kind words
belated wisdom
and quotable epigrams
left unspoken
will be dubbed in
during post-production.

The final indignity:
the movie of my life
will go
straight
to home video.

[Posted in honor of my 50th birthday this coming Friday.]