The Eternal Warning (Don't Think Too Much About it)

Looking at the
oily French fries
I saw a stain
on the discolored melmac
plate and I wondered:
what caused this?
Was it a fresh stain or has it been here
for years?
Did the cook wash his hands
or for that matter
did he scratch
his dark oily hair?

As I bit into my pastrami sandwich
the eternal warning returned:
don’t think too much about it.

I’ve been told this my whole life
as I attempt to scale
the holy trinity,

or when I’m trying too hard
to have an erection
that just
isn’t
happening.

I pick up the pen
or seat myself at the piano
and try to disconnect
my brain,

don’t think too much about it.

Let it all drip lightly
like syrup off a stack of pancakes
or the blissful sweat
between her naked cleavage
as she rides me,
both of us
lost in two different worlds
consumed by one love,

but don’t think too much about it.

Where did my children go,
they were just here?
Between holidays and loads of laundry
we traded in our dreams
for beautiful young starlings
who would rather be
somewhere else,

don’t think too much about it
that’s was Evil told me
when I repeatedly rejected her advances
because I knew it was wrong
because I knew she was married
because I knew better
but I did it anyways.

Don’t think too much about it.

what if I lose control and drive my car off the freeway
and if the tingling in my arm isn’t benign
and if our global economy is an illusion
and if no one finally remembers me.

and maybe you don’t really think
I’m the most beautiful person
in the world and that you could be
more easily tempted
than either you or I want to admit.

Don’t think too much about it,

and what dark and pungent mystery
remained waiting down
all those roads I never took?

who might I have met?
what might I have done?
which drug might have killed me?

Would I have been
the sweating and desperate soul
frying pastrami and potatoes
desperately plotting and trying
to escape my existence?

Perhaps,
but I’m trying hard
not to think too much about it.

Open Letter on Immigration

Dear young ones,

For years
I've seen them come
over our borders,
like dirty water
over a dam
and they even don't try to fit in.

They have their strange language
their awful food,
and they don't seem afraid
of our laws.

One of them even made
improper sexual advances
on your aunt,
my wife.

They come over here
and use our resources,
the ones your father,
and my father,
and my father's father,
built
and they squander them,

but they don't care
they just want a better life for
themselves.

I want to tell them
to go back where they came from,
but I know that is not right
because this world belongs
to everyone.

So, let us open our land
and ourselves to them.
Perhaps all these things
that worry me
will not come to pass.

Do not fear the white man,
he will not hurt us.

your loving uncle,

Ignacio
February 1, 1848

Staring Down the Mirror

I’m staring down the mirror
and neither of us
is blinking.

“I see through you”
I think.

I continue staring
half-hoping I’ll find
someone else
without the mundane imperfection
of moles and pores
stray gray hair
and engraved wrinkles
that stay long after the
laughter has died.

And what of this mouth
keeper of secrets and teller of lies
and those sad date eyes?

Suddenly I want to do away with him

and my rhinoceros nostrils flare
as I clench my jaw
and we begin the contest
to prove
who can hold his breath
the longest.

His face becomes red
but I push myself past slight fear
into gentle internal hysteria.

My suffocation from within
is taking its toll on my competitor
as his body starts quivering
and his face becomes an
unpleasant crimson.

I push myself more
more
and one more second
just one more
as I see him
clutch the bathroom basin
I hear the voice
“don’t give up,
one more second!

Don’t let him win!”

just one more…

Then
PFFFHHWWT!
out blasts
a mouthful of stale air
as my knees buckle
and my face changes
red to pink to brown.

I giggle
at my lightheadedness,

leaning forward
face to face with the mirror
still panting and laughing
I offer my vanquished foe
the only consolation
I can think of:

“Happy Birthday, Schmucko.”

[It's not my birthday, but I pulled an old writing out for https://dversepoets.com/2018/09/06/openlinknight-227/ ]

Beckoning Doorways

I’ve gotten to a point where
I don’t need to walk through
every beckoning doorway.

Most doorways really
do not offer
anything new anyways.

Should I leave the comforts
of my room just to
dance in some fiery meadow
merely because it is new
and looks exciting?

Going from room to room
I’ll never know more than
newness
and while newness
is its own intoxicant
it has also a built-in
obsolescence.

Still,
staying put
and never venturing out
into the throng of sticky and sweaty humanity,
I’ll never know who I am,
never see my reflection
in the faces of the weary and the hopeful.

This desire,
longing for connection
is proof of my humanity

and ultimately
I am a hostage
as we all are,

trapped somewhere between
peering through doorways
and yearning to enter
and moving quietly
in my room
among my books and things

content in my solitude,

as my mind
races on to the next thing

struggling to rest.

[Posted for Dverse Poets' Open Link Night.]

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!

All Blood is Red

The comforting illusion
is that each one of us
is separate

and the things that
separate you from me
are real.

Where my skin ends
and the air begins
and where the air ends
your skin begins
is an elaborate delusion.

Most of us see the world
as a collection of disparate
puzzle pieces,
but I’m trying
through prayer
compassion and forgiveness
to see the truth
we’ve been taught to
ignore:

from the moment
of our conception
in our mother’s womb
we are attached

we are connected;

to one another and
to all beings
and all things
at all times,
in all space.

Honoring this truly
inconvenient truth
means not looking away

at the poor babies
with swollen bellies
and hollow hope,

those disenfranchised
from the dream,

abandoned mothers

and homeless vets
with limbs stolen
in unpopular wars,

and we might need to burn
the flags and the bibles

and lay the walls down
sideways
until they become bridges,

and look not only
into the sky for our deliverance
but within
and at each other

until we know better.

It means seeing the myth,
nay, the lie
that we are each disconnected
and meeting it
head-on with prayer
compassion and
forgiveness.

It isn’t that hard.

Just remember
all blood is red
and
that is
the comforting reality.

We Sleep Together

We sleep together
deep through the winter
restlessly in summer.

We fall asleep holding hands,
sometimes curled like shrimp
sometimes we are a
human pretzel
of limbs
desire
dreams and exhaustion.

In between our sleeping
we nurture small triumphs,
we persevere,
we work through
misunderstanding
and unintentional hurt
but thankfully
we ripple with laughter too.

On nights
when I can’t sleep
I watch her sleeping
and smile so big
that I can almost hear it.

I study the
effortless elegance
that a thousand gifted sculptors
could never match
the inexpressible contour
and shadow
of the luminous moonlight
on her beautiful face.

Tonight makes five years
that we haven’t spent
a night apart

and that’s the plan
for the rest of my life.

Your Weakness is My Strength

My superpower-
my gift from God-
is the ability to see
everyone else’s weaknesses.

Sometimes I spot it
immediately,
sometimes it takes a few words
or a telltale action
but sooner or later
everyone eventually slips.

I store all your weaknesses
and I wait for the
most opportune time
to cast them upon
my unsuspecting victims:

your vanity
and crushing self-doubt
your undersized genitalia
your neglected childhood
I immediately calculate
for later sinister use,

because I always need to know
when and where
to strike
because while I appear
modest and mild mannered
I have my moments
of black spinning evil
that overtake me,
when I’ll need to lay you out
cold
and I’ll consult
my mental Rolodex
and lookup your weakness
and strike with
dispassionate surgical precision.

Make no mistake
I’ll know just the right thing
to make you feel small and
worthless
to rob you of your
dignity.

I’ll pull down your pants
in front of everyone
or similarly humiliate you
with the perfectly chosen word,

but
in all honestly

I've
never employed
this superpower.

I always see
the scared and quivering humanity
in their eyes
standing before me
and I cannot bring myself
to destroy
that which I cannot repair.

I cannot be the cruel
barbarian
that is my birthright.

I always succumb to
their silent and invisible tears,
remembering
the sting of humiliation
and shame
and my own
silent and invisible tears

and I cannot bring myself to do it.

So, while I have the gift
I cannot use it
and thankfully,

that is my weakness.

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.

Draw More Blood

Here I go again,

secretly picking up
my favorite blade
and cutting myself.

I don't know
what I'm chasing
but sometimes
I find it.

Perhaps someday
I'll no longer need
to pick at the scab
and feel the sting
as I tear
my beautiful brown skin open
to provide a canvas
for all this pain.

Sometimes,
if the skin is intact
I will swallow it
in a shameful communion

"this is my body
broken by everyone"

and as the full rich red
slowly drips
down my forearm,
I taste it
and am not surprised
that it is flavorless.

"This is my blood
drink this in remembrance of me."

I replace my bandage
and roll down
my long sleeve shirt
and rejoin the party.

Off-White Christmas

One Christmas
I ventured far from
the West Coast
land of my ancestors
and spent the holidays
in Maryland
where the people
were pleasant
and surprisingly
multicolored.

On Christmas Day
as I strolled the boulevard
with my white companion,
a warm blanket of security
and belonging
and perhaps universal
love
surrounded me,

and as we walked past
others I greeted them

“Merry Christmas!”
“Happy Holidays!”
“Season’s Greetings!”

I was thankful
for the profound effect
the birth of Jesus
had on peoples' kindness.

It felt good.

Two young white men
approached us
and they appeared to be
more than a little drunk
and carrying a few more
6-packs
back to their home
and as they walked by
they said something,
and I answered them with
“Merry Christmas”

but something didn’t feel right.

I stopped and
looked at my companion
whose face betrayed
a puzzled expression.

She asked
“didn’t you hear
what they said?”

“Didn’t they say
‘Merry Christmas’
or something like that?”

She said
“No, they said
‘Happy Beaner Christmas.’”

Shit.
Really?
On Christmas?

I shrugged it off -
what can you expect from
a couple of
gabachos borachos?

Perhaps they had their fill
of love and brotherhood
this holiday season and
my appearance afforded them
an unexpected chuckle.

Perhaps
they saw me as a gift
from their twisted
and diseased god.

Mercifully,
I was scheduled to return
to Southern California
the next day

and I’ve decided that
I’ll spend the rest
of my Christmases here

just as my ancestors
always have.

(Notes: "Beaner" is a derogatory term for Mexican-Americans, which is what I am.  Gabachos borachos translates to "drunken White men.")

"It Ain't Easy Being Everyone's Raison D'Etre"

"You just can’t understand
the pressure,
the expectation,

everyone claiming you
wanting a piece of you.

The Jews claim me
as one of theirs own
but you know how
that all ended up.

The Christians
think they’re all doing things
in my name.

The Muslims call me
a prophet
but still
subordinate me.

The Buddhists
draw parallels
and come closer than most,

and the atheists love me
because they find
their strongest arguments
in my weakest followers.

I’m tired of being everyone’s
raison d’etre,

it’s lonely
being the leader of it all.

It's always
“here’s a beautiful rose
I grew for you”

“listen to this song
you story inspired”

“thank you for saving
my soul.”

I’m tired of it all.

Can’t they all
just get over themselves
and their crippling insecurity
long enough
to just sit by my side
and keep me company,

just like any other friend
would do?"

Confetti

Hundreds of poetry websites,
thousands of poets,
millions of poems.

I send up mine
and hope it will not be lost
in the cyber-abyss,
but I know better.

My smoke sculpture soul
and precious imagery
are superfluous and temporal,

as inconsequential
as the confetti
trampled and left for dead,

in Times Square
on New Year’s Day
at 6:07 a.m.

The Balance and the Slip

The difference between
the balance and the slip
is microscopic.

Remembering the rules
and honoring the impulse
are flipsides of each other.

Id and superego
fight me for
the pride of
ownership,

as I struggle
daily,
hourly
and sometimes
between
this thought
and
this one.

And that’s only me
and you’re no different,
and if we multiply these
infinitesimal decisions
by 300 million,
under the right circumstances,

rioting occurs,
futures vanish,
innocence, raped
and God, forgotten.

The balance and the slip
is not a 50-50 proposition:

with sin and gravity
as our natural defaults,

nobility and decency
become statistical anomalies.

CSI: Golgotha

Fully human
and fully divine:

the hallmark of humanity
is sinful
imperfection
and yet
you had none.

I wonder
how you managed
to steer clear
of everything
but the bull’s eye.

I reconstruct
your ignoble demise
like a forensic scientist
searching for something
to connect me
over the centuries
to you,

something that would
betray
your humanity.

As you hung there
dying
and they mocked you,
you petitioned the father
for a pardon
on their behalf.

I keep rooting around
for even the slightest whiff
of rotten humanity
and I still
come up empty.

I know you were sinless.
I know you were perfect.
I’m a believer.

I just want to know
how you did it.

A Fireman in Hell

“Didn’t you
used to write poetry?

I mean,
it wasn’t very good
but still you cranked them out
like pretentious sausages.

What happened?

Now, you look like
a confused fog,
trying to keep smoldering
embers from sparking
into wildfires.

Your sleep isn’t restful.
Your worship isn’t comforting.
Your sunshine is gray.

You’re too old
to flail about
with your
angry feathers blazing
trying to rouse the world
from its sleep.

Now you’re just
a sputtering
impotent
leftover,
marinated
in his own
flop sweat.”

Yeah, I used to write poetry.

Now,
I’m a fireman
assigned to
the hottest borough
of Hell

and when
I’m off the clock
I pace in
counterclockwise circles
around my kitchen table
in a vain attempt
to turn back time.

I pace
inside my house,
with lights out
and shades down,
because it would
scare the community
to see their fireman
crying
in the street.

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.

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 ]

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.