The Enemy, Defined

To people like us,
the enemy is clear:

creativity,
the flight of the feather
is weighed down
by the brick
of perfection.

It can never
be attained
by human hands,

so stop trying.

The quest for
perfection
arrests the dreams
and ambitions
and freezes them
in a cycle of review
and rewrite.

So, stop trying.

Rather,
burrow deeper within
and find the
soft
sweet
center

and then
go back there
daily,

taking everything
you see,
dipping it inside
and then
bring it out,
let it dry,
buff to a high polish,
then put it
on display.

It won’t be perfect
but it will be
yours and only yours

and you won’t be
paralyzed
or feel compelled
to make that

Big Statement,

but you’ll make
of lot of
small honest statements,

sometimes
30 days in a row.

Remember Me

“I know your world
is full of
noisy details
and there’s always something
or someone trying
to get your attention,
but, please,
remember me.

When you see
a rose,
breathe in
its sweet scent
and remember me.

If you see
a skating chimpanzee
wearing a tuxedo
and smoking a cigar,
laugh and
remember me.

When you hear
“The Tears of a Clown”
by the Miracles,
remember me.

If you remember me,
then I’ll always
be with you,
alive in your world,
neither gone
nor forgotten.

Remember,
this wasn't my idea,
and don’t blame the
public defender;
we all know
I was framed,
but that doesn't matter
now.

I know
I have to go now,
but,

remember that impossibly
bright summer day
when we went
to Newport Beach,
and we just watched
the waves,
and we breathed in
the sea breeze
until the sun went down?

Well,
thank you
for letting me
love you,

for letting me know
how sweet
it all could be.

I’ll wait for you
on the other side
of that sun.”

Burlesquing My Soul

I started out
wanting to be
a song and dance man,
an entertainer.

I haven't
the hubris
to assume
you'll follow me
down the
rabbit hole
of vague,
inscrutable
imagery and
poetic conceit,
so I just try
to amuse
with the
workman's toolkit of
humor and pathos,
sex and violence.

I need
an audience
for confirmation,
so I'll sing,
dance,
and in desperation,
burlesque my way
into a motley strip tease,
revealing my
naked soul,
every hairy orifice
and unflattering bulge
on freakish display,
hoping you won't
turn away
and find someone else.

I don't write about
the horsetails in Asia,
or a church bell's lonesome tail,
or anything noble
like that;
its most just about
me.

Seemingly, in humility
I don't describe myself
a poet,
but rather a documentarian
and my only subject
is me,

which,
upon reflection,
is hubris
in its purest form.

Masuda is Dead

Masuda is dead

and I am sometimes

caught off guard

knowing that he isn't

in his wheelchair

somewhere I Oregon,

a phone call away.

I mourn because

sometimes I avoided his calls

because I knew he was going

to ask me for money

and how do you say no

to a man with

an incurable illness?

When I was an atheist

he told me I was

one of the most

Christian people he knew.

We went through

graduate school together,

he also wrote poetry

and he was able to crank out

entire books

thanks to the manic part of

his bipolarity.

He was Vince Neal

until 18, when he

accidentally learned

he was adopted

from a Japanese-Norwegian

couple named Masuda.

He was a red-headed

mountain of a man

who loved Jesus

and still considered himself

married, a Catholic,

even though his wife

threw him out

a decade ago

for philandering.

In many ways

he was a cautionary tale,

but he was also

just another broken kid

who wrote brutally honest poetry

about social injustice

about the challenge of the Christ

about getting raped at five years old.

Now

he’s free

from the vasculitis,

from the diabetes,

from the poverty,

from this moribund

life sentence.

The last thing

he told me

was to read

“Ragman and

Other Cries of Faith”

and I told him

I would.

It arrived

months ago,

but I haven’t

opened it,

as if somehow

my reading it

would somehow

close the door

on him forever.

I’ll get to it

someday,

when I’m not so

weepy.

Me and Johnny Masuda, August 2005.

[If you want to buy Johnny's book, I think it's still available at lulu.com .]

My Secret Recipe

Take a beautiful,
unique child
and unfavorably compare him
to everyone else.

Buff out his unfinished edges,
sand off his spiky angles.

Paint him ghastly colors
(because those are the colors
that are on sale),
and dress him not for
aesthetics,
but rather
because they fit
his bulky girth.

Feed him daily
three squares of
shame, guilt and self-loathing.
He’ll balk at first,
but he’ll get used to it.

Make him a bookworm,
call him a sissy,
give them a ringside seat
at the glorious childhoods
of his joyous, unworried
classmates.

[Extra Spicy Option:
Make him Mexican,
but don’t make him
dark-skinned,
that would be
too obvious.
Make him
light skinned
so that he thinks
he’s one of his
white classmates,
until they start
telling Mexican jokes.]

Let this concoction
stew for 15-16 years,
and then
when he’s 5 foot 2
and 210 pounds,
with greasy skin,
an erupting face
and tumbleweed hair,
make him suicidal
after the girl he’s been
writing love poems for,
tells him that she only
likes him as a friend.

But
don’t let him die yet.

No.

Give him
a pen,
some paper,
and the loneliness
he’s known for years,
stretch him into
a full-grown man,
and whisper in his ear:

“It’s ok to be angry.
Now, write.”

Teach him how
to deny
everything he
used to shove
in his mouth
(because he’s so
orally fixated)
and teach him
to begin running
obsessively.

Awaken him
so he can
write his own destiny,
paint his own paradise
and then enter it.

Guide him
through college,
through losing
his virginity
(wherein an angel of mercy
took pity and
deflowered him
a month shy
of his 20th birthday,
just so he could say
he had sex at least once
as a teenager),
through college
and into adulthood,
where he will become
a nervous-stomached,
130 bpm pulse pounding
faceless, over-achieving
college dean.

Then,
he’ll crank out
these poemonologues
to miniscule acclaim,

never really triumphing over
his guilt, shame and self-loathing,

the secret ingredients
in the recipe of his success.

My Lord's Prayer

Lord,
please.

Please help.

Please help me.

Please help us all.

If it be Your will, help, please.

You know what I need,
hear my pleas,

please,

please,

Lord?

Sadie the Cat is Missing Haiku

Dirty gray cotton
threatening, menacing rain;
find a warm place, cat.

For Adults Only: An Incantation

When the tiggle-de-biggles
go bump-bump-bump,
and the mischkel-lee-fishkels
go glump-glump-glump,

don’t look an oopy-dee-doopy in
the eye-yi-yi,
lest your dingle-mack-shmingel
might die-yi-yi!

No, better bratchet your fatchet
with a wee small small-wee,
and don’t fobble your dobble
under the brown globble tree,

just grab your sexi mac-lexi
and squish-up your dish-up,
forgot the blah-lah-ders
and mish-up your frish-up,

by the zizzel of kizzel
I invoke Lord Snapwaggle,
does any of this schmizzel
make you want to persnaggle?

The Leg Man Speaks

“Every leg
I ever worshiped,
from the ankle
on up,
ended
beautifully.”

Love Poem Recipe

1. Decide if you want
it to be
abstract
or representational,
as this will
determine the
poem’s trajectory.

2. Pick three memories
of your beloved
(two obvious ones
and one almost forgotten one),
and set them aside.
Later, scatter them
throughout your work
to suggest
your beloved
has casually become
the center of your
universe.

3. Write something
about your beloved
that you cannot say
about any other person
in the world.
Do not despair,
if necessary,
fabricate something credible
and trust that the person
will grow into that.

4. Make a positive comparison
about one of your partner’s
physical attributes
to something non-physical,
“your lips
hold the promise
of a hundred
Christmas Eves.”

5a. (for men only),
if you must write
about her body parts,
do not use slang
or the anatomically
correct Latin term;
either of these will
kill the mood,
5b. (for women only),
if you must write
about your future plans,
do not mention marriage
or wished-for children;
either of these will
kill the mood.

6. Dump all
these ingredients
into a word processor,
hit the start button.
Turn it off
when your words
begin to look
like mush.

7. Do not present your poem
in calligraphy
or have it center-aligned,
both of which
imply insecurity.
Simple handwriting
or a plain font,
left justified
should suffice.

8. If you realize
that your poem
doesn't adequately
convey the expanse
of your love,
that means

a) congratulations,
you have a love
for the ages! or

b) your poem
needs a rewrite.

My Name Is Buddah Moskowitz (and I Am Funky)

Self-abnegation
brought me to
Buddah Moskowitz.

My teenage plan
was to be a sitcom writer
when I grew up.

Growing up happened
when I realized
there were no sitcom writers
with last names resembling
Reyes or
Martinez or
Garcia or
Ramirez or
Gutierrez or
Torres or
Salas or ...
...you get the picture.

Also,
I didn't look like
anyone in
Hollywoodland,
and I didn't have
the self-confidence,
the flamboyance
to bust out as
the fat freakshow
that I was.

I wanted a name
that would confound
these prejudices
and be all my own,

Q: Why Buddah?

A: Because Judas was
already taken
and I tend to be
a non-dualistic,
non-materialist.

Q: Why Moskowitz?

A: Because even though
there is nothing but
gentile Mexicans
in my lineage,
I know my soul
is Jewish,
plus
I think it looks
very cool.

So, when you see the name
Buddah Moskowitz
do you picture
an overweight 52 year old
Mexican American?

Neither do I,

and I like it
that way.

Anita (April 20, 2015)

I see her
on the treadmill
focused
and determined,
her stride
controlled and
graceful.

I watch her from
the weight machines,
wanting to
catch her eye
but not wanting
to distract her.

Her chestnut hair,
bouncing like
children on a hayride,
makes me smile.

She cannot see
herself
the way I see her,

but she is perfect,

and for her
I will lift a little more
run a little faster,
try a little harder,

and I cannot believe
the good fortune
that she wears my ring.

Mindfulness Exercise

Feel the crush
of the grass
beneath your feet
as you
inhale and exhale.

Take note
of the breeze
how it kisses
your face and
tousles your hair
as you
inhale and exhale.

Witness the
many shades of green
and the blues
in the sky
as you
inhale and exhale.

Be grateful
for every moment
because you know
each one is a miracle
as you
inhale and exhale.

Know these things
are true and remember
life is sweet
even as
you scoop
the dog poop
as you inhale and exhale.

Ocean Haiku

Infinite ocean,

terrifying but soothing;

meekly, I wade in.

Folly

I have guitars,

both electric and acoustic

including the

Yamaha Guitalele

the ukulele;

a Korg microarranger,

my other Yamaha keyboards

and synths,

assorted samplers,

midi controllers,

my Novation MiniNova

synthesizer

and a variety

of effects pedals;

the Korg Kaossilator

and the KP Mini

grooveboxes,

a handful of

microphones,

and a few

multitrack recorders,

some analogue,

some digital.

Thousands of dollars

all spent in the service

of making

musical recordings,

still hoping I will be

“discovered”at 52,

the World’s Oldest

Child Prodigy.

Broken Girls

I see broken girls

everywhere,

trying to hide

behind polished smiles

something secret

and shameful

that was born

so long ago

and was pushed

down so deep

it is almost forgotten.

Almost.

I see broken girls,

frantically flapping,

always trying to

win approval

from parents

who have long since

departed this realm.

Broken girls

never rest feeling 

that they did 

enough.

Broken girls

possess hearts

ever weary,

muscles exhausted

from always holding back

that sadness they keep

in the dark,

lest it see the light

and multiply

like malignant cancer cells.

Broken girls

can see each other

and in their

invisible bond,

they make silent prayers

for each other,

knowing that

even they 

are entitled

to a bit of happiness

now and then.

I see broken girls

in line at the supermarket

at evening prayers

fighting with the insurance company

waiting out colorless marriages

in drunken, half-naked stupors

frozen and stuck in therapy

writing poems no one will see

stroking cats in silence

worrying about the future.

When I look 

into the mirror,

I see a broken girl.

No Overarching Narrative

I attempt  

completing the puzzle

even though

my soul knows

many of 

the stray pieces

have been hidden.

There is no meaning

in these random occurrences,

no overarching narrative.

It's just grasping 

at disparate shards

of perception,

those meandering clouds

of feelings

and assembling them

into something

recognizable.

The spider in the bassinet,

the ice cube in the ashtray,

the eyelid closed in slumber,

the Bowie knife in the pew.

The story is not

that they are related 

in some meaningful frieze,

but rather it is

that they were

never disconnected.

There is meaning

in this world,

but it is not ours to

know,

so why ponder.

Enjoy the drink,

breathe in the air,

savor the meal,

fall asleep in

a naked embrace,

chest heaving

in the afterglow.

Mussolini the Crow

Every morning
perched atop
the three storied
steel and glass office,

Mussolini the crow

surveys the filling parking lot,
squawking declarations
and orders,
his ranting lost
on human ears.

I always stop
and smile
as he berates me
with all the others:

"You fools!
Don't you see
you're just wage slaves!

Your life is being
traded away for mere
millet!

Don't go in there,
they'll take everything
from you, and won't stop
until they have your soul!"

Nobody listens
as we all dutifully
single file in
with quiet resignation.

Still every day
he is there,
taunting us
without mercy.

Perhaps,
he isn't even a crow,
but rather
a mockingbird.

Balance

Balance
is an illusion,
only because we think
we need to achieve
equilibrium
to achieve peace.

Remembering
to breathe
completely in
and then
completely out,
forgetting the past
and the future
resets everything,
wipes the slate clean.

It is as easy
as it sounds
and
it is not as easy
as it sounds.

Now go,
and
become balanced.

[re-Posted for http://dversepoets.com/2015/05/14/meeting-the-bar-antithesis/  ]

End of the Line

To my ancestors:
biology isn't fate,
vasectomy trump.