Break and Make

Every living thing 

must
for its own growth, 
for its own survival
break away 
to make a way. 

If you are not 
growing,
then you are just 
going,
and staying in this old place
for too long 
will make you sick. 

So, make a break 
from that old self, 
those old thoughts,
those predictable indulgences. 

Trawl the second-hand stores
of the infinite consciousness,
and begin collecting novelties
to assemble into a new self, 
a little at a time. 

When you break it all down
completely trust
The Invisible Inevitable 
will bring you 
the images 
the dreams
the inspirations
necessary
to make yourself anew.

And,
if that doesn’t work,
break it again,
make it again,
break it again,
make it again,

over and over
until it feels right.

Hey, Stupid, Wake Up (For Myself)

Hey, Stupid,
wake up.

So, let’s review:

if you’re not writing,
you’re not a writer.

If you’re not playing music
you’re not a musician.

So,
what are you?

Right,
I don’t know either.

But I do know this:
wake up.

Wake up!

There are roses to be admired,
sunsets to be dreamt upon,
napes to be kissed,

ice cream to melt
upon your tongue.

Wake up
because you can’t do
any of this
if you’re asleep.

My Most Comforting Childhood Memory

The nightlight.

My Naked Selfie Collection

I’m trying to collect
all my stray poems-
the ones I’ve sent here
and there
and way over there-
into one definitive collection.

However,
I know there are
a few naked selfies,
literary self-portraits,
that could come back
to haunt me-
and just because
I tore and burned up
my copies
doesn’t mean
they don’t exist anymore.

So, this is my plea
to Laurie, Bonnie,
Jean, Gracia, Kim,
Darra, Teresa, Cyndie
and the handful
of others
whose faces
I remember,
but not
their names:

If you’re holding on
to any of my poetry,
I’ll buy them
all back,

$5 bucks apiece,

no questions asked.

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 .]

I Kill Myself Nightly

I do not count on
being reborn everyday,

so I kill myself nightly,
and collect the days' missteps,
wipe away the unnecessary
ugly sentiments,
the emotional fecal matter
from the bung hole
of my self.

I cherry pick
the two or three
good moments
of my day,
the divine reminders
of charity and grace
and take their snapshot,

and in my evening
prayers,
I place them on the pyre
of impermanence
of regret
and light that holy mess
on fire.

The evil ashes
float to heaven
for forgiveness,
and the near gold
is heated in the hope,
that it will become
purified,

and I take these
few shiny nuggets
and start again
upon awakening.

The time is at hand
for my nightly sacrifice
of self-destruction.

See you in the morning.

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.

How Richard Pryor Saved My Life in 1980

Back in the late '70's
before it was the OC,

stuck in a high school of
blonde, born again Christians,

I was the Mexican outsider.

Every June
I sighed relief
which lasted all summer
until I returned
in the fall
feeling very Mexican.

Until the summer of 1980.

In a used record store
I found a stack of
Richard Pryor albums
for 25 cents apiece.

Something about those
album covers,
that face,
brown, comical and dangerous:

"Bicentennial Nigger"
"That Nigger's Crazy" and others.

I didn't know
what I was looking for
but it damn sure
felt right,
and I immersed myself
in these sacred texts.

He taught me
and that brown had
its own feel
its own soul
and it was good.

He was my supercool prophet
rarely bowing to authority,

dismantling hatred with ridicule,
especially my own self-hatred,

and he made me laugh
so much and so hard.

So, wherever you are
thanks, Richard.

My Surprising, Deceased Father

My deceased father
surprises me
everyday
by where he appears.

He shows up
in the music I listen to,
in the crinkled
corners of my eye,
in my impatience
for all things
faddish,
adolescent,
transitory.

I find myself
gently surrendering
the spotlight
to the coming guard,
the reckless,
seemingly bulletproof
youth,
quietly watching
them,
like he did,
sometimes lost in
private reverie
and memories.

If my dad were
still here, I'd tell him
I bought a book
so I could finally
understand electronics,
and fix those broken,
buzzing things
like he used to do.

Even when I spy
the arrival of
straggling stray
white hairs,
I laugh,
and I am comforted
because it is his laugh.

The Eternal Challenge

No two heartbeats
thump exactly alike
and no two sets of eyes
perceive the same thing
the same way
and so it is with
the self.

So,
tear open your soul,
not neatly as though
you were unzipping
a windbreaker,
but madly
as a thirsting man
in the desert,
guzzling it,
too lustful in
consumption
to worry about
appearance.

Remember,
the Infinite
does not just move
outward
but once you recognize
that it penetrates
inward
you will never
be bored again,
as you dig deeper,
revealing more
layers of mystery
hiding in your DNA,
interwoven in your soul.

I cannot tell you
how to access this,
but I know
once you understand
that everything
has been building
up to
this
very
moment
right
NOW!
then your days
will be made as
fine masterpieces,
universal yet personal
works of art,

that no one else
can teach
and only you
can inspire.