Worse Than the Bars (One word prompt: domesticated)

Trained
and sitting in cage,

he’s domesticated.

But
worse than the bars
that surround him

is the minimum security prison
that he’s locked himself into
from the inside 


and he tossed that key
far far out of reach.

No Technique (Telling It Like It Is poem)

Is 

No Technique

a technique 

in itself,

I wonder 

as the prompt

reminds me 

of why 

I hate poetry

and why I like

whatever it is

I write.

Seeing, Paying Attention

Since everything is always moving

all the time,

my challenge is

seeing, paying attention

to the many kindnesses

hidden in this as the world -

from the promise of a rosebud

to a perfect storm-klatch of words,

because they were all

put here for me.

Yes, even you were put here

for me

and I for you.

May my life fit

perfectly

into the space of time

I have been given,

and when I am taken

may there be

no debts owed on my bank account

no apologies or tributes left unspoken

no dreams or desires not sated. 

Epiphany

Before I knew it

there were wrinkles

taking up residence

by my smile,

stray gray hairs

curling wildly from

my sideburns,

my aching, crackling

knee joints

betrayed me,

the memories

stuck somewhere in the back

require a more complicated

set of cues

to loosen them

from their

hiding space.

I needed longer arms

to read the small print

on my blood pressure

medicine

and I understood

the necessity of

euphemistic language like

“erectile dysfunction”

and I smiled because

these were proof

that I beat the odds

and have lived

longer than I thought

I would,

long enough

to be an old man. 

Suspend My Disbelief

I’ve stretched my mind

trying to understand

the scared mystery of

The Holy Trinity

but in the end

I gave up,

and accepted this puzzle as

an article of faith.

Furthermore,

I stretched my reason

and logic

like philosophical silly putty

to understand that

God loves us

in a way that transcends

human understanding,

unless, of course,

you don’t profess

your belief in Him.

In that case,

you will burn 

in everlasting hell.

Everlasting?

Eternal?

Like,

as long as

God Himself 

has been alive,

longer than the Sequoias have climbed

into the sky,

deeper than the Coral Reef,

past the boundaries of

outer space?

That kind of

eternal punishment?

Seems vindictive to me,

vindictive

in a human way.

In the name of faith,

I will suspend my disbelief

only if it brings others

into the Grand Re-Unification,

but I didn’t join up

to scare others

into signing on

the dotted line.

I am a follower

of the Christ,

and I am here to tell you:

God loves you

and wants to be reunited

with you.

I am not a salesman

for an after-life

insurance policy.

Wisdom (Prompt: On the Other Hand)

Maybe

the grass is greener on the other side

and you can judge a book by its cover

and the first restaurant you see may be the best

and it’s ok to let the sun catch you crying

and pride doesn’t always go before a fall

and love is not all you need

and the good don’t always die young

and the Lord doesn’t help those who help themselves

and the free market system isn’t best

and the early bird doesn’t get the worm

and he who hesitates is not lost

but on the other hand

I have only four fingers

because of a

freak industrial accident

which

for all my wisdom

I could not foresee

nor prevent.

Word Cloud of PAD 2011 Favorites

So, I took all the names of all the mentions I made during PAD 2011 and let wordle.net make a word cloud for me.  When I think of talent writers, this is what I see. - Moskowitz

As I Leave the Time Machine (Prompt: After Leaving Here)

Sitting here 
with the time machine,
I make glorious plans.

I am taken back to 
memories 
some golden, some bitter 

and taken to dreams, 
allowing myself the conceit 
of clairvoyance.

In the time machine
everything that I am not
does not matter 

it’s just me 
these fingers 
this keyboards
and these thoughts

all
somehow
inexplicably 
working in concert 

for some creative
common end. 

While a man sitting alone at 
a machine 
can hardly be called noble,

sometimes 
if he strikes the idea 
just right 
and the Muse 
has been kind

he’ll write something
that might make a difference

even if that difference 
is only
a smile.

So,
I keep trying, 

though the ideas be 
modest or miniscule.

Perhaps they’ll outlast me
as an incomplete legacy, 

and 
as I leave the time machine
of writing

I will re-engage 
with the real-world

long enough and
deep enough 
to hopefully find 

still more
to bring back 
to the machine.

Ode to Julius (Prompt: Ode)

As far back as I can remember,
you were the uncle that I only read about
and saw from a distance
in black and white.


You were sardonic and intelligent
and the first man
I ever wanted to be like.


Your nightly prayer:
“Unborn yesterday, dead tomorrow;
why fret if life be sweet?”
might’ve made
the Buddha smile.


The fact that you
always made the wisest crack
in the room
was awe-inspiring.


Some may have forgotten you,
but I carry you as an iconic ideal,
and keep studying,
in my vain attempt to become you.


In you
I saw a reluctant prophet
whose mission was to deflate
the world’s pomposity,


and in this self-important,
narcissistic society,
it is a calling worth emulating.


I regret that
the only time
we ever met
was at Eden Memorial Park Cemetery,
at your marker,
decorated with
a lone Star of David:


“Groucho Marx,
1890-1977.” 

The World Without Color TV (Prompt: The World without ___")

Feather-like,

Anita floated into my world

and brought to everything

she touched

new life,

new meaning.

How could I not

build my whole existence

around her?

It’s like I once heard:

“She's like color TV. 

Once you have it,

you never want to go back

to black and white.”

Into the Heart of this Mess (Prompt: In the ___ of ____)

Life is a series of 
huge, unpainted canvases
and every day 
I prick myself
just a little bit,

and let the blood
wash over all that space
and I’ll write a melody,
or puree the language, 
deface an advertisement
with my inky piss,
give a spare dollar 
to an otherwise
invisible veteran,

and all these 
quiet acts of agency,
are my protests 
again the mundane and 
inevitable conclusion
to this existence.

Everyday’s 
waiting for my mark
my blood, 
my time, 

and when I am taken
from this plane

if you gather 
all these explosions 
these splatters of blood
and
look deeply 
into the heart of this mess,

I pray you find
it was worth it.

Ahead of My Time (Less Indulgent Version)

1977 -
In junior high school PE,
I was one of those boys
who wasn’t a great athlete
and I didn’t aspire to be one.

I liked talking to girls
and reading
and listening to records
and daydreaming
and watching
Heckle and Jeckle cartoons.

I dreaded the miscreant sadists
we called “Coach,”
and their misguided attempts
to make men of
"sissy boys" like me.

I never understood
why all my classmates
loved this -
even as a kid
I knew it was sweaty,
messy
and not conducive to
learning.

And now, as I see the fattening
of middle school boys
in 2011
texting girls
plugged into their iPods
playing Call of Duty
and not wanting to get sweaty,

I smile
at how I was 
ahead of my time.

Ahead of Our Time (Prompt: Leader and/or Follower Poem)

1977 -

In junior high school PE,

I was one of those boys

who wasn’t a great athlete

and I didn’t aspire to be one.

I liked talking to girls

and reading

and listening to records

and daydreaming

and watching

Heckle and Jeckle cartoons.

I dreaded the miscreant sadists

we called “Coach,”

and their misguided attempts

to make men of

"sissy boys" like me

and Armando,

the other overweight Mexican

kid in the group.

Our skinny white classmates

ran like grinning idiots

at these coaches’ command,

but Armando and I

protested as we

walked the track

far behind the pack.

I never understood

why all my classmates

loved this -

even as a kid

I knew it was sweaty,

messy

and not conducive to

learning.

Maybe they were

acting out some homoerotic

army man fantasy

as they bobbed in anticipation

and divided themselves into

teams.

One day, Coach Perez,

the only other Mexican in class

(imagine our  betrayal!)

had enough of our apathy,

so he had us lay on our backs

on the blacktop

and do leg lifts,

at 30 degrees

then 60 degrees,

then 90 degree angles

for the entire period.

Our guts burned

but we didn’t

say a word to complain.

We just took it,

silent and stoic –

like men.

For the remainder of the year

we had an unspoken compact

with Coach Perez,

where we would half-try

and he would half leave us alone.

And now, as I see the fattening

of middle school boys

2011

texting girls

plugged into their iPods

and playing Call of Duty

and not wanting to get sweaty,

I smile

at how Armando and I were

ahead of our time.

Cosmic Banana Peel (Prompt: Falling Poem)

Falling is the reminder

to keep myself humble.

When I try to present myself

as perfect,

flawless

or more simply,

merely balanced,

the rug slips from under my foot,

the shower floor becomes slicker,

the height of the curb, higher.

The challenge is not

how quickly I can right myself

and regain dignity,

but rather,

how happily can I accept

this indignity

that I did not want.

I do not deserve

smooth, unwrinkled perfection,

none of us do,

and the minute I think otherwise,

I slow down

and check myself

for I know

there must be a

cosmic banana peel

somewhere out there

with my name on it.

Prayer for Just Enough (prompt: Prayer Poem)

Lord,

please bring us world peace
but just enough to keep things
tranquil 
without becoming boring.

Please bring us good health
but just enough 
so that our own occasional
ache and pain 
will remind us to have compassion
for others’ hardships.

Bring us prosperity
but just enough
so that no one ever goes to bed
hungry
and that no one ever becomes 
possessed 
by their possessions.

Let us be sure 
of your infinite forgiveness
but just enough 
so that we never cheapen
your grace 
by taking it 
for granted. 

Lord, 
let us love one another
and take care of one another
just enough
to eventually
replace this list 
of petitions
with an endless psalm
of thanksgiving.

Baruch Hashem Adonai.

The Plea (Prompt: Quit Doing That Poem)

Of the multitude of sins
you commit:

from dishonoring our mothers and fathers 
for comedic effect,
to encouraging the coveting of all
things material and shiny,
to violating the Sabbath 
to attend the early bird sale,

I implore you, 
Madison avenue:

please stop co-opting
the soundtrack of 
our collective 
culture and memory 

to sell more
beer,
cell phones
and SUVs.

No Separation (Prompt: Only One in the World Poem)

There is more to this world

than can be seen

by the untrained eye.

If you accept this

then also know

that the line where

my body ends

and where the space

around me begins

is

continuous:

no separation.

The air that touches me

touches you

and the idea

that there is any

distinction

between

me and you and

anything else

is a shared illusion.

The differences

we think

we see,

are just things

we think.

If one looks

very closely

and sees everything

as holy

there is no separation
from anything

including God

and this is

good news

indeed. 

First Thought, Second Thought (Prompt: Second Thought Poem)

I’ve never read Kerouac

but I’ve heard his motto was

“First thought, best thought.”

I guess that’s why

he’s a genius.

Often I set my ideas

up on the high dive

only to find

    - splat!-

no water in the pool.

I own my mistakes

because

at the time

I never

made the

second best decision:

every mistake

seemed like

a good idea

at the time.

My first thoughts

are rude and messy,

combustible and inelegant.

The second thoughts

are the polite ones,

the properly socialized

and educated ones.

The first thought

may be me,

but the second thought

is Me.

Message in the Bottle (Prompt: Message in a bottle poem)

I drained the first bottle

looking for the message.

It was fun,

but I didn’t see any message,

so, thinking I had

a defective one,

I drained a second bottle.

The second one felt good

right away,

so I didn’t mind

draining a third

in search of that

ever elusive message.

Years passed,

bottles fell,

and nights wasted.

I don’t remember

when it stopped

being fun,

but I realized if there

was a message waiting

at the bottom of the bottle,

I was too damned drunk

to see it.

When I drained

the last bottle

just before midnight

February 10, 1990,

a message finally made it

through:

“you can’t handle this.”

It wasn’t profound,

but it was honest,

and, thankfully,

I haven’t handled it

since.

Doesn’t Look like Love, But Is (Prompt: Love Poem) and Looks Like Love, But Isn’t (Prompt: Anti-Love Poem)

Doesn’t Look like Love, But Is (Love Poem)

The place reeked of sweat 
and insecurity,
there was a twisted honor
in this verbal mosh pit,
as insult upon insult 
piled higher and cut deeper.

Nothing was sacred;
one’s skin eruptions
the size of one’s genitalia
the supposed sexual performance
of one’s mother,

the more stinging,
the better.

Years in the future
the women in our lives
would never understand
this humor,
this camaraderie,
this test.

“It just sounds 
so mean, so negative.”

We tempered each other
in the nastiest, most vicious
remarks
because the last thing 
we wanted was 
to see your pal 
completely devastated
the day his boss called him 
a fuck up
or his girlfriend
tried to impugn his 
manhood.

We were in training,
toughening each other up
for the struggle 
that seemed as inevitable
as our fathers’ 
quiet exhaustion.
-------------------
Looks Like Love, But Isn’t (Anti-Love Poem)

Completely unbound
by desire and passion
they shamelessly explored,
unaware, unconcerned
with anything or anyone else.

The surgical perfection
in his oiled Olympian musculature
glistened,
and every inch of her skin 
had been powdered, 
waxed and painted 
to superhuman effect.

His rigid, oversized and 
camera-ready member
didn’t fail owing to
off-camera doses 
of Viagra and amphetamine,
and she accepted him 
into every pulsating, waiting,
pre-lubricated orifice with breathless
adoration and acquiescence.

Over and over, 
with random, alternating camera angles,
anything human sounding
was drowned out by music 
designed to mirror the repetition 
and presumed excitement of the scene.

Long ago, the makers dispensed with
the pretense of exposition 
or dialogue – it just got 
fast forwarded past anyways.

Having seen what felt like
hundreds of these loops,
in retrospect,
I resent how they 
hijacked my sense of who I was 
and what I wanted,

because while I still had my virginity,
I let them steal my holiness,
and I wish I could get it back. 

Like In The Old Days (Prompt: Like ____)

Yesterday

we walked through

the furniture warehouse,

past rows of cast-off,

refugee surroundings,

and amused ourselves

with their garish,

outdated style.

These dusty pieces

reminded us of pasts

where we grew up

unaware of each other.

I tried

to make you laugh

like in the old days,

when you were

the most important audience

that I ever wanted to win over.

And now,

even though we fall asleep and

wake up next to each other everyday,

I still want to entertain you,

to make your day lighter,

to bring forth

your honeyed laughter,

which I have always

translated

as proof of

your love and approval,

which I still need

just like in the old days.

The Big Picture, IMHO (Prompt: The Big Picture")

“The Big Picture, IMHO”

No dogma,

no apologetics,

no complicated legalism:

only Love,

and if that’s too abstract,

then try Jesus,

not the Bible,

not the church,

just Jesus.

Genetics Don't Lie (Prompt: Snapshot)

I always thought I was adopted

and for a long time felt

there was a silent conspiracy

to keep the real truth from me.

Then I saw the snapshot.

I was in my teens

and I was wearing

an Air force Dress uniform.

I couldn't remember

this yellowed and bent

photograph

taken at an

unrecognizable angle

and venue.

Was it in a school play?

Was it a costume party?

Upon closer inspection

it was my father taken

when he was serving

in 1955.

That monstrous nose,

wide forehead

friendly smile,

genetics don't lie,

Mystery solved.

David [name withheld] (Prompt: Profile Poem)

His hubris is such

that he often says

his six-word story is

“God created,

and so must I.”

In everything he does

he tries a creative approach.

While this is not

always successful

(as evidenced by his previous

failed love relationships),

he relies upon

the element of surprise

to compensate for

true talent and competence.

He is most proud

of his second marriage

and how seamlessly

he became a husband

and assumed the paternal role

to Anita’s pre-existing

family.

In his free time

he is a voracious reader

of nonfiction,

with his favorite genres being

show business biographies,

theological treatises

and reference books.

He loves all forms

of music,

and his favorite all-time band

is the New York Dolls.

He started writing

when he was 15,

and while there have been

long periods of inactivity

in the intervening 33 years,

writing is the single

most gratifying work

he’s ever done.

When he writes

he is no longer

overweight or

Mexican or

awkward or

unwanted or

lonesome.

True to his credo,

when he writes

he creates himself,

and it amuses him,

and thankfully,

he amuses easily.