The End of the World (Prompt: Doomsday)

It’s Saturday.

I slept in late,
checked the prompt.

Then life
just buffalo’ed in
like it tends to do
and I realize that
if I don’t write a poem
today
it won’t be
the end of the world,

but
best not to chance it.

EXTRA! EXTRA!

Big shout out to Vince Gotera - he had the good taste to feature this blog on his blog!
Check his cool poetry out too!

http://vincegotera.blogspot.com/2012/04/day-12-napowrimo-poem-day.html

Just In Case (Prompt: Unlucky)

I avoid walking
under ladders
and will skid
out of the path
of a black cat.

I knock on wood
and scratch
the interior ceiling
of any car I'm in
when going through a
yellow light.

If the car radio
is playing “Respect”
by Aretha Franklin
I shut it off
because it was playing
when I was in
that car crash
back in 1985.

I don’t have
lucky lotto numbers,
but I do have
a lucky number -
anything that isn’t
13.

If I spill the salt
I sweep it up and
throw it
over my shoulder

and I always pick
my wife’s handbag
up off the floor,
so she’ll never be poor.

I always take tests
with freshly sharpened pencils
so I am using pencil points
that never made
an error.

And whenever
I have to do a
Power Point presentation
for the
Board of Trustees,

I attach and it send
to 3 different
email accounts

always with the memo line
JIC (Just In Case),

and bring the presentation
on two separate
flash drives.

And every Friday
I wish my wife
“Happy Anniversary”
mostly out of love
but a little bit
out of fear
of what’ll happen if
I forget,

because
you can’t be
too careful.

Sometimes It’s Obvious (Prompt: Sometimes ____ )

They stir something
in us that makes us
admire their nobility,
their unshatterable dignity.

They find ways to walk
without legs,
type without fingers,
trust without seeing,
dance without ever
hearing the music.

Sometimes it’s obvious,
but sometimes it isn’t.

For years
she asked me
for a wheelchair
or leg braces,
because she knew it
would let the world know
there was something
“wrong”
with her.

As she gets older,
and we learn more about
her disability,
I realize it is not
invisible, only hidden

deep inside
her skull,
inside the already
twisted Gordian knot of
synapses, nerve receptors
and other gray matter,
her cerebellum
most likely deprived of oxygen
in utero
is damaged,
and slowly the effects
are manifesting:

balance problems
organizational problems
sequencing problems
emotional problems
algebra word problems
visual-spatial problems
auditory processing problems
problem problems.

The good news is
she’s not so bad off
that the world sees her
as disabled.

The bad news is
she’s not so bad off
that the world sees her
as disabled.

Autumn (for Rachel, who has been in Montana 26 days) (Prompt: Season)

It was still winter
when you left,
and spring doesn’t
hold out much
hope for your return.

I doubt that
you’ll want to come back
to the oppressive heat
and smog of
a Moreno Valley summer,

so perhaps,
I’ll have to wait
until Autumn
for your return.

Autumn has always
been my favorite season
but if you told me
you were
coming home tomorrow,

spring would be my
new favorite season
of the year.

Auto-Pruning the Family Tree (Prompt: Tree)

My family tree
started with Juan and Trini,
my grandparents
who came from
Mexico.

They had ten kids,
who in turn,
added 23 branches
to the family tree,
and many of these
sprouted branches of their own,
beautiful and strong
all through Los Angeles
county.

Except for me
and my brothers:

no kids.

My father used to say
“you can’t miss
what you never had,”

but I think my Mom
probably would have liked
grandchildren,
reaching past
the barrier of the unknown,
outlasting her.

But, Mom,
you showed us
what it took to be good,
self-sacrificing parents,
and it didn’t look
so appealing.

You never bought yourself
anything nice.
You didn’t have
any outside interests
of your own.
You never
went on vacation.

I wish you could’ve
enjoyed raising us
more than you let on.

Perhaps, then
I wouldn’t feel
so perpetually
guilty

about being
being a nuisance
a bother,
a burden
to someone,

and maybe then,

you’d
have grandchildren.

(Submitted for #OpenLinkNight at dversepoets.com  - Come join the fun!)

The Conspiracy Theorist Speaks (with apologies to Robert Lee Brewer) (Prompt: Shady)

How does he do it?
What is the mystery,
that missing piece of logic,
that would provide
the answer?

I check in
everyday in April
to see what
I’m writing about,
and somedays
I look at the prompt,
and think
“This can’t be
a planned-
ahead-of-time
prompt.

Looks like
he just made it
up on the spot.”

He says
he plans all the prompts
for the month
in advance,
yet everyday
he magically
comes up with a
perfect poem
to match
the prompt.

I’ll bet he gathers
his unpublished poetry,
gets 30 of them
together,
writes prompts based
on those existing poems
and then presents
prompt and poem
together,
voila!

Yes,
I bet
there’s something
shady going on
here,

I bet.

I Reject the Prompt (Prompt: Rejection)

I reject the edict
to write today.

I reject the compulsion
to not miss a day
in the April
Poem-a-Day
Challenge.

I reject the prompt.

April Fool!

This Bed (Prompt: Scene of Two People, No Sound)

In the end of all such days
they find themselves
back together in this bed,
exhaling in unison
as they lie down
on their backs.

In retrospect,
the events of the day
seems less insurmountable,
and they close their eyes
delivering these problems
into the arms of
unseen angels in the
darkness.

They clasp hands,
close their eyes
and implicitly trust
that the other
will be there
upon rising.

Dividing Up Stuff (Prompt: Hiding)

It was easy
to cheat on her
because
she trusted me.

I hid in plain sight
because when
someone loves you
they trust you.

She wasn’t
looking for my sin,
my flaw,
and she didn’t find it.

When I eventually
told her
I was leaving,
I made the mistake of
leaving her alone
with my private
things.

She went through
all my private files
and found all
the unsent poems,
hotel room receipts,
stray love notes,
and other convicting detritus
and stacked them
on the filing cabinet
for me to find
upon my return.

This was her proof
of my flagrant disrespect
and lazy contempt.

Still,
I couldn’t help
but feel betrayed
that my secret persona
was outed,
my performance
as dutiful partner
spoiled,
my private world
violated.

When trust ends
all that’s left
is dividing up stuff
and walking away.

Lenny (Prompt: Something Before My Time)

I first met him in his cartoon 

where he plays an emotionally

distant Lone Ranger

who ends up taking Tonto 

away for a consensual 

unnatural act.

I was instantly hooked.

As he mocked 

the pseudosanctimony of

Ike’s America,

I was stuck in 

Reagan’s Movie America

and he sounded prophetic.

He wasn’t just telling jokes,

but trying ideas.

He peeled back the 

hypocritical 

“what should be” 

to reveal the caustic

“what is.”

The popular version is

that he was a dirty mouth comic 

who just said “cocksucker” 

and lowered the bar 

for generations of vulgarians

waiting at the Gate (of Horn). 

To me, he was a poet

with words and sounds 

and bad movie star imitations.

He was desperate 

for the truth

and when he gazed upon it, 

he found it painful 

to the point 

of heroin.

More than a martyr,

he was an artist,

trying to tickle out an honest laugh

and some truth,

the same way that 

Charlie Parker tried to 

coax something hitherto unknown 

out of the trunk of jazz standards.

His was an alto saxophone voice,

alive and demanding,

bending notes with 

Yiddish rhythm,

street profanity 

and the tsuris of 

five millenia and 

six million Jews. 

He never tried to do the

same thing twice

and I understand

he was genuinely kind

and generous to a fault.

Who else but SuperJew

would stand up 

and say 

“Have rachmones 

for Adolph Eichmann?”

Only Jesus Christ

and Lenny Bruce.

100% is the Only True Number (Prompt: 100%)

100% is the only true number.

Everything else
just appears to be
a fraction.

I cannot prove any of this
but I suspect
it is all together
in one living
pulsating
being.

Duality and
non-duality
as one.

There is no there,
just the long,
faraway continuation of
here.

The good news is
there is no God
who is separate
from who we are.

There’s only God
and included in God
are the believers
the unbelievers
the nonbelievers
the abelievers
the logical positivists
the scientists
the materialists
the atheists
the agnostics
the yin and the yang
and the double yang.

Don’t be fooled by this
convenient shared illusion

that there is a you
that is separate from me,
and there is a them
that is separate from us.

There is
no chocolate cake,
no cardinal in the tree,
no breathless orgasm,
no Yogi Berra,

just God
in the guise of
chocolate cake,
a cardinal in the tree,
the breathless orgasm
and Yogi Berra.

There is only one
reality

and this is how you spent
the last two minutes
of it.

Apology Song (Prompt: Apology)

I’m sorry I ate so late last night
I’m sorry I let my alarm wake her up
I’m sorry I didn’t l kiss her goodbye

I’m sorry I didn’t leave five minutes sooner
I’m sorry I let this fool ahead of me on the onramp
I’m sorry I need soy milk in this coffee

I’m sorry I forgot to get that signature
I’m sorry I couldn’t take your call
I’m sorry I can’t keep you, it’s the budget

I’m sorry I ate so much at lunch
I’m sorry I dinged that car next to me
I’m sorry I can’t stay awake for your after-lunch meeting

I’m sorry I will get to it before I leave
I’m sorry I will make it up to you
I’m sorry I thought what’s-his-name has doing it

I’m sorry I forgot to fill up my tank at lunch
I’m sorry I said I’d pick him up on the way home
I’m sorry I kept you waiting

I’m sorry I am late for dinner
I’m sorry I got spaghetti sauce on my good tie
I’m sorry I don’t know if your teacher is right, honey

I’m sorry I just need some quiet time
I’m sorry I had that second helping of dessert
I’m sorry I forgot to call the insurance guy

I’m sorry I’ll check to see if the alarm is set
I’m sorry I can see you’re not in the mood
I’m sorry I didn’t do so well today, Lord

but if you give me another one tomorrow,
I’ll try to do better.

(For #OpenLinkNight at dversepoets.com - come, join the fun!)

Two Visits (Prompt: Visitor)

Sometimes the visitor
is welcome.

When my beloved
little 96 year-old
grandmother from Mexico
was lying in the hospital bed
for a month,
dying from mostly old age,
each day took a little bit more
of my father’s heart,
as he made
the 80 mile round trip
dutifully,
until she finally
stopped fighting
and let the visitor in
that Saturday morning.

By that time,
the visitor was welcome.

Two days later
after Pop mowed the lawn,
complained of a sore shoulder
(which my mother rubbed
with Icy Hot),
and ate a microwave
corn dog,

he laid on the floor,
and as he watched
the 4 o’clock news,
the visitor quietly came again
and took him too.

Two visits
in sixty hours.

This time the visitor
wasn’t welcome.

(Inspired by Becky Sain’s “This isn’t everything you are.”)

Tips for New Writers (Prompt: Communication)

Be honest
and be clear,

there’s no point in doing this
if you’re just going to lie
or write so you
won’t be understood.

If you’re looking for
giant ego strokes
then you
probably want to invest
in liposuction,
breast augmentation,
or hair plugs.

No,
if you're in this
then you either communicate
something of value
or nothing at all.

If you don’t illuminate,
then why are you
trying to shine?

If you don’t know nature
don’t write about it,
and if you don’t know about love
don’t write about it.

Write about what you know
and if you think
you don’t know anything,

then start writing about anything
and fling it onstage
before the masses,

and then you’ll learn
failure and rejection,
and then write about those;

they are subjects
to which we all
can relate.

Rainbow Lesson

I looked out
my gray
third-floor
office window
and I saw
a perfect rainbow,

the arc
of glorious color

and for the first time
in my life
I saw
where both ends
settled on the horizon.

This was a
completely unexpected
miracle.

Awestruck,
I grabbed my cell phone
and snapped a quick picture
but that didn't do it justice.

So, I opened my word processor
to try and capture that thrill,
that catch in my throat,
but when I turned again to look
it was gone,
lost somewhere
in the dirty white clouds
over the Southern California basin.

I felt the pang of loss immediately,
but I was
too grateful to be disappointed

because I just learned
everything I need to know
for the rest of my life.

(Note: This was written a few years ago, and it seemed appropriate to the prompt of being alive in the moment.  So, I offer it up for D'Verse Meeting at the Bar.  Check it out at http://dversepoets.com/ )

Be Careful (Prompt: One Last Thing)

With my parents
it  was never goodbye,
so long,
or see you later.

The last thing my parents
always said upon parting was
be careful.

It used to bug me
until I realized that
be careful
meant

I love you
and I want you to come back safely,

The world’s a tricky place
and I want you to come back safely,

Don’t stay away so long
because I want you to come back safely.

In retrospect.
it seems superstitious,

but their superstition is hopelessly locked
in my DNA,

so even as I said goodbye to Pop
as he laid there in the casket,

I could still hear his voice
telling me to

be careful.

Lucky Lotto

"Of course, I’m playing.
The jackpot’s up
over 300 million dollars.

Only takes one ticket to win.

My numbers?
Well, I’ll tell you
five out of the six.

Ok, first is 9
because that’s how old I was
when my dad left my mom and
we had to go on welfare,
but that was good
because it made us all stronger,
so that’s why 9.

Next is 13
because that’s how old I was
when I finally
got up the courage
to tell the diocese
that the priest had been,
you know,
doing stuff to me and
they fired him,
or sent him away
or something.

The next two go together,
17 and 2.
I was 17 when I tracked down
my sister’s rapist
and beat his junk
into a bloody pulp
with my Louisville slugger,
and 2 is the number of
years probation I got.

And 25,
that’s how old my wife’s
going to be when
the baby comes out,
if everything goes
according to plan.

What?

No, I can’t tell you
my sixth lotto number.

I gotta keep a few secrets
for myself."

(Written for #OpenLinkNight at http://dversepoets.com/.)

thanks

because a year ago today

she tried to do herself in

and thankfully she wasn’t 

any good at it

and thankfully the insurance

covered her week in the

psychiatric hospital

and thankfully we had enough

in savings to take her

to that famous brain doctor

in Orange County

who provided pretty scans of her

imperfect cerebellum

and thankfully

we finally could toss out all

the misdiagnosis alphabet soup

ADDADHDBPDepression

and discovered a new path

SPD
and thankfully
she's free of all the meds
and their prison of side effects

and thankfully

she’s slowly getting better

and thankfully she got to do

a normal teenage girl thing

and go with her friend

to the midnight premiere

of “The Hunger Games”

and I could not have imagined this

a year ago

 so I say in all humility

thanks.

To Rachel’s Prospective Suitors

Please turn off
that clicking beeping whirring gadget
and put your eyes here.

Here’s what you need to know
before taking out my daughter tonight:

When you talk to me
please look me in the eye.
I don’t expect you to have all
the answers,
but I expect thoughtfulness.

Please pull your pants
up to your waist.
She doesn't want to see your underwear.
That stopped being stylish
around the year you were born.

If you watch pornography,
stop it.
My daughter is not to be used
as the bull’s-eye for your ejaculate,
swallower of your semen,
or fulfillment of your digitized fantasies.
If you want that,
marry her,
then that’ll be your negotiation.

You may be a player,
but my daughter isn’t a game
with which to be toyed.

If I ask you about your future,
don’t get all weirded out.
I can learn a lot about who
you are
by learning
where you’re headed.

Also,
when you take her out 
you are to be 
her unpaid bodyguard,
treating her so royally
that other women upon seeing you
should wish you were
their date.

Please
do not ask my daughter
to pay for any of the
first five dates,
and please have a driver’s license
and a reliable car.
If she wanted a child
to take care of
she would’ve had one.

I don’t mind if you have body art,
pierced anything,
earrings, nose rings,
but if it’s the first thing
I notice about you
then you’ve done something wrong.

Also, please never refer to her as
a “Bitch,” “Ho” or “Man.”

Her name is Rachel
and she is my daughter.


(Written for http://dversepoets.com/ #OpenLinkNight)

To Any Girls with Bullets and Arrows

All the girls 
who loved me and
eventually left me 
knew I had a writing habit.


So, 
they kissed me on the cheek
and said things 
that my mind heard as
“you need this pain for your art”
“you need to stretch yourself”
”it’ll be good for you to grow”
“you can do better than me”. 


I suppose these phrases 
were meant to console me.


Well, how dare they.


I don’t know if their goodbyes
improved my writing
or perhaps I passed my creative peak
long ago,


but store this away
all you girls with my name 
on your bullets and arrows:


I’ve had enough of the pain
and tears just make the words 
sound stupid anyway
and the morning after is always worse 
than the night before.


So 
even though your leaving 
would fuel another contribution
to the canon of the 
self-pitying written word 
writ swollen and drunk after midnight,


please 
stay.




[Posted for D'Verse Poets Filling the Gaps . This was an especially tricky assignment, as I try to make my poems completely self-contained and self-explanatory (with no need for explanation).  That said, here's an old poem from 1988, when I was having an particularly self-pitying night. Hoped you liked it.]

The Eternal Challenge (Prompt: Challenge Poem)

Throw down the gauntlet
I’ve drawn a line in the sand

I dare you
I double dare you
I double dog dare ya
I triple dog dare ya

you’re yella
you’re a chicken
you ain’t got the stones
why don’t you grow a pair?

knock this off my shoulder
stand up for yourself
shit or get off the pot
what’s it gonna be?

you ain’t man enough
put on your big girl pants
don’t take another step
I’ll slap your ass
into the middle of next week.

if you loved me, you would
oh yeah?
you and what army?

come over here and say that
smile when you say that

I’ll drop your ass like a bad habit

go ahead, make my day
feelin’ lucky, punk?

She Looked Me in the Eyes

After a seven year courtship,
we were married on
Black Sunday.

She looked me in the eyes
and said:
“I Do.”

The day was cursed,
her family
wouldn’t speak with my family.

The two-tiered cake falling
during the first dance
wasn’t a good omen either.

Though she slept a lot
during the day
throughout our honeymoon,
I kept thinking
that my expectations
were too high,
and things
would get better.

Six weeks in
I discovered she
was secretly dating her
C+ programming professor
since before we got married,
and she assured me
that he was just a friend,
but also somehow mentioned
that he made $70,000 a year
to my $29,000.

On Day 141,
I left,
and she went to his place
to drink champagne,
slow dance and screw.

Five days later,
a flirtatious married coworker
who pretended to care,
offered me
sympathy and fellatio
anytime I needed it.

I was aghast,
but still heartbroken.

After weeks
of dreamless nights
crying and trembling,
I could no longer
resist.

She looked me in the eyes
and said:
“No One Will Ever Know.”

I gave in
and shot all my hate
rage and anguish,
into her sweaty
debased body
that August afternoon.

Naively,
I thought that might end it,
not realizing that she thrived
on such humiliation.

The next day
she offered herself
as my slave
to be used
defiled,
desecrated.

Finally,
my soul sent up a white flag,
and I unilaterally
ceased and desisted
from seeing her again.

She eventually
broke her promise
when she told her husband
that I tried to rape her.

So,
when I tell you I have
trust issues,
it isn’t that
I don’t know
how to trust;

I don’t know
who to trust.

Afloat (Prompt: Toulouse-Lautrec’s “In Bed The Kiss”).

Eyes closed
heart open,

future laid
before them.

This moment
erases years
of obligation,
forced sentiment
spent elsewhere.

Afloat in
that mysterious
afterglow, before
losing consciousness

and gaining
direction for
this newly
coupled life.

Rapture Strategy

The world is coming
to and end
and we couldn’t be happier for it!

While we don’t appreciate
all the evil in this world:
the fornicators
the drive-thru abortionists
the sexually deviant
the slave owners
the torturers,

we are grateful,
as their sinfulness
rockets us closer to
the Rapture.

Reaching out to them
in compassion and
empathy,
might work against us,
for if we really loved them
and understood them,
they might change their ways
and then
the homosexuality
the abortions
the war
the wholesale destruction
of precious life
might cease

and there might be
Peace,
Harmony,
Heaven on Earth,

and that just can’t be
permitted to exist!

How the Hell
is the Rapture
going to get here
if we love and
take care of each other
and this world,
and make ourselves
as sinless as possible?

It can’t
and it won’t!

So
we just won’t presume
the inherent sinfulness of Man,
and the necessity
to turn to Jesus,

we need to
foment the misery,
avarice
and slaughter,
so that it becomes
so abhorrent
that Messiah will return

and take us up
with Him in His rocket ship
to Heaven

and leave the rest of
His Fouled Creation
to wallow in the filth
negation
and fire of the nonbeliever.

Now,
I ask the congregation:

do you believe?

(Written for http://dversepoets.com/ #OpenLinkNight)

Prepare to Die (Prompt: Preparation)

Everyday
I prepare to die,

by slowing down
and not fighting
the inevitable.

I practice
wide-eyed breathing,
taking in everything
without judgment or attachment.

I feel less scared of death
but I am still not ready
to go.

My best poem
hasn’t been written
and my best melody is still
hiding somewhere
inside a piano
waiting to be coaxed out
and I just hope I find it
before Death finds me.

I wonder if every goodbye
is going to be
the final goodbye,
but before I can
do anything that would
constitute a Grand Finale,
I just leave,
to prepare myself
for how random and mundane
the inevitable end must be.

This life is
an improvised play
in a theatre with
outdated permits
and it’s only
a matter of time
before the Fire Marshall
unceremoniously
shuts it all down.

So,
play on, I say!

Transvaginal Probe

“Before proceeding,
I have to tell you that
your answers are being monitored
for quality assurance purposes,
and they can and will
be used against you
in a court of law.

You have the right to a
born-again Christian attorney.
If you cannot afford one
or scored “Less Than Competent”
on the “Morality Inventory”
you answered when you registered
one will be appointed for you
at no cost to you.

Do you understand?

Yes, I can see you’re
bleeding,
but before we proceed
I need you to tell me
you understand.

Very good.

Question 1:
Are you now
or have you ever been
sexually active outside
the boundary of traditional,
one man, one woman
marriage?

Very good.

Question 2:
Have you ever inserted
any object into your vagina
other than a tampon
for anything other than
hygienic purposes?

I’m sorry, could you repeat that?
I couldn’t distinguish
your response
from your moan.

Very good.

Question 3:
Have you ever
used any of the following
products:
male condom
female condom
spermicide
diaphragm
cervical cap
contraceptive sponge
birth control pills
Depo-Provera
Lunelle
vaginal ring
intrauterine device
withdrawal
sterilization or
natural family planning
to prevent the
fertilization of
your precious irreplaceable
ovum?

Hm.
Could you elaborate
on your answer?

Your doctor prescribed it
to regulate your cycle?
I thought so.

Alright then,
I think we’ve everything in order.

Just take this sheet
into the green room,
change into this paper gown,
and after your procedure
the nurse will inform
you of when your results
will be uploaded
to YouTube.

Thank you.”

(Written for http://dversepoets.com/ #OpenLinkNight)

Open Mike (Prompt: Risk Poem)

In my bedroom
at my parent’s house
me and my little $28 guitar
performed concerts
at Carnegie Hall
at the Universal Amphitheatre
in Abbey Road Studios.

Starting in 1975,
I strummed and sang
to adoring, imagined audiences.

(I even planned for my
New York debut
to come out and start
the show with an
acoustic version of
“Nights on Broadway.”)

But
I never worked up the nerve
to sing my own songs,
my own heart
for others.

Flash forward to 2001:
My father died,
I lived in a passionless coupling,
my chippie went back
to the man she would eventually marry,
my OCD was at fever pitch,
and while the Prozac
didn’t kill my erection,
I couldn’t come anymore.

The ad said
“INLAND EMPIRE
SONGWRITER’S OPEN MIKE.”

Dr. Warren said I should do it,
so I found myself there
armed with what I thought
were my best songs.

They called my name,
and my nerves jangled
all the way onstage.

I couldn’t see
past the stage lights
so I closed my eyes
and
launched into
the first song
I remember
ever writing
from 1981.

By the time the chorus
came around,
I could hear
their laughter,

and it felt good,
since they saw the humor
in a song titled

“If I Fall In Love
With You Again,
It’s My Own
Damned Fault.”

It took 20 years
to get there,
and I reveled
in my three minutes.

Some Cry

Some cry
in the stall
of the men’s room
during the sermon

and some cry
at the far end of
the Target parking lot
with the windows
rolled up
and the music on
loud.

Some cry
just sitting there
in the Starbucks
afraid to be
anything but invisible.

Some cry
but you’d never know it
for all the pain
they inflict
on others.

Some cry
only when
they’re happy
for to cry
otherwise
would start
an endless flood.

Some cry in the spotlight,
and some in that moment of
massive quiet
after they orgasm.

Some cry for the
mistakes that brought them
here,
and some cry
for the dreams that
never will be.

Some cry
because they can’t un-learn
how not to cry

and some cry
because it’s all
they have left.

Everybody cries,

but in this universal
malaise
lies the hope
for the birth of
empathy
which can give birth to
compassion
which can give birth to
love.

(Written for http://dversepoets.com/ #OpenLinkNight)

What My Neglected Lover Thinks (Prompt: What _____ Thinks)

We used to make
music together, and
though you couldn’t say
it was beautiful,
it was ours.

We would fly away
to quiet islands
where his touch
would bring forth
my sweetest sounds,

I was there
when every other female
broke his heart.

I’d take him in
all busted up and pitiful,
even smiling as he croaked out
the Great American Songbook,
until I nursed
that ungrateful bastard back
among the living.

Now I stand
waiting in his closet
with the rest of
his neglected digital concubines,

each with the empty promise
that we’ll be loved soon,
but we’ve all grown a bit jaded
waiting.

I should’ve seen
it coming,

The guitar
and the drumsticks
tried to warn me.

The King of Romance Speaks (for Sarah Lynn)

Flowers sent
on February 14th

rarely smell
as sweet

as the bouquets
sent

on any other
day.

(Posted for #OpenLinkNight, #31, at dversepoets.com )

Rock Bottom (Prompt: Dead End)

When the police ask

if you have any
unused vacation time
so you can go into hiding
until they can
find and dissuade
the man who is
trying to kill you
because he (erroneously) thinks
you raped his wife

and you pack
as many of your possessions
that’ll fit in the back of your Honda

and you take
one last
good look around
at the room
and think
“what if I never see this
again?”

then
you’ve probably hit
rock bottom.

My Secret Motivation

My acts of selflessness

are those of

a flawed Christ,

and I do not accept

their approbation;

their lauding.

Ostensibly,

I feign modesty

when my actions

are seen and praised,

for I know

my secret motivation.

I never dreamed

I would be walking through life

with someone so

beautiful,

so in order to keep her

I became a different person,

a better person,

to remain in her

circle of grace.

Sensing I will die

long before she will,

I work daily to leave

a legacy

so loving,

inimitable

and unexpected

that she will never

ever

want for any another,

but me.

So,

at the heart

of all this

grandiose selflessness

is a niggling kernel:

selfishness.

(Written for OpenLinkNight at dversepoets.com)

EXTRA! EXTRA! (They still say that, don't they?)

Thanks to the wonderful folks at bar none group, one of my poems is featured on their homepage.

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Shpritzo (Prompt: Habit)

Maybe it was years
of being picked on
for being fat,

or being the middle child,

or my training to be a
comedy writer,

but there is an ongoing
internal monologue
that answers
everything I encounter

with a shpritz,
a comic insult,
a smart-ass remark.

They are unwanted
and arrive instantaneously:

in quiet moments reserved for intimacy,
at deathbed confessions,
during pompous sermons,
while reading narcissistic status updates
and I just can’t help it.

Being a professional
I’ve trained myself
to keep them in line,

but sometimes I release them
because I think they’re too good
to keep to myself,

and I often realize
I was wrong,

usually, 

a word or two too late.

Then I wonder
what light is it
that shines through me,

Jesus Christ or Don Rickles?

The Crying, Brown Bear

He kept me company

every Sunday

when I dragged myself

into the empty computer lab

in graduate school.

It was lonely work

crunching all them numbers

chasing my thesis,

but his plaintive

beautiful voice

sang to me

like a lost brown bear,

crying in the black night 

trying to find

his mate.

He wrung poignancy

out of every lyric

and when he played piano

it sounded like it had

a million keys

and was 30 feet long.

When I finally got the chance

to meet him

the following year,

he was as genteel and kind

as he was tall and dazzling

in his sharp blue blazer

and his sequined captain’s hat,

and my only regret

is that I shook his hand,

suppressing my instinct

to hug him.

(Written for Dverse Poets Open Link Night )

My Best Friend’s Best Friend (Prompt: Friend of a Friend)

On Facebook

I see all the friends

of my friends.

They all look great.

Wonderful, glorious times

with gleaming movie star smiles.

They do not look incomplete.

They do not look melancholic.

Smiling happy people

reveling in their college memories,

with that same REM soundtrack.

Summoning my imagination,

I try hard,

squinting,

to picture myself among them.

Too fat.

Not brown enough and

not white enough.

Hopelessly uncool smile.

Too square to party.

I haven't forgotten the sting

of exclusion,

of betrayal,

so I became

my own best friend,

and sensing his loneliness

I am also

my own best friend’s

best friend.

Hibernating

It is a quiet,

sullen

sour grape of a month.

Jealous that it’s sandwiched

between the showbiz spectacle

of Christmastime

and the sexy pink orgy

of Valentine’s Day,

January is the

“get your tax forms ready” month,

the “sober up from your holiday bacchanal

and pay those

‘I don’t care,

Christmas comes

but once a year’” bills.

And this January

was the 12^th time

my father’s birthday

passed without his embrace.

January

finds me hibernating,

in my bed,

at my desk,

in my heart,

storing up my energy

for brighter,

more verdant days

that I am almost certain

are on the way.

(Posted as part of Open Link Night http://dversepoets.com/2012/01/24/open-link-night-week-28/ )