JC 2.0

The best part is

the experts had been

wrong.

Within minutes

Jesus went on

international TV

and held

a press conference,

sans interpreter.

After He did a few

magic tricks

to entertain and

convince the crowd,

He explained that John

had been hallucinating

in a jail cell when he

dreamed up

The Revelation,

and that it had been,

like so many other

human communiques,

screwed-up in translation.

The eternal conscious torment

of Hell

was similarly annulled,

and JC 2.0

(as the tabloids would

soon dub Him)

explained that while

everyone sinned,

everyone would have to go

through the fire to be

purified,

but here was where

JC 2.0 blew everyone’s

mind:

the fire didn’t hurt.

The fire was warm

and comforting

and some of the most sinful,

most pained miscreants

lingered in the fire 

far too long,

finally experiencing

something welcoming,

something that wasn’t cold

for the first time

they ever remembered.

JC 2.0 brought

the pure love,

which asked for nothing

in return,

not even faith.

He quickly went viral

and soon all that was left

were the skeptics

and the doubters,

and Jesus eventually won

them over too,

some with magic tricks,

some with genuine empathy

and an outstretched

welcoming

embrace.

Then JC 2.0

commandeered the planet

and set sail for

the far side of the Sun,

where preparations for

The Great Reunification

were already

in full swing.

[Written for the "Out of Standard with Izy"  imaginary garden with real toads challenge.]

We Have Come for Your Future

We have come

for your future,

and we will not be

deterred.

Your beliefs stand

like a moribund mansion

left untended,

overgrown with weeds,

with peeling paint,

grotesquely

oversized

for your neighborhood.

We have come

for your future,

and we will not

be distracted.

You stand on your porch,

shoulders wrapped

with a faded

and tattered flag,

standing on the

family Bible,

dusty from obsolescence,

exploiting these artifacts

as shields

to hide your prejudices

and antiquated justifications.

Your time has come

and gone.

We’ve been left out

of the inner rooms

of money and policy

long enough.

We are

cold, hungry and desperate,

and if you don’t

hand it over willingly,

we will take it.

Don’t fight us,

as we have time,

youth

and impatience

in our arsenal.

We come armed

will ideals

rooted in

the eternal value

of justice,

tips sharpened

by the sting

of unfairness

and the memory

of righteous indignation.

You tried to suffocate us

with powerlessness,

but our will to survive

was greater than your will

to destroy.

Yes,

we have come

for your future,

and we won’t take

No

for an answer.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com - come along a poem a spell!)

The Secret Mirror

I am the secret mirror

that reflects
only your soul,

so the filigree of wrinkles
the doughy skin
the graying crown
do not show,

but I discern things
most others do not see.

While I reflect 

your every weakness,
(regardless of size)
and forgive you,
I also collect 

your every kindness
(regardless of size)
and exalt you.

I witness your unconfined joy
at the first snowfall,
and I see the breath
caught in your throat
two-thirds of the way through
Barber's "Adagio for Strings."

I know your loneliness
and send reassuring prayers.

I see your decision to love
despite a lifetime of
contrary arguments
and laud you.

I exist to reflect more
than just the
random kindness of strangers
but rather the
eternal continuum of love
in all forms
found in you.

I am always with you
in different guises
waiting in silence
for recognition,

and in your most
noble, divine moments,
it is impossible to conceal
your beauty

and I want everyone to see
especially you.

I am always here
waiting to show you
how beautiful you are,

waiting to give you
a Christmas present
every day of the year.

(Posted as my inaugural offering at Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads' OpenLinkNight. )

Fire Sale at the Misery Factory!

Everything Must Go!

After 46 years
in the same location,
the Misery Factory
is closing its doors
for good
and I’m practically
giving away
my inventory!

This handy book has
every self-deprecating comment
I ever made
to curry favor and
garner sympathy!

How about a life-sized puzzle
so convoluted and challenging
that only the most obsessive,
insane or
codependent person
would dare solve it?
It’s yours for a song!

Do you need
an extra tube of
Fake Smile?
It works great
to cover the all scars-
either accidental
or self-inflicted!

Yes, the Misery Factory
is closing its doors
forever
so let the madness begin!

And, for you collectors,
there’s my Classic Guilt Machine,
guaranteed to keep working
even in your sleep!
It sets up in an instant
and never really folds up neatly
for easy storage.

For that hard-to-shop-for person
on your list,
get the very same whip I used
to flagellate myself
anytime I didn’t reach
my target weight
or got a bad grade in school
or simply misspoke.

And remember,
with each purchase
from The Misery Factory
you’ll get a free mp3 download
of negative self-talk,
perfect for the car,
the gym, or anywhere!

Goodbye letters
in scented envelopes,

rough drafts of painful apologies,

even the restraining orders
for the man
who tried to kill me
after I slept
with his wife.

It's all here
and it all must go!

(Posted for #OpenLinkNight at dversepoets.com - come on along and play!)

Ernest Becker’s “The Denial of Death”

The lifelong bibliophile,
some of my favorite hours
were spent reading
thousands of books,
mostly-nonfiction.

As I inhale
their stale paper smell,
and I stack them
on nightstands,
in bookcases,
the trunk of my car,
I know acquiring books
is not an addiction,
but rather,
it’s a superstition:

as long as I have
books yet to read,
I cannot die.
I must persevere.

The collection grows
from theology
to show business memoir
to outlaw poetry.

When I graduated from high school
in 1981
I bought Ernest Becker’s
“The Denial of Death.”
I saw it in a Woody Allen movie
and thought it represented
the intellectual gravitas
that I would need
as cultural currency
when I attended the university.

I have never finished the book,
reaching only page 36
on my latest attempt,
but
I still have the book.

Perhaps keeping it around
still unread
after all these years
is my own
quiet and persistent
denial of death.

(Submitted for #OpenLinkNight @ dversepoets.com )

This is the book I bought in 1981 for $2.95. Presently, it's in the backseat of my car.

Very Inspirational Blogger Award (Amended)

Well, hot diggity dog!  I’ve been nominated for a Very Inspirational Blogger Award!  Thanks to the one and only Amy Jo Sprague, who has the powerful "Difficult Degrees" blog at http://amyjosprague.wordpress.com/!

Her writing is strong, powerful, curative and life-affirming, and I am so grateful to have found it.

So now the rules: thank who nominated you/link to them; write seven things about yourself; choose ten to fifteen blogs you feel deserve this award; and comment on their blog to let them know.  Cheers.

Here's my seven:

1. I was born in Glendale, California on the hottest day of the year in 1963.
2. My first ambition was to be a vaudeville comic, until I learned vaudeville didn't exist anymore.
3. My major in college was theatre, but I eventually earned two degrees in sociology.
4. Haven't had an alcoholic drink since February 10, 1990.
5. Can recite the entire movie "Network."
6. My favorite rock and roll band is the New York Dolls.
7. My religious beliefs are best described as Christian-Humanist-Universalist

Here's 9 Inspiring Blogs:

Shay's Word Garden
whimsygizmo
First Pages
Sharp Little Pencil
The Tashtoo Parlour
Bird's Eye Gemini
Deb's Blog
Daydreamer Too
WaystationOne

In Deference to the Chemicals

In deference to the chemicals,
I’m waiting on the pill
that will take
the years from my face,
the rolls from my waist,
restore steam to the engine,
return steel to my thighs.

We need smart chemicals
to access the ganglia of synapses
when everything about us was new,
and we would explore
our unhidden bodies
with complete
trust and surrender.

I’m just longing for
a gentle, incomplete amnesia
that will erase
all my missteps
and all the lovers
of your youth,
so when you sense my presence
you spring
into breathless impatience,
as it was
when my caress was like
a key unlocking everything
that had been denied
for so long,
unsticking the dam,
overflowing with
slick and sweet abandon.

I recognize this behavior,
chasing those ever-elusive
primal moments of
euphoria and climax
because I am an addict,

but since she is what I need
I’ll feed this addiction,
as long as my chemicals
will allow.

(For #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com - Happy 1 Year Anniversary!)

Polishing My Sestina

Were I a tenured faculty member
in the English Language department
at an unnamed Ivy League college,

I’d sit in my bookcase-lined office
hour upon hour
polishing my sestina.

Poring over my thesauri
and assorted dictionaria,
I’d find the perfect six words
to end each of my perfect six lines
in my perfect six stanzas
and then tie up the final three lines
and I would make all
colleagues
breathlessly, righteously jealous.

But that’s not me.

I write
on the back of bill envelopes
during extended traffic lights,
in the margins
of board meeting agendas,
in walk-in closets
and in the ignored corners
of garrulous parties.

In a day full of
familial responsibilities
workplace obligations
and personal sacrifices
my writing is my leash
loosening,
the permission I give myself
to wander without direction
sans wristwatch.

Gently I drift
from anger to peace
memory to dream
here to
somewhere
not here.

I’ve enough rules
in my life
and I haven’t the time
the inclination
nor the energy

to write a damned
sestina.

(Republished for Ars Poetica at dversepoets.com  - go play!)

No Better Than a Deadbeat Dad

“It’s tragic.”

Why?
Because he was following
his beautiful young wife
and kids home
from their weekend camping trip
on his motorcycle?

Why?
Because he just had
to do it?

He used to say,
“five minutes on this thing
is more alive
than most people know
in a lifetime.”

He lost his balance
and tried to lay
the bike down
as it slid out
from under him,

but the truck behind him
didn’t see
or couldn’t
react fast enough,

and then he was
just a crumpled
bloody mess.

And I’m supposed
to feel bad
and sorry
for the whole situation?

Bullshit.
Could’ve been avoided.

Listen,
when you become a husband
and then a father,
your life is no longer
your own.

You are the cornerstone
of the family,
the unseen provider
who’s supposed to make
it all look easy.

You don’t get to do
everything you want.

You don’t get
the privilege of racing your bike,
jumping out of airplanes,
or fucking all the women
you want,
because you’re supposed to be past
all that juvenile
macho bullshit.

You put on the ring,
and you make a deal,

and if you’re not going to respect that,
then don’t tell her
you love her.
Don’t impregnate her,
and then leave your kids
with unanswered questions
about the ghost
you’ll become.

You’ll be no better
than a Deadbeat Dad,
and twice as selfish.

And that life insurance policy
will be cold comfort
to your wife’s eternal loneliness,
as your son looks desperately
anywhere
for your
absent approval

and someone
who is not you
walks your daughter
down the aisle.

(For #OpenLinkNight at http://dversepoets.com/ - come in and play!)

That Lonesome Flag

That lonesome flag
flaps in the night
unseen,
red and white stripes
long faded to
pink and gray.

There were rules,
standards,
for its care,
but they’ve been
long forgotten.

Not having served,
I don’t have the
blinding, undying allegiance
to its preservation.

I understand
the political and
emotional reasons why
some reserve the right
to
burn it.

However,
just because I understand
the motivation
doesn’t mean that I support its
desecration
through negligence,
indolence,
or smug patriotism.

(For #OpenLinkNight at http://www.dversepoets.com.)

500 Weeks (for Anita)

In 500 weeks
there’s over
3,500 goodnight kisses,

hundreds of miles
of dog-walking,

over 10,000
shared meals.

Thousands of doses
of necessary laughter,
some tiny,
some enormous,

over 20,000
digital photographs,

a bucket of tears,
containing both happy
and sad.

A few
sleepless nights,

a thousand songs

connecting to
to ten thousand memories,

a multitude
of misunderstandings
and slightly
more apologies.

Innumerable heartbeats
bouncing off one another,

at least
20 coats of paint,

one quietly
spectacular woman
to lean upon
and look up to.

Wedding Day, November 29, 2002, Newport Beach, California

[On Friday June 29, we will have been married 500 weeks.]

David, Then Buster, Then David Again (Prompt: Someone Famous)

I first read about his band
in a New York
rock critic’s anthology,
and when I saw them,
I was spooked,
then intrigued,
then amused.

His was a voice
bigger than
his hair,
with a rock star persona
that verged on self-parody
and a NooYawk accent
that belied his literary wit.

Predictably,
that didn’t last long.

Years later, he materialized
as Buster
channeling the soul of Charles Brown
and the showbiz of Al Jolson
at New York Tramps’
as Ethnomusicologist-in-Residence.

He was witty, suave
artistically unpredictable,
and ultimately confident:
everything I wanted to be.

After he and the World tired
of “Hot Hot Hot”,
he took on different guises,
and he’s presently
settled back with that group
from long ago,

sans the drug abuse and
youthful idiocy.

Never mind what the
rock history books say:
this is his prime.

He’s still my epitome of cool,
always been,
always will be.

Thanks, David,
then Buster,
then David again.

David,

Then Buster,

Then David Again.

(Submitted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Shay Caroline edition, http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2012/06/fireblossom-friday-get-famous.html)

Coyote Blood Orgy (Sunday Night)

Every night
sometimes early,
sometime late,
the ritual begins with
a single ominous yelp,
then builds to a chorus
of cruel mockery,
a rapacious death chant.

At the center
of this spectacle,
a stray dog
unfortunate housecat,
or a field rabbit
cowers,
eyes darting,
calculating the
inevitable conclusion,
as this pitiless pack
savors this moment
of anticipation.

Circling and taunting
their prey,
it resembles
an amoral schoolyard,
as the wailing swirls
overhead,
and their bacchanal
of chaos and viciousness
echoes across the valley.

The macabre singing
of the band rises
as the terrified victim
sees his last moment
of life
approach
and
leave.

Just as quickly
as it started,
a lone cry signals
the end of the savagery.

It is both
sinister and banal.

Then the
coyote blood orgy
becomes eerily silent,

not from guilt
but rather
temporary satiety.

(audio of coyote - turn up your speakers)

(Posted for #OpenLinkNight at http://dversepoets.com/ - come on and post your poem!)

A Somewhere Else (Adultery Suite, Part Two, 1999)

When she met me
in Seattle
that Saturday
it was paradise.

Isolated,
unreal
dreamlike,
we walked and talked
and got lost in
a somewhere else;
a somewhere that seemed
blissfully unaware
of all the realities
awaiting my return.

On Wednesday
the drive back to
the airport was terrible.
Every song played on
the rental car radio
underlined the impossibility
of this immature,
demanding love.

Once I was safely on the plane
with my heart in my throat,
I wrote every detail
of the weekend
and then shut the book
and held it tightly
to my chest,

hoping that my writing
would exorcise
the yearnings and guilt
long before I got home.

But, the yearning and the guilt
remained with me
and reminded me
of my scarlet adultery
every time I walked
back through that door

to a place
I would go back to
many times in the
next two years

but never really return.

(For #MeetingTheBar  at http://dversepoets.com/)

The Shortest Distance (Prompt: Straight)

The
shortest
distance
between
two
points
is
a
straight
line,
unless
the
points
are
on
our
lips,
in
which
case,
stop
thinking
and
kiss
me.

(Poetic Form: Soupy Sales, 25 Words or Less)

Not Tonight

“Uh oh.
Not tonight.

When he kisses me
more than once,
I know he’s warming up
to something.

Maybe if I give him
a few tight-lipped
kisses…

no,
he’s not stopping.

Great,
he’s positioning
his whale-like frame over me.

Perhaps he doesn’t realize
he’s gained 40 pounds
in the last ten years,
but I do.

C’mon, let me leave
my shirt on.
I’m too tired to make this
a whole big production.

No,
I didn’t shower,
so there’s no way you’re doing
that.

I’ll suck his tongue,
that always does the trick.

Ow, you’re on my hair!

If he wasn’t so out of shape
he wouldn’t need the meds
for the high blood pressure,
the high cholesterol,
the diabetes,
and then
maybe he wouldn’t need the
Viagra,
which takes too long to work
anyway.

Finally.

He’s semi-hard,
like the mozzarella cheese stick
I put in the kid’s lunch.

This is
kind of
how I remember
it feeling.

If I turn over,
it gets in deeper
and he finishes faster.

I knew it.

I shouldn’t have moved.

Now it’s gone.

Shit.
This is frustrating.

Let me reassure him.
Again.

No, it’s ok.
That’s ok, really.

And now,
here come the
inevitable
apology.

Please
whatever you do,
don’t cry.”

(For #OpenLinkNight at http://dversepoets.com/ - come join the fun!)

“You’re Always Gonna Be My Baby”

He introduced me
to many things
I still love
to this day:

the Marx Brothers,
Little Richard
and movie musicals.
He had a great voice
and would sing
along with the soundtracks
“Oklahoma!” and
“West Side Story” on nights
when my mom
went to ceramics
as he washed
and put away the dishes.

I never saw him
without his wedding ring
and he never stayed out
after work having beers
with his buddies:
his place was home
with my mom,
and he liked it.

When I was nine,
I wanted to build a scooter
so we scoured garage sales
just to find some old skates
to use as wheels,
because anyone could buy
new wheels, but
it took real talent to recycle.
Plus, it was cheaper.

He’d always put me on his team
when we played two-on-two
anything with my two brothers
because I was the chunky,
unathletic one,
and all my cousins loved Uncle Dan
because he always included everyone
and never left anyone out
when we played games.

He had an undeniable sweetness,
an unpretentious, inviting smile,
but he was nobody’s fool.

He taught me about
taking care of my tools,
doing hard work, and
making sure you finish your jobs.

His sense of humor
is what I miss the most:
he made me laugh
without bitterness
without irony.

He wasn’t cool,
but he didn’t have to be.

I didn’t know
he was going to die
so young.

Favorite memory:
when I was 30
he bailed me out
of an awful jam.
It was an embarrassing
humiliating spot,
and all I could say was
“I’m sorry,
but I feel like such a baby, Pop.”

With mock seriousness
he answered:
“I don’t care if
you’re 100 years old,
you’re always gonna
be my baby.”

I still miss you
every single day.

Thanks for everything, Pop.

(Written for #OpenLinkNight at http://dversepoets.com/ - the best source for poetry on the internet.)

The Spaceship Georgia Peach

From the first
drop of the needle

the world stopped

and was held captive
by the weird beauty

of the chugging backbeat
over which was the howl
heralding a welcome mutant
a new strain

"A-WOP-BOMP-A-LULA-A-WOP-BAM-BOOM!"

They had sent their leader
and he blazed a trail
with a wild bouffant
crazed eyes
and the scream
of a White woman in church.

He traveled
50 zillion light years
bringing this evangel
and a rollicking piano.

He invited us
on his spaceship
The Georgia Peach
and with every
involuntary jerk
of our bodies
we assented

"Yes, Little Richard,
take us with you."

(Ok, it's an old poem, but I wanted to play in this weeks #MeetingTheBar at http://dversepoets.com/ - go and prepare to be thrilled!)

I’m Not Camping (Prompt: Camping)

I’ll drive my hybrid vehicle
over well-paved
highways
to experience
the majesty and power
of the evergreen forest,

and I’ll capture the sights
on my 13 megapixel HDR
digital camera,

and record the sound of
the singing wetlands frogs
and placid lake loons
with my digital mp3
field recorder

and to capture the scent,
I’ll even bring back
a pine cone or two
in an airtight freezer bag
available at any corner market,

but I’m not going to
live in the forest
in a temporary campsite.

That would be
an insult,
a slap in the face
to our inventive ancestors
who devoted their lives
to mastering this
chaotic frontier,
to provide a legacy of
comfort, security and
self-determination.

If ever
I am overcome by
romanticized atavism,

I’ll return to those things
that technology
has not improved upon:

writing poetry
and making love,

but
I’m not
camping.

Floating Candy

The hummingbird

defied gravity,

and zipped up

beside my third floor

office window.

He was beautiful,

with a splash of red

in a smooth green wrapper,

like a piece of floating candy.

I thought,

“you’re so far away

from where you’re supposed to be,

50 feet high in the air,

searching in vain

for something resembling

sugary nectar.”

He looked at me,

and I’m sure

he was thinking

the very same thing

of me.

However,

where I looked upon him

with misunderstanding,

he looked upon me

with pity,

and then he

zoomed away.

(Submitted for #OpenLinkNight at http://dversepoets.com/ - my favorite poetry site on the internet.)

The Small Lie (Prompt: Small)

Restraining a giggle
at the moment of truth,
she told me
“you’re not small,”
and after that
I never trusted
anything she said
ever again.

(In the Soupy Sales Format: 25 words or less.)

The Remains

After the end,

when the landscape’s been reduced

to a smoking ball of glowing rubble,

there’ll be no witnesses,

save for the boxes

some simple

some elaborate,

housing the bones,

the remains.

Skeletons

and skulls frozen in

macabre eternal smiles,

some arms folded,

some at their sides

as custom permits.

Lying unceremoniously

at the bottom of these

caskets

will be the piles of stuff

that outlasted us,

the detritus once deemed

important, nay

life-changing:

multicolored

military badges,

deflated plastic sacs

where silicone and saline

once jiggled,

stray jewelry,

the rings and necklaces

of varying levels of

sentiment and

temporal value,

hard plastic

prosthetics

that prolonged abilities

and kept stigma

at bay.

Still, all of these things

over eons

will eventually dissolve to

dust,

easily blown away

by the spinning

of the earth.

So,

if you do not

cremate me

and return me

to the dust,

as I’ve suggested,

then please bury me

with something

permanent:

bury me with

some nuclear waste,

something that’ll last

a couple million years

or so.

(Written for #OpenLinkNight at http://dversepoets.com/ - the best poetry site in the world!)

Deathbed Confession (Stream of Consciousness Poem)

I used to fall asleep
imagining I could fly.

I’d walk to the cliff
shift my weight
my limbs became wings
and it was simple,
just gliding down
to the valley
and I’d be asleep long before
I reach the bottom,

but that trick doesn’t work
any more.

There is ever
a beat,
a rhythm
carrying on
like an acid drum loop

boom boom-shakalala
chaka-che-boo-che-leh

and I think
I must capture this
and attach my name to it -

I’m invisible
most of the day
so when I sense something
will reveal me
I wrap myself in it
and hope it will
freak out the squares
and incite the freaks
to wave their flags for me.

I want to be
the rebel outsider
who made it past the
boundaries of convention
but still is
paradoxically
loved.

Just give me
a supercomputer,
all the creative software available,
and time enough,
and I’ll create
an argument
why you should love me.

And you just might,

but now I’m going to ruin it
with the deathbed
confession:

I’m about carnality.

From the first conscious sensation
-that nagging erection what wakes me
as I muse about places he’s been-
to counting the hours until
I get to eat again,
and how should I spend my calories
because I’m fat
fat
obese and fat,
and that makes me instantly
unloveable,

I am just trying
to satiate my appetite.

So point me to
that pizza buffet
that always says
“I love you,”
to that sugar glazed anything
that coos
“lick me into submission
and swallow me whole
and let the crumbs fall
light and fun
on your lip and chin.”

The food never denies me,
food has never let me down.

I recognize it
as love in it’s purest,
most self-sacrificial form:

consumable.

(Written for #MeetingTheBar at http://dversepoets.com/ - the best poetry site in the world!)

The Stray Blonde Hair (Prompt: Hair)

I do not remove
the stray, blonde hair
stuck to my
black dress shirt,
as she sings
her impudent,
implied immodesty
to envious onlookers
everywhere.

[NOTE: This is in my own form that I’ve dubbed the “Soupy Sales” – to wit, a poem in 25 words or less.]

For the One Who Stayed

I lost count
of how many woman
I said “I love you” to.

I had written
miles of poetry,
dedicated songs on the radio,
made mix tapes,
when they actually were
cassette tapes.

But they didn't stay.

I could transform a
$40 budget motel room
into a romantic boudoir
complete with candlelight
and roses
with only 20 minutes’ notice
on the off-chance
that I got the green light.

But they wouldn’t stay.

I knew all the in-spots,
had tickets
to the latest shows,
and I freshened up my
ad-libbed small talk
every week,

and this was all
before the advent
of the internet
so it really took some
time and effort
and real legwork
to be the King of Romance.

But still…

I kept hoping that
an all-encompassing,
heart-exploding,
landscape-changing
love
would somehow
float by my window
and finally
just stay.

I used to joke
that I was going to get
a tattoo on my chest,
over my heart that said
“YOUR NAME HERE.”

I’m so glad
the only tattoo I have now
just says
“Anita.”

(Written for #OpenLinkNight at http://dversepoets.com/ - the best poetry site in the world!)

November 2010.  (Could I possibly have a less muscular tone than this?)

Room Service (Prompt: Dessert)

New love,

and in

the afterglow,

she let me

savor

the hot fudge sundae

off her

bare

bottom,

and I have been

hers

ever since.

[Note: I purposely wrote this using 25 words or less. Is that a recognized form?  If not, I'd like to claim it. :) ]

Buddah Moskowitz, [name redacted], and the Venn Diagram

I Google
“Buddah Moskowitz” and
“[name redacted]”
and smile at the result:

“Your search did not
match any documents.”

Most of my immediate
and extended family,
my brothers and sisters in
Christian fellowship,
and fellow academicians
with whom I’ve worked
for almost two decades,
have no idea
who Moskowitz is.

Also,
there are many readers
in the far-flung nether
of the ether
who regularly visit
and are sweeter to me,
kinder to me,
more appreciative,
and know me better
from the inside out
than most who
only know me
face-to-face.

One whole circle of
the Venn diagram
doesn’t  know
the other circle of
the Venn diagram
even exists.

Buddah Moskowitz
writes all the things
that [name redacted]
is too timid to admit,
and [name redacted]
knows how to keep
keep his head
and hold his tongue
so that he can afford
to keep Moskowitz
on the payroll.

So,
it’s purely a business
arrangement:

Moskowitz explores
[name redacted]
and [name redacted] supports
Moskowitz,
and so on and so forth.

There is only
one person standing
in the Venn diagram
where the circles
overlap,

but I’m damned
if I can tell
who it is.

(Written for #OpenLinkNight at http://dversepoets.com/ - the best poetry site in the world. Come on in!)

As the Bible Clearly Says

Thousands of
bible colleges
crank out
millions of
amateur theologians
and future pastoral staff
who will plant
new churches
(or take over
the payments
on others).

Hundreds of translations
over two thousand years,
with countless misspellings
endless interpretations,
and more re-interpretations,
cynical willful omissions
and unintentional mistakes
all lead to a document of
dubious
empirical
reference.

Presently,
there are hundreds of versions
inspiring thousands
of small home group bible studies
led by well-meaning believers
who have never read
much less translated
the original texts
in classic Greek
or Hebrew
or Latin
or Aramaic

but will dutiful try
to guess what
the Book of Revelation
means

and some might try
to calculate His return
(despite Jesus’ admonition
not to do that).

The only phrase
that might actually be
an accurate translation is

“Jesus wept”

only because it’s
two words,
with less room
for interpretational error.

So
if you ever hear
a supposed bible expert say:

“As the Bible clearly says”

as though the meaning
and truth of the Bible
were self-evident
and obvious,

please know,

that person
cannot
be trusted.

Detached From Inhibition

An out-of-town
business trip to
New Orleans and
a dying marriage
is a bad combination.

I was surrounded by
shouts and laughter
attached to people
who drank enough
to become
detached from inhibition.

Every few steps
a new flyer was
thrust in my hand,
guaranteeing
sensual delights
at reasonable rates.

(Anything extra
to be negotiated later.)

The pain was heavy
and dull, and
all the unanswered
calls home
just dragged the blade
slowly
across my heart.

Of course,
the weakness won.

I found myself
skulking down
a slick, black alley
looking for an address.

The muffled bass
from a party inside boomed,
and from the shadow
a teenage voice offered:
“You looking for a massage
girl, man?”

I nodded, and he gestured
to an unlit stairwell,
save for a red glow
up at the landing.

The wooden stairs
creaked and groaned,
“don’t do it”
“turn around”
with each step.

At the top of the stairs,
a locked screen door
let me peer into
the empty space,
lit red,
with loud music pumping
from an unseen speaker.

I rang the bell.
Rang again.

Heart racing
and I almost left,
but I rang again
and an older Filipina
with steely eyes
and flawless skin
came to the door:
“You want massage?”

“Yeah, but how much?”

“I give you good massage. Come in.”

“No, but first, how much does it cost?
Are you the only woman here?”

“It’s okay, I give you good massage.”

“But, are you the only one here
who gives the massages?”

Either I confused her
or pissed her off
as she left me
standing there
on the landing.

Did I insult her?
Was she going to get
her boss to come
and kick my ass?
What if I got naked
and they stole my wallet?
Or just took my clothes and
threw me out into the street?
Or worse, what if they
held me down
and raped me
and filmed it and sold it
overseas?

Whatever strange impulse
that sent me up those stairs
also sent me flying
back down,
out of the alley
and back onto the crass
vulgar sensuality
of Bourbon Street,

where I never felt
so safe and
so grateful.

(Written for #OpenLinkNight at dversepoets.com, where only the best poets are online now!  Go join the fun!)

Reckless Eyeballs

I learned early on
to keep my eyes
to myself:

a stare can be misinterpreted.

I don’t want to fight you.
I’m not trying to scare you.
I’m not trying to make you.

It’s just too reckless
any other way.

I know these rules,
so what is this drive
that compels me
to break this rule?

Something inside me
is looking in
your eyes
for reflection,
for approval,
for connection.

But in the split second
before that unknown
consequence
materializes,

I avert my eyes.

I just don’t want
to start something
that I can’t finish.

Hell Reigned in Los Angeles (April 29, 1992)

We all saw the tapes:
peace officers beating,
maybe even taunting
this crumpled mound
of humanity.

We knew this
wasn’t supposed
to happen
in our system,
we knew justice
would be served.

The verdict that afternoon
was Not Guilty,
and Los Angeles
awoke
to the most visceral,
public episode of
mass cognitive dissonance
it had never dared to dream.

The verdict meant
the system was broken,
and anger was righteous,
the fires were unapologetic,
and every drop of blood
spilled was red.

The city broke
free of its moorings,
rocketing to places
uncharted,
and the reaction
was frightening,
mesmerizing
and unprecedented.

The institution entrusted
with providing justice
was tampered and rigged,
and the resulting chaos
rained Hell
in Los Angeles.

For three days,
anarchy,
stray bullets whizzed
like lethal mosquitoes,
and there were
so many fires raging
that water pressure
in the city
reduced firehoses
to water pistols.

I remember
driving home from work
crouched down
almost eye-level
with the dash board
because the violence
was so random.

The flashpoint
eventually lost its flame,
and the TV stations
stopped covering
the lawlessness.

Even two decades later,
I still remember
looking at the police
as they stood by
watching the rioters,
and being scared
knowing that the cops too
were nervous, powerless
and very, very
outnumbered.

(Written for #OpenLinkNight at dversepoets.com , the Internet's Premiere Poetry website- come join us!)

Everybody Plays (Prompt: Fade Away)

Step right up,
try your hand!
Take a breath
and outwit Death!

It’s the only
game of chance
where everybody plays
and everybody loses!

Spin the wheel
and try to outwit
Father Death
and he plucks
fathers from children
leaders from countries
husbands from wives.

Will your beneficiary
get to cash in on
your term-life insurance?

Can you beat
that train
to the crossing?

Should you risk taking
your chippie
to the motel
when you’re also taking
high blood pressure meds,
high cholesterol meds,
and Viagra?

If you’re lucky,
you’ll get a warning.
Some of you
will overstay your welcome.
Most of you
won’t know what
hit ya!

Haven’t entered yet?
Don’t worry,
you’re already in!

The Last Lottery!
The Final Round-Up!
The Happy Hunting Grounds!
The Great Beyond!

The trip of a lifetime
is just waiting for you!

Who’ll be today’s lucky
winner?

Maybe,
it’ll be

you!

A New Holiness (Prompt: Re-use a previously used phrase)

There’s no point
in doing this
if you’re just
going to lie.

So, the truth is
you’re going to fail at this
most of the time,
but contrary to logic
you mustn’t stop.

The best you can hope for
is that every now and then
you feel it –
the holiness
the wholeness,

but beware,
for when it seems
that you’re certain
you’ve glimpsed
the face of The Eternal One,
an egotistical,
self-congratulatory
amnesia
will wipe the holiness
away faster than
a shaken Etch-a-Sketch.
It’s not about being
being holy just one time
and making it last forever.

It’s about making
each new moment
a new holiness,
completely alive
and serving that which
lives in all things.

It may appear to be
interconnectedness,
but it is the awareness
of your place
and your sacredness
in the continuum.

Problems (Prompt: Problem)

We are born
tabula rasa
on all six sides.

Without trial,
without trouble,
we remain
blank,
untouched
smooth,
too smooth.

The failures
the angst
the shortcomings,
the problems
all chip away
at those smooth sides

making us
interesting,
instructive
perhaps even inspiring.

Knowing this,

I strive
to reinterpret
each problem
as yet another
teacher.

If I am
successful and wise
the problems
will not cease,
but rather
will make me
smarter,
more grateful
and more alive.

The Problem is That It’s a Perfect April Afternoon (Prompt: The Problem is...)

The problem is that it’s
a perfect April afternoon,
and that bright blue
cloudless sky,
looks even prettier
because it’s dressing up
a Friday afternoon

which means it’s only
a few more hours
until I get to
be with you again,
because I have missed you
so much this week
(but I always miss you),

but since you’re in one city
and I’m in another
(and since neither of us
is independently wealthy),

instead asking you
to meet me for
a quick, private picnic,
I’ll go back to my office,
and hope that
you had
the same thought of me
upon seeing
this perfect
and problematic
April afternoon.

The Codebook’s Finished

In this poem

the daybreak represents
morning
and the tree
is knowledge.

The babbling brook
is supposed to be
the mocking voices
of a vacuous
culture.

The snail
on the stone
represents the perseverance
of the protagonist

while the dew
is meant
to conjure doubt.

The aging windmill
in the distance
represents
Man’s ultimate
mortal demise,

whereas the frog
represents the most
noble of
all human endeavors.


OK,
now that
the codebook’s finished,
on to

the poem.

(Written for Meeting the Bar: Allegory at dversepoets.com . As usual, when I can't do what's expected of me, I make fun of the situation.)

There But For the Grace of Four Percent (Prompt: Animal)

“Scientists have sequenced the genome 
of the chimpanzee and found 
that humans are 96 percent similar 
to the great ape species.” – 
Stefan Lovgren
for National Geographic News
August 31, 2005

I squint
as I look
in the mirror.

I see the wrinkles,
the smile,
the imposing eyebrow ridge
over soulful, searching eyes,

and think,
there but for the
grace of four percent
is the great ape.

While this majestic beast
possesses inherent dignity,
the most successful ones
are those who have been
trained to amuse
by riding bikes,
smoking cigars,
and wearing tuxedoes.

Complex and unpredictable,
they can submit
to each other
for intensely personal grooming,
but can also mobilize
for the violent
overthrow of
a designated enemy.

Victims of circumstance,
they move to where
the food is
and they learn
the unwritten rules
of their hierarchical society.

They hunt,
they share,
they nurture,
they rape,
they invent,
they ruminate,
they try,
they fail.

So
I’m starting think that
the four percent difference
consists mostly of
cosmetic appearance,
differential acrobatic skills,
and self-serving statements
of perceived
moral superiority.

Exercise (Prompt: Sports)

As an overweight child,
I hated playing sports,
but I did so
mostly because if I didn't play
the teams were uneven.

I would rather spend
my time
in my parents’ living room,
lost in a pair of
plastic over-the-ear
headphones
plugged into the
stereo (as it was called then),
playing records
I borrowed from the
public library.

Music was my earliest
passion.

When I was 13,
for Christmas,
my parents gave me
a pair of headphones
that had an AM radio
built-in to them!
They even had
telescoping rabbit ears
antenna for
improved reception.

(Remember, this was 1976.)

So,
on Sunday mornings
I would take my headphones
and ride my crummy little
two-wheeler up and down
the eight block
section of neighborhood
where I was allowed,
and listen to Casey Kasem’s
American Top 40,
and dream of making music
that he would
someday introduce.

It was the only time
I ever liked
exercise.

Gracia (Prompt: love)

Her family moved in
across the street
from mine,
and my 19 year old
head was turned.
I was curious.

I moved slowly,
the only speed
my timid, virgin
heart knew.

She was dark haired,
dark-eyed,
peach-cheeked,
with a wide,
friendly smile.

Fittingly,
her name was Gracia.

Where I was a nervous
dervish of insecurity,
she was calm,
comforting
and laughed when needed,
and took me seriously
when needed.

She was beautiful
and she was my friend
and I loved her.

Moments together
were warm and they glowed.
We were chaste,
perhaps even naive,
and we both happily explored
the previously uncharted regions
of each others' heart.

We taught each other
how to kiss,
and nothing more.

There was no need for more:
it was an exquisite time,
and that was enough.

But, like a haunting melody
on a worn-out 45,
somewhere deep down
we both knew
our summer of 1983
would come to an end.

The next year
she started dating
Alex,
and I tried not to watch
from my bedroom window
as he gently guided her
into his car,
in a most gentlemanly
and enviable fashion.

He was older (which I wasn’t),
he was Christian (which I wasn’t),
he had a plan for his life
(which I didn’t).

Within two years
she married Alex,
and I attended their wedding,
which her family
inexplicably and regrettably
decided to boycott.

I used to wonder
about my place
in her memories,
until I found out
years later
that her
first son’s name
is
the same as mine.

(Posted for #OpenLinkNight at dversepoets.com, the best poetry website on the whole damned Internet.)

My Morning Ritual (Prompt: Morning)

The ritual starts the same way:

My first thoughts
are always scrambled:
part disappearing dream,
part beeping alarm clock,
and part soundtrack
to whatever tv show
is playing on the set
that was left on
as a lazy night light.

I hear the tip-tip-tip
of Yorkie claws scratching
on the laminate floor
as Sadie the cat
drags her paw
across our closed bedroom door,
and makes
a slow, torturous scrape,
her mute petition
for admission.

The dogs want out
and the cat wants in,

I’m barely awake
and I’m already playing
zookeeper.

I escort the dogs
out to the backyard
and I breathe in the
sweet and sharp
cold morning.

God hears
my silent prayers
of gratitude,
and my mind scans
the coming day:
it thinks in terms of
appointment blocks
in Microsoft Outlook.

I ask
“please help me be
a good man, and
please watch over
my wife and children
and bring them all
home
safely.”

I dwell in this
quiet and slow moment,
until clarity materializes.

Then, the barking begins

shallow and soft,
ruff-ruff

ruff
then louder

yike-yike-yike!

which signals the
end of my morning
ritual.

Stones (prompt: Judging)

Long story short:
it didn’t go down.

No, it was all set to happen,
we were all there,
we had our stones ready to go.

We had this whore
dead to rights.

We had her surrounded,
and there she was,
whimpering like the
adulterous bitch
that she was,

and then I see Jesus
in the crowd
and I figure
I’m gonna outfox this bum
once and for all,
and say

“Hey, Jesus,
we caught this woman
in the act with some guy
who wasn’t her husband,
 so we’re going to stone her
like the Mosaic law says,
or do you have a problem with that?”

So, what does Jesus do?
He crouches down
scratches something
in the dirt,
wipes it away
and says

“Let he who is
without sin
cast the first stone.”

So, what could I do?

Since I was the one
she was doing it with,
I had to put my stone down
and walk away.

The Search for Truth (Prompt: Under the Microscope)

Under the microscope
the empiricists
search for evidence
that confirms or denies
what
the mystics
already know.

Blankety-Blank

All night I worshipped her blankety-blank
without a single thankety-thank

so I called her a middle-aged blankety-blank
(to give her collar a yankety-yank)

then I pinched her on the blankety-blank
(it was really just a prankety-prank)

she hissed "don't you touch my blankety-blank!"
(I was hoping she'd give me a spankety-spank)

but she just covered up her blankety-blank
and asked how much I drankety-drank

and then my heart just sankety-sank
when she declared

"never again, will you
blankety-blank my blankety-blank!"

(NOTE: This was the only thing I could think of that had a couplet.  It's from 2008, and written for a laugh.  Hope you had one. Posted for http://dversepoets.com/ #FormForAll.)

Let’s Get Away for a While (Prompt: Let's)

Let’s get away for a while
wander back
to our genesis,
before we became
two ringmasters
in charge of a circus
where the animals have
outgrown their cages and
aren’t listening to reason.

Let’s just get away
and be like those couples
who meet for lunch
on these bright sunny days
when you are miles away,
as I envy their wide-eyed
mutual adoration.

Let’s remember who we were
when we met
and how grateful
and valued we made
each other feel,
how this love shined
so obviously
for all to see.

Let’s go back
to who we were
before those stupid,
disfiguring fights,
and those perfectly
rehearsed barbs
forever took
the stars
from our eyes.

This love
was never
somewhere else,

it was always
inside of us,

but now it's
covered with unpaid bills,
doctor appointments,
mounds of dirty laundry,
and perpetual servitude
to our children
and our parents.

It’s time
to shove
those distractions aside
and lift up
the hidden gold
that first
drew us together,

polish it up and
make it glow again.

It’s time.

Baptism (Prompt: Life Event)

When you decide
this is what
you want to be

not because
of what it means
in the next world,

but what it means
in this world,

then,
you’re ready.

Thai Peanut Spicy Chicken (Prompt: Regional Cuisine)

I let the wisps of
peanut-scented steam
waft from the Styrofoam
to-go container,
and I inhale it
as though it was
some exotic breathing
treatment.

My heart pounds
in my chest
and the saliva pools
in my mouth
as I carefully
balance the peanut sauce
with the white rice
on my fork.

The Thai spices,
a magical mystery mix,
shoot electricity
from my tongue
through my entire being,
faster than morphine,
as exciting as her touch
the very first time.

The crunch of the peanut
and the tenderness
of the chicken
make every bite
a challenge
to savor
and not devour.

What problems that exist
in this world,
in my world
are for the moment
off somewhere
far, far away.

The memory
of sweet coconut milk
and fiery red chili
stays with me
all afternoon,

reminding of
what is often
the best part of my day.

Unity 3000 (Prompt: Science Fiction)

How many times do you
wake up in the morning,
with a profound sense of
detachment,
insecurity
and ennui
that even your usual
two cups of hyperblend
can’t fix?

Ever wish you could just
get up with
a great attitude,
rested, refreshed and ready
to produce more positive output
for your corporate benefactor?

On days like this
when even your
state-prescribed antidepressants
aren’t doing the trick,
don’t you wish you had
that little something extra,
a secret weapon
to give you that little extra edge,
so you could be Top Bot
for your sector
and win that extra 15 minutes
of Virtual Physical Interaction
with the hologram of
your choice?

Well , wait no more!
New for
[INSERT HOLIDAY FIELD]  [INSERT YEAR FIELD],
the only product
you’ll ever need again,
the Unity 3000!

The Unity 3000 links
to your Personal USB Port
through an attractive dongle
(available in four different
ethnic skin tones),
to help you sleep better,
and while you’re sleeping
you’re also reprogramming
your subconscious,
so that your dreams
are more inspiring,
and your sleep
is more restful.

Let the power of
just lying there unconscious
work for you!

Choose from a variety of
Programming Attitudes:
“Go For Our Dreams!”
“That’s Not a Mountain, It’s Only a Hill!”
“Work Will Make You Free!”
“There is no I in TEAM!”

Just download the program to the dongle,
insert it in your Personal USB Port
and fall asleep!
As you doze
our patented DreamAlign process
will do the rest!

The Unity 3000
also data mines your
dream activity
for negative images
and disturbing content,
quarantining these aberrant
thoughts and feelings
until you can download
and process them properly
at your next
Mental Health Review or
Performance Evaluation.

Call now to see
if you qualify
for a free Unity 3000!

Employers,
ask about the tax credit
for providing
the Unity 3000
for your employees.

Have that peace of mind,
that contentment,
that satisfaction,
that comes from finally feeling
complete.

Just in time for
[INSERT HOLIDAY FIELD]  [INSERT YEAR FIELD],

the Unity 3000,
get yours now!

[INSERT PHONE FIELD] [INSERT WEB FIELD]!

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at dversepoets.com - the best poetry site on the whole damned internet!]

Playlist: Id (Prompt: Mix Poem)

The beach is a place
where a man can feel
he’s the only soul in the world
that’s real,
here’s the thing:
we started off friends,
you say
I only hear what I want to,
how do you cool your lips
after a summer’s kiss?

I was born from love
and my poor mother
worked the mines,
and there’s nothing you can do
to turn me away,
welcome back,
your dreams were your ticket out,
I’ve been searching a long time
for someone exactly like you.

I’ve got to say it
and it’s hard for me,
last night I didn’t get to sleep
at all,
add a little sugar, honeysuckle
and a great big expression of
happiness.

Who’s the black private dick
that’s a sex machine
to all the chicks?
I'm coming straight for your love baby
Like a rocket, girl,
stand!
in the end you’ll still be you.

Superhighways coast to coast
easy to get anywhere,
you just could not know
how long we tried
to see how this building
looks inside,
Late night flight, LAX
limousine and you’re all set.

If there’s a smile on my face
it’s only there trying to fool
the public,
life is a song worth singing,
you can tell the truth,
you can tell a lie,
baby, lift your head up,
they tell me you’re shy, but
I love you just the same,
been around the world
and I can’t find my baby,
I’m writing letters
and your candle’s burning,
my heart starts breaking
when I think of making
a plan to let you go.

I've been walking in
the same way as I did,
when I say I’m in love
you best believe
I’m in love
L-U-V!

As I was lying
in a hospital bed
a rock and roll nurse
going to my head,
forgot my six-string razor
and hit the sky,
he was a boy
she was a girl
can I make it any more
obvious?

It doesn’t matter what I say
as long as I sing with
inflection,
I don’t think I can handle this
another day in Metropolis,
I have had my eyes on you
from the day I learned to laugh at myself,
caught you laughing too.

Hey, don’t worry
I’ve been lied to.

[Note: these are the first lines of the songs in my current Rhapsody playlist. Whoever guesses the most of them correctly, wins a free copy of my latest e-book!  There are 34 songs listed herein!]

The Foreman Speaks (Prompt: slash, button, mask, strap, balloon)

Ok, listen up, you hacks.

I’m sure you’ve all
received the memo from
Research and Marketing,
and the word is
that the big bosses
are behind this
so they’re serious.

The online e-card sites
are kicking our ass,
so if we can’t beat them,
Corporate’s going to slash
the creative division.

Research tells us
the market wants
outrageous
from America’s premier
greeting card company.

No more balloons
or cakes
or cute little
puppy dogs
on birthday cards.

No, they want
S&M masks,
strap-ons
and anything that
titillates.

Moskowitz,
button your lip!

If you want to be
an artist,
get the hell
out of here.

Go back to that
blog of yours,
with its lousy 50
followers,
you loser.

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.