Thank-You Notes Never Sent

Thank you to her father

for leaving immediately

thereby planting the seeds of self-doubt

and for the occasional tortured visits

that made you stay away even more

and an even bigger thank you now

for taking no responsibility

for your absence

when asked 35 years later.

Thank you to her mother

for forgetting about her while you

squandered the family purse

in search of end time prophecy

in the holy land

and for introducing her to

the man who would molest her

in the golf clubhouse

and an even bigger thank you now

for still ignoring to her

right to her face

with an empty smile at every holiday.

Thank you to her ex-husband

for being the life of the party

by making her his punchline

especially after all the time

she told you how much it hurt

and an even bigger thank you now

when you take her kids every other weekend

for their quality time of

videogames and sugary cereal

with their willfully illiterate father.

Thank you to her ex-in-laws

because she felt like she was

finally part of a family and

even though it wasn't paradise

she did feel loved

and an even bigger thank you for

completely shutting her

out of your lives when

she finally got up the courage

to leave your shitheel son

and break the cycle.

Thank you one and all

because you've made it a real challenge

for her to accept

her own lovability,

her own worth

(she's not even sure of

the love of her own children

much less her second husband),

so I say thank you

because your callous indifference,

your malignant neglect

has made me

necessary 

to her,

because I will always love her

and take care of her

and treasure her

because I know the value

of a good, decent person.

It takes one to know one.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at dversepoets.com - come and poem yourself into a tizzy!]

The Best Birthday Present I Ever Got

Friday afternoon
(my favorite time of the week),
September 27, 2002.

It took forever
to get the kids out the door
and into the custody
of their dad
for the weekend.

We sat on the couch
and I told her that
I had something
for her to wear.

Knowing my mind,
she asked if it was
lingerie,
or some other kind of
kinky sex costume.

I’ll never forget
her look of surprise
when I showed her
the modest ring
and I pitched
my modest proposal,

and I will always treasure
her reaction
because she’s too smart
to be surprised
very often.

She said “yes”

and that was
the best birthday present
I ever got.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com, the best poetry site on the internet.]

Mockingbird Laughter

She said:

“Your mom asked me

not to tell you

over the phone.

Just come home.

Ok,

but,

promise you’ll stay calm.

Are you sure?

Your father died today.

He was mowing

the lawn and he had

a heart attack.”

I couldn’t hear anything

after that

except the sound

of my youth

slamming shut

and the

mockingbird laughter

of Fate

forever silencing

my Answer Man.

The Cockroach Defense

Don’t hate me because

I’m beautiful.

Your police
use body armor
that is but a faint copy
of my birthright.
I have been
tempered in everything
designed to annihilate me.

We probably could triumph
over AIDS.

Don’t hate me
because I’ve dined
at the finest tables in Europe,
stolen morsels
from Dust Bowl sharecroppers
and have prospered
where your kind has perished.

We inherit the wisdom
to turn your refuse into manna,
a feat you’ve yet to accomplish.

And we thrive on waste.

We are efficiency personified.

And the only tool
in your arsenal
to defeat us
is an atavistic and angry
shoe crushing down upon us.

Don’t hate me
because I violate
the sanctity of your pantry.

Hate me because I defy
your greatest technology
with impunity.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com  - where poets can find compassion and other poets!]

Then the Twin Towers Fell (my September 11 story)

I couldn't leave the woman
I was living with
on September 10th.

It was the life I knew
and she needed me,
but I stopped needing her.

I had strayed
long before this,
and only my material things
were still there.

We shared a bed
but were not intimate,
we shared a life
but were disconnected,
we shared a house
but were not married.

She survived a lifetime of
sexual abuse and trauma
but the scars carved
unbridgeable chasms
into our life together.

After seven years
it had all become passionless,
dutiful,
and I cheated on her
which only added to my guilt,
fueled my obligation,
and strengthened my paralysis.

My soul cried
to be released
from the twin towers
of guilt and obligation.

The next morning
an airplane flew into
the World Trade Center,
and like others,
I saw the instant replay
as a tragic accident.
Then came a second plane,
then, a third at the Pentagon
and a fourth destined
for the White House.

Suddenly,
the world seemed disoriented,
knocked from its axis,
hurtling, upside down
in chaotic twisted disorder.

Shock and suspicion and confusion
went viral
because the terrorists could be anywhere,
or everywhere.

I saw the quick and unforgiving
nature of reality,
the fragility,
the precious lives
snuffed out
like cigarette butts,

and my guilt and obligation
seemed small and pointless,

and that motorcycle I was riding
in the fast lane
after midnight
without the headlights off,

pulled over

and I knew
I had to make
a change

and then the twin towers fell,

and one month and a day
after September 11th,

I left her
for the woman
who eventually
become my wife.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at http://dversepoets.com/ - Love that site!]

The Leaves Will Not Fall Forever

In Autumn,
memories come,
cascading predictably
like leaves
off the trees,

and as the years
add up,
the pile of leaves
at my feet
comforts me,
but also reminds me
that the leaves
will not fall
forever
for me.

I do not gather my leaves
to be pressed in a book,
or burned in a pyre,
or squashed into mulch.

I collect my leaves into
a brittle bed,
and gently lay myself
upon them,
savoring their scent,
their ticklish scratching,
thankful that
I can still do so.

Looking up
at the increasingly
naked branches,
I try not to worry
about how many leaves
I have remaining,

but rather
just enjoy
the ones I’ve been
given today.

[Written for #OpenLinkMonday at Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads ]

Detour: The Twilight Canopy

This is not a mash-up, but rather how my brain processes music, hence my audio nom de plume, Noisy Therapy.  Name the samples, and win bragging rights. - thanks for indulging the Mosk

Sitcom

I experience sitcom reruns,

like chewing gum

that’s been chomped on 

so long 

that the original 

juicy flavor is gone.

I've memorized the jokes

the set-ups,

the pauses, 

the punch lines,

the musicality of 

the canned laughter.

They take me back 

to my childhood,

to the days before 

I had responsibility.

I wasn't a street kid,

but more a shut-in

who mostly listened, 

and the sounds 

imprinted themselves

on my soul.

They were comforting then

and they still are

comforting now. 

When I hear the voices of 

Fred Sanford, 

Archie Bunker, 

Rhoda Morgenstern,

Ralph Kramden,

I am

immediately 

transported back 

to my 

parents' house,

where it was

warm and safe and 

simmering pans birthed

comforting smells

and my parents 

were somewhere in that house

doing all the worrying 

for me.

I still love my sitcoms

but wonder whether

I learned the wrong lessons:

that I should try and be 

funny all the time 

every few seconds,

that I should look

for quick problem solving

as most can be resolved 

in 23 minutes, 

or in the rarest of cases,

over a two-parter.

But I know

if a dire situation arises 

and I must become 

serious,

I don't panic:

I just become Hawkeye

in the later seasons of M*A*S*H,

and suddenly

I become sensitive,

with appropriate sincerity,

intelligence

and remarkable wit,

generally, a simulacrum 

of an adult, 

and everyone believes me.

[Posted for @OpenLinkNight for www.dversepoets.com - the best site for poetry in the world.]

Being Big

The worst thing

about having

oversized genitalia

is never knowing

if she loves you

for you.

I didn’t ask for it

to be this way,

and I sure as hell didn’t have it

surgically enhanced:

it’s just the way

God made me.

The one good thing

about being

Big

is the look of surprise

when they first see it,

sometimes in shadows

sometimes in light,

but they are always

dumbstruck.

After that wears off

they’ll straddle me

like a mechanical bull,

hang off me like a

stripper pole

and indulge themselves

with me as their

flesh-and-blood vibrator.

I’ve even had a few

get scared and try to demur;

but I’m always able to

convince them

because I’m gentle,

and then they give in,

and this is where

we both get fooled:

we both think

we’re in love.

Sometimes sooner,

sometimes later,

our differences

scrape up against one another

and the relationship

degenerates into

marathon sessions of

sweaty, visceral intercourse,

multiple orgasms,

and awkward silences.

Before each

first time,

I am so insistent

on practicing abstinence,

because I know

once we cross that line,

all we’ll ever do is have sex.

So,

I remain steadfast

that I will find the right woman

who will love me

for me,

who will walk with me

in the rain,

curl up and watch movies

all weekend,

will massage my scalp

every now and then.

Until then,

I’ll faithfully

continue the search

and I’ll keep erasing

all those

tempting

late night voice mails

that my loneliness

fights to convince me

are more than just

booty calls.

My Sins Follow Me

I have sins darker
than India ink
and still I return
to them.

Shamed by my depravity,
I shudder knowing
they hardly stand out
in this twisted world.

As my transgressions mount
I press on
pretending I am

unseen.

My brain replays
every misstep,
I crucify myself,
yet I cannot stop.

I keep tossing the bodies
under the floorboards,
waiting for the day
when they will
break the foundation
of this warped life
and spew forth,

and I will stand
convicted
in the rubble
of rotting corpses.

Running away won’t help.

My sins follow me
and they are harder to shake
than my shadow.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight @dversepoets.com, where lost poems find a home.]

Orthodoxy Sez!

God doesn’t make

anything that isn’t

perfect,

and God

made people who are

homosexual,

therefore,

homosexuals are included in

God’s perfect creation.

However,

orthodoxy sez

the act (!) of homosexuality

is a sin.

Some Christians,

attempting to reconcile

their values of

compassion and judgment,

point to celibacy

as the way forward

for these people.

If these perfect creations

of God

do not choose

to deny themselves

that most basic

and essential of all human

experiences,

to love

and to be loved in return

in love’s many forms,

orthodoxy sez

they are damned.

So, then
because of their sacrifice,

the most holy and sanctified one

in the Christian church

must be the homosexual

who doesn’t engage

in sexual relations.

This is the person,

nay, the saint!

deserving of our respect

and veneration!

So,

now I ask you,

which proposition

is easier to believe:

that the Christian leaders

of this sin-ridden world

will call for the beatification

and sanctification of the

Christian Homosexual Celibate

as the paragon of virtue

and holiness,

or

that the

orthodox Christian interpretation

of human sexuality

based on Biblical principles

is inherently incorrect?

(Written for #OpenLinkNight at dversepoets.com, where people like me are not only tolerated, but loved!  Come on along!)

My Alice

Alice,
my insistent love,
where do you go
for hours at a time
and only show up
when you need me?

You walk past,
silent and sullen.

Are you jealous
that I married
someone else?

I feel guilty
because I know
how alone you are
but you offer me
no absolution.

Just a sour look
and a weepy cry
from your gray scowl.

You’ve no shame
in your demands:

Stop ignoring me.
Feed me.
You must love me.

Again
our eyes lock
as they did that first day
and I read your mind:

“this would be
a whole different story
if you were the cat.”

[Note: This poem was for my beloved Alice, my little friend since 2001. This is the last picture taken of her.]

(Posted for  for Poets United.)

Buddah Moskowitz' Crying Circus!

Hurry! Hurry!
step right up, folks
for the most
miserable, self hating display
on Earth:

it’s Buddah Moskowitz’
Crying Circus!

Thrill to the high wire acts
as Moskowitz tries to walk
the tightrope of fame and humility
high above
the flaming pit of embarrassment
without a net!

Watch Moskowitz gamely try
to tame the lion of insecurity
and self-doubt!

You’ll feel the hot breath of flop sweat
as he places his head
into the lion’s mouth
and you’ll roar with laughter
when the beast closes his jaws,
crushing the unprotected head!

Enjoy the parade of clowns
as they tumble merrily
out of their miniature car
of Failed Romantic Notions:
there’s Darra,
the Psychotic with a Heart of Gold,
LanAnh,
the War Refugee turned Crass Materialist,
Kim the PsychoBitch,
with her hilarious false rape allegations
and who can forget Teresa,
the Professional Victim?

And no trip to the
Circus of Misery
would be complete
without a visit
to the
Moskowitz Freak Show!

See the Man without a Spine
and the Mother who Made him that way!

Thrill to our Strong Man
fueled not by magnificent muscle
but by anger at years of paternal neglect!

Laugh at the antics of
teenage David,
our Half-Man Half-Woman,
as he finds no place to fit
into high school!

Drop by our snack bar
and get your
Cotton Candy Promises
to munch on --
it’ll take the sting out of your day
for just a second,
and really pack on
those pounds
that’ll last a lifetime!

More fun than the Ringling Brothers!
More entertaining than Barnum and Bailey!
More frightening than a Tod Browning nightmare!

Buddah Moskowitz’ Crying Circus
coming to an empty parking lot
near you soon!

(No animals were harmed
in the making of this poem,
and I envy them.)

[Resurrected for #OpenLinkNight at dversepoets.com - where more mirth and whoopee await you!)

The Naked Snapshot

I started writing
these love poems
in 1978.

They were designed
to capture someone’s attention
through novelty,

and they sometimes
did that

but more often
they were failures.

I wanted them
to do the courting
the wooing
and perhaps in the back
of my mind

maybe they were supposed
to have the relationship
for me since
I was too scared
and inexperienced.

I liked the challenge
of trying to coax
a new way of saying
it
free from my stale language.

Something resembling
love would always appear
and then disappear
again and again

but then, I stopped

as I realized the fear:

too much of my writing
and my unformed heart
had been let loose
on a unsuspecting and
undeserving world.

I thought of all
my long hours of
counting syllables and
stretching metaphor being
unceremoniously
crumpled and dropped
in a waste basket
with the junk mail and
other unsolicited advertisements,

or worse, still,
I pictured a catty circle
of women – late night
half-drunk, reading
my swollen purple
vulnerable verse
and having a good mean chuckle
at my expense.

Hell,
I can't blame them.

Those poems were uniformly
self-conscious
and painfully amateurish,

but my most profound
fear is that a few of these girls
might have saved these
premature ejaculations
which were only dedicated to
getting past hello.

I picture a wall map
of California
with cities up and down
the state
lighting up
where I imagine
my stray thoughts
and eternal promises
have blown.

My prayer:

may these poems never
see the light of day,

may the world never know
the fat oily teenager
with bad hair
who poured out
his heart
as best as he was able,

may these poems be
our little secrets

each one
a private snapshot
of me –naked,

save for
a naïve and trusting heart
worn on the outside.

[Posted for #OpenLinkMonday imaginary garden with real toads challenge.]

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!)