Unprompted (The Next Butterfly)

The impulse arrives

and I hardly notice

its genesis,

–is it heavenly and noble

or is it of yetzer hara?-

but it demands

recognition,

attention and honor.

So I set out

to bring it forth,

coaxing it out

with pretty words

and ugly truths

and my rest won’t come,

the comfort of resolution

will elude me

until I capture

that wisp,

that whisper,

and pin it

like a mutant butterfly

added to my collection.

My satiation

(like everything else)

is only temporary,

until she

tickles my ear again

and turns my head

to another vista,

and sets

this beating heart

in search of

the next butterfly.

I Thought I Saw Jesus

I thought I saw Jesus
at the freeway offramp

but it was just

a homeless man

with a crudely written

cardboard sign

reading “Please help”

and since the light

turned green,

I kept driving.

I thought I saw Jesus

standing in front

of the Circle K

convenience store

but it was just

a toothless meth crone

asking for a buck

and since I had no change

I moved on.

I thought I saw Jesus

in the intensive care unit

at the UCLA medical center

but it was just

a middle aged man

dying of brain cancer

and since I wasn’t

an oncologist

I silently walked on.

I thought I saw Jesus

standing by the side

of the freeway

but it was just

a black-haired toddler

holding her mom’s hand,

waiting for someone

to rescue them,

and since I was

two lanes over

I couldn’t reach them

and I turned my mind

to my destination.

I thought I saw Jesus

hanging from a tree

but upon closer inspection

his arms weren’t outstretched,

they hung lifelessly

and I thought

this must be Judas,

and as I came closer

I squinted up

at the blue

and puckered face

and saw

it was me.

[Written for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com - a home for wayward poets.]

Just Friends

For a young man

who never made 

women swoon,

never caused

the blush of blood

in a woman’s breast,

her stories were,

at first, titillating.

In her many

business travels

she would arrange

to meet men

in foreign cities,

and with only 

the slightest wisps

of personal data,

she would

offer herself

in anonymous hotel rooms

as a submissive,

to be tied up,

beaten,

swatted and flagellated,

her ample plump frame,

objectified

for a crumb of attention.

Distance demanded

that nothing would ever come

from our email friendship,

so I just listened

without judgement,

trying to understand.

She had an estranged father,

a mother dying from cancer,

and it wasn’t my place

to do anything but

be a friend.

So I just listened

as the phone calls mounted,

laughing and mirroring

each other,

each call affirming

each other.

Months later,

one spring afternoon,

she cc’d me on

a mass mailing

that she sent

to the dozens of partners

she’d met along

her loneliness,

and she told them

she decided

she wasn’t

doing that anymore.

She decided

she didn’t want

that

anymore.

In a separate note,

she credited me

with giving her the strength

to move into

the next phase of her life,

where she eventually

fell in love,

got married

and had a son.

So,

to all you women

who weren’t

attracted to me

and I either had to learn

to be “just friends”

with you

or lose your friendship,

thank you.

Public Service Poem #3

When ranting in writing be mindful,
as pride always precedes the fall,
careers and affairs can be ruined
if you err and click “Reply All”.

[Written for a colleague who just made this error.  Posted for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com - come along and share your song!]

Parking Structure

I drove past

the old parking

structure

to find it

had been

torn down

and my heart let

out a little gasp

and a silent

sigh.

In our early days,

when we couldn’t

go to her place

or my place

(because

other obligations

were there),

for a brief

intoxicating

moment

we’d park in a

structure

and we’d kiss and

caress and

make love

hiding in plain sight.

The best parking structures

were the busy ones

at the courthouse,

where you had

to pay to get in.

In those, everyone was

too consumed with

trying to find a space

and get on

with their business

and they had

no time to waste

looking for

pulled down pants

breasts exposed

tongues darting

closed eyes.

We’d pay our 50 cents

find a spot

and go at it.

50 cents,

the cheapest motel

of all.

But times have changed

and we now have

the privacy of our

marital bedroom

and it is

a different excitement

but still,

there’s nothing quite like

making love in public

as cars drive by

knowing that

each one of them

is too busy

to notice

young new

wet slippery

nervous awkward

love.

They were in their

businesslike hurry

to quickly park

make their deals

cash their checks

make their transactions

and get richer,

but I’m sure

every one of them

would’ve traded places

with me

in a heartbeat.

Personal Revisionist History (a cinquain)

Virgin,
threw it away,
now she pees on the stick,
hoping she can recast him as
perfect.

[Written for #FormForAll at www.dversepoets.com - my 2nd favorite poetry site, after my own.]

The First Record I Ever Bought

September 28, 1973,
a day after my 10th birthday,
I bought my first 45
for 79 cents.

It began with her
dusky whisper
against a lone piano:

“No one in the world
ever had a love
as sweet as 
my love...”

and as the song
tumbled forth,
I surrendered
to her secret confession,
dreaming that I
was the object
of her longing.

Drums slowly emerge,
a harp glissando strikes
and violins obscure
the kettle drums
masterfully laid
under this luscious,
dramatic declaration,

“We go on
hurting each other
without ever knowing 
why.”

By the middle of
the second verse,
I am swept away
by her voice
hopeful and vulnerable,

“All your life 
you could love 
only me...”

from here
the record keeps spinning,
imploring its incessant
refrain,

and as the
two minutes, 45 seconds
winds down,
I go to my grave,
my love
for Karen Carpenter
forever unrequited,

and the piquant flavor,
the bittersweet yearning
that animates this
magic piece
of black vinyl,

I will try to emulate
and insert
into virtually
every poem
or song
or story
I will ever come
to write.

[Written for #OpenLinkNight at @dversepoets.com - a poetic wonderland for you!]

The Myth of Geography

Moreno Valley
(literally “Brown Valley”)
was in such need
of rebranding
they actually voted
and renamed
my zip code area
92555 to
“Rancho Belago.”

It’s not fooling anyone.

It’s still Moreno Valley,
and to the outside world
it’s a ghetto of Browns
and Blacks
and poor Whites.

It’s where you live
if you can’t afford
Riverside or Redlands.

I didn't come here
with such prejudices:
my wife has lived
her whole life,
and when she
and the kids
became
my whole life,
I moved here too.

In this hyperconnected world
where statuses update
unceasingly
and Google Earth
can show you a bird’s eye view
of Uzbekistan
in a split second,
the primacy of geography
is a myth.

Surely, no place is better,
no place is worse,
as we all share
the glorious sun,
the dolorous moon.

As I sit on the backyard swing
watching the sunset,
in a house where I make love
to the most beautiful woman
in the world,
and watch my children prosper,
and chuckle at
Magnolia and Mona Lisa
terrier-romping and tumbling
around my feet,

I've no doubt
I’m in the best place
in the world,

inside this lucky skin,
humbly inhabiting

this grateful soul.

[Written for #MeetingTheBar at dversepoets.com, come and share a poem!]

(View from my backyard in Moreno Valley, California, 92555.)

Not Alone at the Bible Study (a haiku)

The time came to pray,
there is no mate for my grasp,
breathe in her spirit.

Why I Probably Won’t Cry at Paige’s Funeral

Tears flowed
in abundance
last December
when I thought
of all the joyfully
purchased and wrapped
Christmas presents
that would go unopened.

Tears flow
when my soul witnesses
true altruism
and selfless love,
unmooring my cynicism
and restoring my faith
in innate human
goodness
for a little while.

Tears rained down
when my father’s
undiagnosed heart disease
made its appearance
and claimed him
only two days after
his own mother died.

Tears gracefully appear
when art
finally captures
and articulates
the formless echo
that signifies truth
and it cannot be denied.

Tears bullied
their way in
when the world
came off its axis
temporarily
in September 2001.

Tears
occasionally override
their self-restraining
autopilot
and I have learned
to surrender to their
temporary sovereignty,

but
when a beautiful
20 year-old woman
whose life promised
so much goodness
and happiness
goes into cardiac arrest
from a potassium deficiency
and never awakens
after a 21 day sleep,

I don’t have tears.

I have only
muted anger,
silent confusion,
and a modest prayer
that God
will guide and comfort
those grieving
through this inexplicable
tragedy.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com - come and share your poems!]

An Open Letter to My Younger Self (inspired by Shay Fireblossom)

First off,
stop worrying that
you’re too fat.
You aren’t.

Remember
that most things your parents
are going to tell you
have been rinsed in fear:
they just don’t want you
to live like they had to.

When they tell you
forget about the music,
don’t try to be a comedian,
they’re not trying
to discourage you,
they’re just scared
you’re going to be
homeless,
living in a car.

But here’s a little secret:
like so many grown-ups
in this world,
they mean well,
but they’re wrong.

I see your creative spark,
your recessive gene of madness
and no,
I don’t think
you don’t talk too much.

You crack me up.

To be who you really are,
sometimes
you’ll have to be
against the wall
and alone.

It’s perfectly fine
that you’d rather
stay inside and read
and listen to Beatles records
than go outside
and play football.

Don’t let people
who are afraid to sing
keep you from singing
and writing your song.

Don’t work too hard
to fit into this world:
be yourself
and make the world
come around to you.

It’s not always
going to be this
gray and flavorless.

Remember
those roses
Mom planted
out back?

Well,
those didn’t bloom
overnight,

and neither will

you.

Moskowitz, circa 1965

Turn the Telescope Around [based on Amy Jo Sprague’s prompt: self-contradiction]

I love the caustic fire
of the 1980’s
Dead Kennedys
and
I love the 101 Strings.

I love the explosion
Spicy Cashew Chicken
at the Best Thai Cuisine
and
I love those dusty
cellophane packaged
cinnamon buns
with the congealed white frosting
sold at anonymous roadside
gas stations.

I love how Christians
cannot convince me
that the
Eternal Conscious Torment
of Hell exists
and
I love how everyone
will come
to see Jesus as God
of their own volition,
(just don’t ask me how).

I love how atheists
require proof
and
I love that
they cannot
reduce the splendor of life
to mathematical formulae.

I love peacefulness
and
I love upsetting
complacency.

I love that
I frequently see
my deceased father
in the mirror
and
I love that his baldness gene
hasn’t kicked in yet.

I love
that I don’t
fight correction
like I used to
and
I love being
provably right
every now and then.

I love art
that comforts me
and
I love art
that outrages me.

Look at me
through the strong end
of the telescope,
and my inconsistencies
are glaring,
threatening to tear me
into two,

but turn the telescope
around,

and from a
distant,
less threatening
perspective,

and all you see
is one
self-contained
dot
with infinitesimal
self-contradictions,

that is me.

[Posted at ##OpenLinkNight at dversepoets.com - a poetry lovefest online!]

White-Feathered Pirates

Against
bruised cotton clouds,
the seagulls circled
in a pattern that
I couldn't explain
but existed,
mysterious and ominous.

If they possessed
a greater intellect
and these damned
opposable thumbs,
they might converge
upon me,
stealing my groceries
like noisy
white-feathered pirates,
pecking at my eyes
and skull
just for atavistic laughs.

“That’ll teach you
to be one of them,”
they’d mock,
meting out their rough justice,
their entertainment,
against me,
guilty of humanity.

They’d be as arbitrary
and dispassionate
as evolution,
as natural selection.

After the attack,
they’d flap away
in drunken, loopy circles,
laughing their way
to their next victim.

Thankfully,
they've only
the gift of flight
and not anything
resembling
human intelligence.

[Written for #OpenLinkNight at dversepoets.com - the swingingest place for poets on the ‘net!]

Valentine's Eve

1986: Darra

Wet Thursday morning.
My senior year of college;
we didn't use protection
so we were fixing the problem,
The nurse called for her,
I waited
pretending to study.
She returned
forcing a reassuring smile.
As she got in the car
she vomited
before we sped away.


1988: Stacia

Bright Saturday afternoon.
Tomorrow I'd be introduced
to her family
but I didn't love her
(even though I said I did
so I could sleep with her).
We met at the park
I told her there was someone else
(which there was).
Her green eyes went gray:
"then I'll just disregard that
Valentine you sent me, right?"


1994: Lan Anh

Black Sunday afternoon.
I whistled in the dark
and vowed a naive "I Do,"
unaware she was still
in love with him.
I resisted the impulse to run
as our two-tiered
wedding cake fell
during our first dance,
just before she told me
to stop kissing her
so much.

Another Day Laborer

It’s 6:15am
at the coffee kiosk
in the AM/PM 
with the other day laborers,
dirty orange shirts
and dark almond faces,
fueling up,
some with coffee
some get the
2 for $2.29 hot dogs
and slather them
with every possible condiment,
for reasons I suspect
are part culinary
and part budgetary.

They talk and laugh,
a quasi-fraternity,
in fluid Spanish to protect
their privacy,
their dignity.
I view and respect them
from a distance
because even though 
we are all Mexicans,
I don’t fit in with them.

I arrive at the college
where my title is Dean,
and sit in sterile conference rooms
among the academicians
each holding an iPad,
properly groomed
in blazers and ties,
except me in my
rolled-up shirtsleeves,
sans neckwear,
listening to
esoteric rhetoric
about pedagogy
and student access.

Around the conference table
the array of fleshtones
(mostly pink)
possessing impressive titles
(mostly ceremonial)
congratulate me
on my latest
whatever-it-is
and never suspect
that I work double time
to banish any suspicion
that I am just
a misplaced day laborer,
and I realize that
though I’ve been here
twenty years,
I still don’t fit in here either.

Returning to
my quiet office
I hunt and peck,
wrestling
with feelings of doubt
and inferiority,
trying to shape
something poetic,
redeeming,
maybe even heroic,

tap tap
tap
tap
backspace
backspace
backspace
backspace
backspace

but finally
fitting in.

[Written for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.org - a poetic oasis in the internet desert.]

Doubt Awakens

We meet in the fog,
cool and soft.

Lost in
embraces
and glances anew,

doubt awakens:

will I still be
beautiful
once the fog
lifts?

[Written for #OpenLinkNight @dversepoets.com - home for wayward internet poems. Written in the Soupy Sales Format (in 25 words or less).]

Baby, I'm a Star! (Sort of...)

Thanks to the great Kimolisa, for featuring an interview of me at her blog:

http://kimolisa.blogspot.com/2013/02/the-poets-corner-buddah-moskowitz.html

If you like my writing, then do yourself a favor and check out her website!

Thanks again, Kimolisa!

Disgrace / Grace

“Lord,
You see what
I’m going through.

The constant fighting,
the yelling,
the threats.

Such a miserable,
rotten
ingrate
this kid is.

I know because of
the Chiari malformation
and the cerebral palsy
that her brain
ain’t quite right,
but damn it,
what did I ever do
to deserve this?”

[pause]

“Of course I see.

I see that you have
many treasured
happy memories
where she is the star.

I see
you have been given
the opportunity
to receive the greatest
of all blessings:

remember when I said,
whatever you do
to the least of these,
you do to Me?

And I see
she loves you
as a true daughter does,
even though there’s not
a drop of your blood
in her.

So,
I ask you:
what did you ever do
to deserve that?”

Watching "Quadrophenia"

How I am transformed

into a Brighton Beach mod

trying to find his place?

It was before I was born

and somewhere I’d not been,

yet I know this alienation

like I know my secret dreams

to fly away.

I am not the only one;

we all feel

our collective soul spark

as the guitars collide

with drums,

soothing our ache

and confusion.

We sing it together,

a mass healing

for pernicious teenage wounds

that never completely heal:

Can you see the real me,

can you?

Can you?

I marvel as

I am taken somewhere

I’ve  never been

to know a person

I’ve never met

who is singing

pain which my soul

cannot articulate.

The scenes keep shifting

and I don’t even know

what all of it means

but that’s okay

as I don’t know what

all of me means,

and I keep

rocking back and forth,

mesmerized

closing my eyes,

feeling a Zen connection

to Pete onstage,

standing as a beacon

saying

“I climbed out with just

a guitar and pen,

how ‘bout you?”

and a wave of forgiveness

and hope

and love reigning over him

over me,

cleanses

and renews me

and all great art does this,

and I know better

than attempt to unravel it,

so

I’ll just be thankful

for my place

way in the back

in the upper balcony

watching “Quadrophenia”.

[For #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com, still high after seeing The Who in Anaheim, California last night.]