The Wizard’s Collection

The wizard gave me

the keys to the cabinet

to retrieve a book of spells

and poetic incantations

to further impress

the wide-eyed coeds,

the ones with

smooth, unknowing skin,

gaping, glistening lips,

and snugfuzzy sweaters.

I was his henchman,

a graduate student hunchback

with raging nostrils

who did his bidding,

his dirty work,

all for a letter of reference

and the possibility

of mopping up some of his

nubile, feminine spillover,

so I could secretly

wring out the contents

into a highball glass

to savor

in moments

of lonely solitude.

Why did he trust me?

He knew I’d look

in the cabinet marked

“Unconfirmed Research Evidence.”

Unlocking the cabinet,

I saw dozens

of unlabeled

5-inch plastic

margarine tubs.

I took one,

peered in

and saw

a small thatch

of hair,

brown, curly and dry.

I opened another

which held

a flatter, straggly thicket

of lighter hair.

One after another,

I opened and found

variations on a theme:

honeyblonde

dustyrustyred

cafebrown,

saddleblack,

each one a small handful

of slightly musky,

tight, pubic curls.

I realized

this wasn’t a collection

of data, but rather

his trophy collection.

I closed the cabinet,

retrieved the book

I was sent for,

and returned to the seminar,

where I looked at

the wizard

and his disciples

with completely new eyes.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com - where even miscreants like me can find a warm and friendly hello.]

My Six-Word Apologetic

It’s easier to believe
if you've made
art
and you don’t know
from where it came.

Who is this
strange but familiar visitor
guiding the hand,
turning the head,
pricking your ear?

After the blur
of the flow
is quieted,
behold
this thing
that didn't exist
until you brought it
into existence.

You will love this thing,
be captivated by this thing,
and fight for this thing.

It’s easier for me to believe
that it came from
somewhere else,
than to believe
it grew from
my subconscious mess
to a new consciousness,

and hence,
my six word apologetic:

God creates
and so
must I.

Do Not Let Me Sleep Until I Awaken On My Own

Do not let me sleep
until I awaken
on my own.

When I arise
naturally,
during the trip back
from unconsciousness,
I instinctively
reassemble dreams,
reconfiguring,
recontextualizing,
reinterpreting
and I usually detest
what I find:

walking down
squishy darkened halls
over the corpses of
mutilated snakes,
over blood and muscle
and sinew
and I cannot
see the end,

or embraced by
faceless women
whose madness manifests
only out of the corner
of my eye
as they take me
to their bounteous bosoms
and I nuzzle unreservedly
until I hear
the scrape of their
silver razor teeth,

and then I am lost
in a miasma,
going down on
anonymous placeholders
who I thought
only existed
on the periphery
of my consciousness

and I’m trapped
in this miserable cell,
but finally I am saved
not by the bell,
by the beep,
of an electronic
screech screech screech
from the $7 alarm clock.

Do not let me sleep
until I awaken
on my own.

I’d rather be
groggy and sleep-deprived
than rested
and disturbed.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at dversepoets.com -come along and dream a little dream with me.]

Balboa Island Sky

She sang beautiful
and promising words,

ocean blue,

cool and foamy

under that bright

Balboa Island sky.

He reached up,

caught her melody

in mid-flight,

and rubbed it

deep into his skin--

it smelled

bruising sweet

like coconut-scented

suntan oil.  

He swooned,

and for a moment,

he forgot

that he looked

the same way

sulphury, rotten eggs

smelled.

Years later

he found her

on Amazon.com,

having published

a children’s book

in Austria,

and he wanted

to contact her,

to show her

who she’d dismissed

decades ago,

but remembering

that he’d only gotten

fatter,

and that the songs

of his youth

-even the ones

he’d written her-

now sounded

like cheap wine

gone sour,

he thought

better of contacting

her

and decided to

write this instead.

[Written for #meetingthebar at www.dversepoets.com - c'mon, c'mon c'mon!]

Don’t Need No Sampler

[note to perfomer: tempo=120 bpm]

Deet deet deet
bumf!

wor-ow-wuh
wor-ow-wuh
ch-ch-ch-ch
ch-ch-ch-ch
wor-ow-wuh
wor-ow-wuh
ch-ch-ch-ch
ch-ch-ch-ch

umph,
uh-umph
umph,
uh-umph

sheenga--wokka-wokka-wokka
sheenga--wokka-wokka-wokka

umph,
uh-umph
umph,
uh-umph

bee-oh-rawhm
wah wah wah
bee-oh-rawhm
wah wah wah

sheenga--wokka-wokka-wokka
sheenga--wokka-wokka-wokka

umph,
uh-umph
umph,
uh-umph

dweet dweet dweet
d-weeh--ee-ee-ee-ee-
dweet dweet dweet
dweeh--ee-ee-ee-ee-

sheenga--wokka-wokka-wokka
sheenga--wokka-wokka-wokka

Ooomt
Auuuu-oowwww
Ooomt
Auuuu-oowwww

Ya!
ya-ya-ya-ya
ya-ya-ya-ya!

Yaaaaaaaaaaah!
Ya-ya-ya-ya-
ya-ya-ya-ya!

umph,
uh-umph
umph,
uh-umph

sheenga--wokka-wokka-wokka
sheenga--wokka-wokka-wokka

umph,
uh-umph
umph,
uh-umph

paah!

[Written for #openlinknight at www.dversepoets.com - come and make some noise!]

Again, I Fail (a limerick)

The task was to write them a glosa,

but the form made me want a mimosa,

my words could not warm

to that fascistic form

nor to poetry’s Cosa Nostra.

Applauding

I first saw

Burt Bacharach

in Laughlin, Arizona

in one of those tacky

riverfront casinos,

where he was playing

a one-nighter

in between

his popular years.

He led the orchestra

like a basketball coach,

viscerally and impatiently,

bringing many moments

from the soundtrack

of my Southern California

existence

to life.

Leaving the theatre

I passed a small,

ivy covered enclosure.

It sounded,

smelled like

an afterparty.

Through a missing slat

in the chain link fence

I saw him,

surrounded by

a multigenerational retinue:

he was trim,

stylishly grey,

approachably shorter

and everything

I wanted

to be

when I used to dream

I would grow up

to be

my own version

of him.

I stood there

and started

applauding,

just applauding,

and I kept applauding

in that steady, insistent way

that cut

through all conversation,

until I caught his attention.

He looked at me

and all I could say

was

“Thank you.

It was the thrill of a lifetime

seeing you tonight.”

He smiled,

tipped his head

and mouthed

“thank you”

and went back

to his conversation,

and I moved on,

thankful

that for a second

I made him smile,

scant repayment

for a lifetime of

beautiful music.

[Posted for #openlinknight at www.dversepoets.com - come along and sing your song.]

Print Me Out

Print me out
and hold me in
your tender hand
because even though
I was made on
a computer
I was born of a person
and his soul
is embedded
between the blank space
and the letters.

Print me out
and carry me
in your back pocket
as you climb high into
your secret tree
where you write
your poetry and
daydream ‘til dusk
and then
when you come home
unfold me
and set me beside
your bowl of soup
to remind you
that I am here.

Print me out
and fold me
into an airplane
and send me sailing
to a bored classmate
across the room.

Print me out
and tack me up
with a magnet
on your refrigerator
and when you’re
reaching for the milk
tomorrow morning
know that I have
been here
waiting for you.

Print me out
to remind yourself
that I am more than
just paper and words,
I am real.

I am flesh and bone
sadness and glory,
but when you read me
I am no longer alone.

Print me out
and save my life.

[Posted for #Meetingthebar at www.dversepoets.com - my pals in verse out in the universe]

Like This, Like That

That tiny red-breasted bird
that bounces and skips

through the sky,

too quick to catch,

she is the lesson.

Marvel at her,

enjoy her

superhuman acrobatics,

envy her grace

and beauty,

because she is

only here

like this

and is gone

like that.

In the moment

pressed against

your lover’s skin,

do not plan

the next move,

but savor the moment,

inhale the scent

of her neck,

because she is

only here

like this

and is gone

like that.

As you drift away

into your cool, dark

slumber

before surrendering,

forgive everyone

and everything,

and give thanks

for every little

detail,

and as you ask

for another day,

do so humbly

because there are

so many more

who need tending

and a share

of the good fortune

we’ve been given

because it is

only here

like this

and is gone

like that.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight - at www.dversepoets.com - you'll not find a better bunch o' poems on the internet.]

Humility Haiku

Keep yourself humble.
Pride still goes before a fall.
If you don't, God will.

[A quick shot for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com - where I go to feel loved on the internet.]

Tersely

She got up
and said

“It’s not working.”

I laid there
in naked humiliation

and she left,

taking with her
three years
of my life

and her vibrator.

[Posted for MamaZen's challenge at http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2013/05/words-count-with-mama-zen.html]

Tools

These words,

differ little

from the crayon butts

that scribbled something

indecipherable,

the photographs

that tried

freezing reality,

the keys

that rose and fell

in stumbling arpeggios,

the scratch

of the strings

on my $20 guitar

when I was 13.

They were just

the tools

I had at the moment

to help

capture the parade,

and maybe

understand

that which may be

a cosmic

absurd joke

after all.

Still

while I love my tools,

I cannot forget

that after all

the songs,

poems, cartoons,

jokes,

my life is more than

these things.

My life is to be

a vessel

bringing

understanding,

compassion,

the overflowing chesed

from above

through me

out in all directions,

infinitely.

When I remember this

perspective,

I am properly

humbled

and happily accept

that I am a tool.

[For #OpenLinkNight at @dversepoets.com - my favorite place for poetry on the internet.]

Come the Flowers

From the cold

and dark season

every year

come the flowers.

I envy their

uncontested beauty,

their grandeur and attitude,

as they bloom

without restrain

or shame,

knowing they are

the most beautiful

in the world

for a time.

Those with

provocative splashes of

orange,

reds and purples

excite me most,

with full curves

and unrestrained,

mysterious

allure.

They attract every

living thing,

especially

monsters with

huge nostrils,

who want to possess,

consume,

and inadvertently

kill them.

Worship them

from afar,

and love them

on their own terms,

as the proof

of Divinity

that they are.

Emptying

I am emptying
myself

of all things comprising
myself

in an attempt to
be the most perfect
servant,

but I’ll never know
if I reach it

because
by then
I would have lost,
I should have lost

my name,
my personal pronouns,
myself.

On Some Nights

He kisses her
goodnight
and on some nights
she kisses back.

He always tries
a second kiss,
to gauge her interest.

Most nights
her eyes are tired
and glazed over,

and he feels like he’s
kissing a dummy,

but more likely
it’s the
other way around.

Cigar Meditation

I lean back
in the chair,

and light a cigar,

feeling a kinship

to my Spanish-speaking abuelito

and Groucho Marx.

Sucking in the smoke,

a joy, exotic and ephemeral,

like an amorphous nipple,

I let it slither out,

amusing myself

with its heavenward

curling gray path.

I take a sip

from the tumbler

of apple cider vinegar

and honey

over ice cubes

pretending it is a cocktail,

because even though

it too, is an acquired taste,

it doesn’t provide

the liberating

slippery feeling

of real booze.

I inhale,

then put the smoke down.

I sip,

then let the honegar slide slowly down.

I ponder the

future destination

of the sun

as it sinks

predictably

and dispassionately

over countless stories

that I’ll hear someday,

maybe.

This ritual

forces me to slow down,

to remember

that some things

remain unchangeable

and to accept them

as they are,

or waste your time trying.

I learned early on

you can’t smoke

a cigar quickly,

but then again,

why would you?

New Masters (a sijo)

We buy the smartphones, unaware we are buying new masters.

The app store tempts our vanity with personalization.

Soon, we all are narcissists, looking in our handheld mirrors.

[Written for #formforall at dversepoets.com - a poetry lovefest online!]