Three Laughs (for Harold Ramis)

The first person
I ever wanted to be
was Groucho Marx.

When I was a teenager
I wanted to be part
of the Second City
television show.

In my early 20’s
I thought I could be
a Mexican Woody Allen.

I told myself
I wouldn't give it a go
until after
I graduated college.

When I was 22
I got up on the stage
where I tried
and I failed
miserably.

It was a Sunday night
and I remember
I couldn't get the
flush of the embarrassment
of my face.

I spoke
to one of the regulars
who told me
he worked
different clubs
in the valley
every night.

I asked him
how much he made
each week,
and he said
“Thirty-five dollars.”

Putting my college degree
to work,
I calculated and
I realized I lacked
the drive,
the desire
to pay the dues.

So that night
I put the dream away,
and eventually went back
to graduate school,
where I earned a
Master’s Degree
in sociology.

Throughout the nineties,
I worked evenings
teaching sociology
at the local community college.

All the years
of studying the masters
Durkheim,
Weber,
Marx,
Cosby,
Dangerfield,
Cheech, Chong
paid off

as I peppered
my lectures
with original jokes
and observations.

I finally
found my audience
when I realized
that a nightclub comic
who only gets three laughs,
is a sucky stand-up,

but if you’re a college teacher
and you get three laughs,
then you’re the fun professor.

Relative Gratitude

My brother Masuda
who is dying
two days at a time
tells me
about his leg
which may have to be amputated
and how the diabetes
is raping his system
and that its working
with the vasculitis
to speed his immune system
into oblivion
and how he’s so broke
he trades his pain meds
for hamburgers
at the local diner
and how one of his daughters
won’t talk to him
and how his computer crapped out
and will it cost $65
that he didn't have to fix it.

I take it all in
and heave out a sigh
“Man, I’m sorry to hear that.”

Masuda changes the tone
“Hey, I ain't complaining,man.
I could be in Afghanistan
somewhere dying.
At least here I got a place to live
and I’m still alive.”

It’s a simple but compelling
argument:
relative gratitude.

I store it away
in the part of my mind
where I keep my
nasty spritzo insults,
orgasm memories
and hacks I use to tweak
my programming

so when I feel like
walking away
or driving into the oncoming headlights
or giving into something
wet and forbidden,

I stop
and reboot.

Now
when I'm in the angry pitch
sinking
in the blue quicksand
or if I’m feeling cornered
I’ll be able to say

“Hell, at least,
I’m not Masuda.”

[Posted for my pal Masuda and #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com - go there and drop yourself in the healing, poetic waters.]

With Sweetness and Wonder

He stumbled through
grad school,
and a first marriage
that didn't survive a season.

He philandered,
ejaculated hatred,
and received
a death threat
credible enough
that the cops advised him
to hide.

He hid in her house,
lost himself in
her PTSD,
and finally found his way out
only after
a painful, adulterous affair,
his father’s
unexpected cardiac arrest,
and two planes
flying into
two buildings
almost knocked him
off his axis.

Since then
he remarried,
bought a house,
raised kids.

Yesterday,
he hit 24 years of sobriety,
and I've seen him
through every frame
of that movie.

The fact that
he can slip
at any given moment,
and somehow doesn't,
imbues his every day
with sweetness
and wonder.

[Written for #openlinknight at www.dversepoets.com - love poetry? Get'cher ass ovah there!]

For What It's Worth

This just came in the mail.  Box #2 tickled me. (Click to zoom.)

Don't worry, it's not enough money to corrupt me. If you bought my e-book, thanks. - Moskowitz

Space is an Illusion

Space is an illusion
because
not only is the glass
always full
(it is half water and half air),

but the glass is connected
to the air
that is connected to you
and to me
and to everything .

The illusion is that
such false divisions
even exist at all:

what separates
the property from the boundary
the inside from the outside?

Nothing can exist
because everything
is connected
to everything else.

The Buddha knew it
and so did the Christ,
and sometimes
so do I.

So, why then
do I keep swimming
upstream,

vainly
trying to stand
apart
from everything else?

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com, where even empty-headed poseurs like me can find love!]

Necessary Evil

Thank God for the sinners,
the child-rapists.
the wife-beaters.
the small animal torturers.

God lets them all exist
because deep down
God is fair
and I know God
loves me too,

because I was put here to
create misery and panic
and heartache.

to mow down daisies
and set loose
the flamethrower
on the innocent brown victims.

If I weren't here
(or for that matter
everywhere)
then there'd be
no need for
Heaven,
Holy Grace,
no Christmas presents,
no Easter eggs,

because there would be
no need for God.

God created me
as a form of job security
because if I weren't here
causing a catastrophic illness,
or helping a battered wife
set fire to her sleeping husband,
everything would be
peaceful
tranquil,
at one,

and no one would ever seek out
His holiness,
that sense of purpose
that transcendent Being.

So, the more I keep
stirring the pot,
the more you all
keep praying to your God
and the more He is happy.

Let’s face it,
without me,
God’s nothing.

[Whew! Come over and take a dip into the pool of art that is #openLinkNIght at www.dversepoets.com - and cool off with some refreshing poetry!]

Norman

“Be gone.
I’m giving you
the chance to escape
unbloodied.

You might think
you’re a badass
picking on little girls,
but some of them
have fathers,

and I have
a long memory,
a longer anger
and an infinite hatred
for bullies.

You came sniffing
around the wrong
schoolyard,
because I can
and will
make a call
and you’ll vanish,

but first,

I know this freak
who was raped
repeatedly
when he was a little boy
and I never turned him on
to Jesus.
I just kept feeding his
homicidal rage,
and he can’t hold down
a job,
and he doesn’t have one,
except when I call on him.

He’s a freak because
he likes to tape everything
he does
to my referrals.

Ever see someone
tasered almost to death,
brought back,
and tasered again
and again and
again?
Your mom will love
that one.

When Norman
ties you down
and shoves
the spiky, kinky
corkscrews,
barbed wire
and what not
up your backside,
he’ll strip out
the audio of
your screaming and pleading,
and remix it
to a house beat
and play it
on a boombox
outside the window
where your dad works.
He’ll understand,

besides
didn’t your father
ever tell you
not to pick on
little girls?”

Patients' Rights

I stare across
the waiting room
of the juvenile
psychiatric inpatient
treatment center

at a framed document
screwed to the wall
printed in
English and Spanish
announcing
“Patients’ Rights.”

I mindlessly scan
the litany of legalese
printed in the teeniest
font,
columns of
blurry gray
rectangles

reassuring me of
my 14 year-old
daughter’s rights

as she is admitted
for a 72 hour observation
as she’s been deemed
a suicide risk.

I look at the document
realizing its intent
is to empower,

but all it’s doing right now
is reminding me
of how little control
I have in this situation.

[Posted for #openlinknight at dversepoets.com - where words and love are shared in great abundance.]

The Kiss, Transformed

The kiss
starts slowly,
tentative,
as it explores
new, slippery terrain.

As it gets stronger
the kiss becomes visceral,
athletic,
setting the stage for more.

The kiss sometimes
subordinates itself
and becomes
the means to an end,
as it explores
other regions
of the recipient,
which sometimes
include lips.

The kiss transforms
into a greeting,
a blessing,
a magic charm to
ward off evil
when parting.

Years into the story
the kiss still
seals their promise,
ignites passionate possibilities
and bounds the sacred place
where their love grows
without end.

[Written and posted for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com - visit them and discover your next favorite poem.]

My Ungracious Opponent

"Mental illness is not patient, it is not kind. 
It envies, it boasts, it is proud. 
It does not honor others, it is self-seeking, 
it is easily angered, it keeps a record of wrongs. 

Mental illness does not delight in the truth,
but rejoices with evil. 
It never protects, never trusts, never hopes, 
but always perseveres.”

I used to look for
the broken,
the violated,
the lost,
and vowed to love them
through their
mental illnesses,
naively convinced
that I could
love their problems
(and their inevitable fates)
away.

Ask Darra
or Lan Anh
or Teresa
and each will tell you
how I left,
each time bowing
in defeat to
mental illness,
my ungracious opponent.

Anita came to me
with both wings intact,
and three beautiful seedlings
who I came to love
and keep as my own.

Nobody predicted
that the short, blonde
4 year-old chatterbox
possessed a latent
recessive gene,
that has now flowered
into obsessive-compulsive disorder,
general social anxiety,
and profound depression.

So,
here I am again,
trying to love someone
through mental illness,
but this time,
I cannot leave,
reminding me
that no matter how much
I try to avoid
what is inevitable,
I can’t fight fate.

[Happy New Year! Written for #openlinknight at www.dversepoets.com - where love and writing and love of writing come together!]

The Secret Writing Place

This is where I write many of my poems.  Inspiring view, huh?

The Judge Shrugged

The courtroom was set up

so that I had to sit next 

to him.

We didn't make eye contact,

but we’d already traded intimacies 

of a sort,

what with me 

hate-fucking the hell out of 

his slutty stalker wife,

and him threatening to shoot me

because she mislead him 

and told him it was rape.

Before the judge granted

the restraining order, he said

“I've read the details of this case,

Mr. Amberg have you apologized

to Mr. Moskowitz?”

and he said he had

because it was true.

The Judge continued:

“And Mr. Moskowitz, 

have you apologized 

to Mr. Amberg?”

In a voice, 

confused but unequivocal,

I said 

“No, I haven’t”

because that was true too.

The judge shrugged,

thought for a moment 

and granted my restraining order.

I left the courtroom,

feeling relieved,

vindicated and safe,

but not innocent.

[From the #thisreallyhappened files - Written for #openlinknight for www.dversepoets.com - come over and get your poetry fix.]

Empty Dates

 A year passes
and there are empty dates
on the calendar
where birthdays,
holidays
and other milestones
belonged.

Families are owed
memories and dreams,
and everything that wasn't
given away to charity
or tucked quietly
into an abandoned toy box,
is  arrayed into a makeshift
altar,
a reminder of the shock
and random cruelty
of this loss.

Inside the
still-unwrapped
Christmas present,
a smiling, pink plush pig
has been waiting
since last year
for an embrace
and a smile
that will never come.

[Written for #newtown and posted for #openlinknight @dversepoets - with love and sadness.]

My Luxury

My luxury,
though simple,
was my luxury
when I was 10,
and is still
my luxury
today:

to sit in
a darkened room
by an open window,
a slight chill
in the wind,
looking up at
the stars,

curled up,
listening
to a small,
faraway radio station
and following
wherever
the dream music
took me.

[Written for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com - an artistic oasis in the desert what be the internet.]

Fathers and Sons and Men

Danny was 49
when he lost his dad,
after a long, slow
debilitating
descent,
but while he was alive
Ed saw his son
marry his love,
make a beautiful baby,
become a tenured professor,
make a home,
resolve any unfinished business,
and he saw his son
as a man.

John was also 49
when he too lost his dad,
after another long, slow
debilitating
descent,
but while he was alive,
John Sr. saw his son
find his perfect partner,
build a home together
also became a tenured professor,
also make a home,
resolve any unfinished business,
and he too
got to saw his son
as a man.

But, Pop, I was 35
when that dormant
heart disease took you.
I was still immature,
unfocused and
self-righteously selfish,
living from
one hedonistic decision
to the next.

However since your death,
I married
the beloved daughter-in-law,
and adopted
the treasured grandchildren
you never got to meet.

We made a home
and I know you would've
loved the view
from the back patio.

I've made a modest
but respectable career
as a college dean,
and if I play my cards right,
I'll be able to retire
with my house paid off
in a decade or so.

Sometimes I regret
that you never
knew me as the man
that I am today,
the man
I would have never
become

if your
sudden death hadn't
forced me
to grow up and
become a man.

[This is a continuation of the poem last week.  Bea was married to Ed, John Sr. was married to Willie, and Dan was married to Pat.  Written and posted for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com - where I am thankful for the support and love of the community.]

Bea is Alone

Sitting down front

with her 

newly fragmented family,

Bea accepts the flag

expertly folded into

a triangle,

but doesn’t hear

the words accompanying it.

Back at the house

there is exhaled relief,

aluminum tins

with Mexican take-out,

and everyone’s eating,

and there is laughter,

but no one is laughing

too heartily.

In a few well-spaced waves

the mourners leave,

save for the lingering daugher

who stays another night,

and another still

until, at last,

she must rejoin her own life.

Now, finally,

Bea is alone,

not just in her home,

but for the first-time

in her adult life.

[For my moms, Pat, Winnie and Bea, all widows now.]

Finding Things, Losing Things

Sometimes you just

lose things,

like the spare keys

to the strongbox

where your

homemade sex video hides,

or those tickets

to the Elton John concert

she wanted to see

in 1996.

Sometimes you find things

and you thank

the God of Lost Items

because you can’t figure

how your sunglasses

ended up in the crisper,

but you’re just so happy

to have found them

because they’re perfect.

Sometimes you just

lose things,

like the firecracker spark

of a new passion,

or the receipt from

the movie you ducked into

to stay out of the rain,

the one where she took

your hand without asking

and changed the course

of your life.

Sometimes you find things

like forgiveness when it

isn't deserved,

and ecstasy for nothing more

than the infinite blue

of the sky above.

So, 

when you find something,

like something to write about,

rejoice and celebrate,

but when you lose something,

like the clever summation

of these thoughts 

I'd envisioned,

let it go and

move forward.

Deathbed Advice

Open your heart and
free the caged
bluebird inside.

Ignore the empty buzzing
voices of those who
mean well
but contribute nothing.

You were born with a shovel
so dig,
and if you find something
you don’t like,
STOP!
Don’t keep digging.
Turn it over,
examine it
accept its dirt and grime,
for it is yours.

There is pity in the parade
and joy inside the tear,
and when you look in
that funhouse mirror
don’t disown the image:
just because the mirror is warped
doesn't mean you’re not.

if you look in the funhouse mirror
and like the what you see
you’re home free.

The only thing to hold
is your memory
but if you live too long,
the memories pile up
like old newspapers,

so start shedding
the superfluous memories,
keeping only the cream,

and if you must
write them out,
do it
and then let them die
there
on the page.

Without Irony: Christmastime in Southern California (a haiku)

Eighty-six degrees,
red and green decor creeps out
'neath November blue.

[Taken today at lunch, Riverside, California.]

The Other Side of Luke 23:34

I'm sorry,
but I honestly didn't know.

I disguised my lust and gluttony
as joie de vivre
and followed them
as I blazed
a pathetically predictable path,
one mortifying lesson at a time.

I thought I was gifted,
that I had a vision,
but now I see
I was just another
in an unending line of
abstract and myopic
nonconformists
just spoiling for a fight.

I stand now
at the foot of your cross
under a bruised purple-black sky
lost in a sea of fetid sinners,
a fellowship of miscreants-
these are my true peers.

I see the weight of my sins
bearing down
on your thorny crown.

I see your human agony
and if you can see me
through the blood dripping
in your eyes
please know,

I’m sorry.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com - where they love me even though I'm not really writing lately.]

“I Am Your Slave"

“I Am Your Slave”
she said presenting herself,
wrists forward and palms up
in an expression of
understood submission.

My face went cold and
I felt that familiar thud
drop from my chest
to my gut.

She was supposed
to go back to her husband
after our tryst
and this just confirmed my fear.

Thoughts of panic
swirled around me
and the guilt soaked
through my shirt.

She handed herself over
like a blank check waiting
to be drawn
from a demonic account
and I was angry.

Stupid girl.
She knew
she was just another painkiller
I was using to numb the
wounds inflicted by my
newly departed wife.

Why’d she betray me?

She bought into The Lie.

The Lie is a thing
so beautiful
perfectly round
juicy and sweet
and always just
a little out of reach.

The Lie
does an excellent business
tempting the lost and lonely
to disregard every dull truth
in favor of its titillating façade.

I know this
because I did the same thing
the night before
as I bowed low
at the altar of wanton carnality
and said:
“I Am Your Slave.”

[Posted for #openlinknight at www.dversepoets.com - come and read some great poetry.]

Hole Poem

20 hours after waking,
I finally carve
a hole out of my
wall-to-wall life
to write a poem,

and as I dig into
my back pocket
where I keep
my glib and facile
poetic ideas,

I reach in
only to find
a hole.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com - stop on by and have a cry! Or a laugh!]

The Devil Sleeps Soundly

The Devil sleeps soundly
on a bed of
our apathy and indifference
to the neglected,
disconnected
souls,
our hubris and selfishness
fueling sweet dreams.

The Devil sleeps soundly
on the pretense that
we don’t see
the dirty, needy hands
outstretched for bread,
and he renews himself
when we deny helping
with dismissive cynicism.

The Devil sleeps soundly
when we attribute
the evils of the world to him,
ignoring our implicit culpability
and it gladdens his heart
when we ignore
our higher inclinations
and take the lower path.

The Devil sleeps soundly
but he’s rested too long,
and it’s time to awaken him,
(ourselves as well),
with the admonition
that we’ll no longer be a party
to his death and destruction.

We’re tired of doing your dirty work.
“Wake up and get out.”

[Written for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com - come along and read some fine poetry.]

The Welcome Speech

Just sit there.
you’re new here, so listen up.

I don’t awaken easily
and I hate staying awake.

If you must ask questions
make sure they’re well thought out.

Don’t waste my time
and keep your hands off my stuff.

Remember
there’s just two of us in this cell

and the guards
are down the hall and sometimes deaf.

Don’t ask why I’m here
and I won’t ask why you’re here,

and when I get up
I get to use the toilet first.

I’ve been here
longer than you’ve been alive

so don’t think
you’re the boss in here.

Out there
you might’ve been some badass

but in my world
you’re just a new fish.

I’m holding back
more hate than you’ll ever feel,

so don’t get in my way
and I’ll treat you more fair than most,

and if you’re smart
you won't let me see you cry.

I really hate
people who can still cry.

Without Abandon or Fear

Keep searching.

In every day
God has hidden
a gift,
and the trick is
to live fully,
without abandon
or fear,
turning over
every little thing,
especially those
that appear
insignificant.

Don’t ignore anything,
especially
the cold and cruddy
stones
in your pathway,
because under
one of them
may be the
hitherto unknown key
that unlocks
the next wonderful era
of your life.

Keep looking ahead,
unceasing,
like the curiosity
of a child’s incessant
questioning.

Pirouette to the edge
of the cliff
and if you’re not too busy
living and being alive
listen to your heart beating,
your pulse pounding
insistent,
affirming
‘yes, you are alive.”

There is no reason,
no meaning
to this life

until you break through
scale the wall,
and decide
that your life
has value
and dignity

and some days
just remembering that
is the gift.

[Written for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com - love those poets there!]

The March of Death

The march of death
plods ahead,
indifferent and dispassionate.

It will see
all our dreams
and wistful hopes for tomorrow
like baby squirrels
in the path of a Humvee
and run them over.

The march of death
is always operating
in the background
never needing a break.

We all know its there
and most refuse to see it
afraid to give it proper credit.

The march of death is there
at the graduation,
in the wedding party,
during the back-arching orgasm.

"Carpe diem"
"live for today"
"tomorrow is promised to no one."

It's easy to repeat such homilies
but unless you can
enjoy the budding rose
or the breeze that bends the palm
or savor the warm quiet explosion
of that first bite of red curried Thai chicken
with your eyes directly fixed on
the march of death,
then you haven't met the challenge
you've chickened out again.

Be consumed
by the defiant dance of life
and if you are seen as
wild-eyed and spastic,
then so be it.

This is your day
use it up now.

Somewhere on this planet
someone's last moment
just happened,

because
the march of death
never takes a day off,

so neither will I.

My Catalogue of Mistakes

She rifles through
my catalogue of mistakes
looking for something new,
looking for new ways
to prick herself.

I tell her
"look at my new writing.
It's so much better."

She does,
but it's just not
as compelling a read
as the catalogue.

Everyone has their inventory
of drunken reverie,
bad carnal decisions,
wasted tears and hours,
complete with photographs
of the most compromising positions
in glorious color
each one perfectly suitable
for framing.

The wise person knows
to avoid scratching
that unreachable itch
which would dig a hole
deep into his soul.

I learned long ago
to keep my curiosity
about such ticklish things
on a short leash
because letting it run free
would only enslave me.

For I have been
a jealous monster
at times
and I hated it,

so I tried to leave it behind
by avoiding rear view mirrors
or unlocked journals
or photo albums from your past
where I've not been invited.

Everyone has a past
with luggage stamped
"Regret"
"Indiscretion"
"Loneliness"
"Loss"

and everyone has
their catalogue.

If someone
shares theirs with you
don't study it,
don't memorize it,
don't judge its contents

just accept it and move on,

lest you be added
to its pages.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com - come on over and have a drink of words.]

Spin That Wheel of Fortune (For Sarah)

Spin that
wheel of fortune,
listen to its clatter,
dance to its tune.

There is more
that you don’t know
than you do.

If you’re dropped
onto the stage
in the middle of an opera
and you don’t know the part,
sing anyways!

The surface of the placid
autumn lake
rarely stays smooth,
and neither should
your brain.

What we want is always
on a collision course with
what we need,

so,
take the stray fibers
of your memories
and weave wisdom
and understanding.

[Posted for my daughter, who is doing a writing challenge with me, also for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com, where poets and poetry finally get a little respect!]

David [name withheld] (Posted for 50th Birthday)

His hubris is such
that he often says
his six-word story is
“God created,
and so must I.”

In everything he does
he tries a creative approach.
While this is not
always successful
(as evidenced by his previous
failed love relationships),
he relies upon
the element of surprise
to compensate for
true talent and competence.

He is most proud
of his second marriage
and how seamlessly
he became a husband
and assumed the paternal role
to Anita’s pre-existing
family.

In his free time
he is a voracious reader
of nonfiction,
with his favorite genres being
show business biographies,
theological treatises
and reference books.

He loves all forms
of music,
and his favorite all-time band
is the New York Dolls.

He started writing
when he was 15,
and while there have been
long periods of inactivity
in the intervening 35 years,
writing is the single
most gratifying work
he’s ever done.

When he writes
he is no longer
overweight or
Mexican or
awkward or
unwanted or
lonesome.

True to his credo,
when he writes
he creates himself,

and it amuses him,
and thankfully,
he amuses easily.

The Movie of My Life

The movie of my life
will not star Brad Pitt
or Angelina Jolie
or anyone else you’d know
or recognize
or even want to look at,
but I will be played by
at least six different actors
portraying me
in different eras.

I’ll market it like an indie
(with lowered expectations)
and feign surprise
when it becomes
a critical favorite.

John Barry will write the score
and it will be triumphant,
exotic and sentimental
and it will win him
another Academy Award.

My costumes will be
specially tailored for me
and you’ll never see me
eating
anything.

The story will be
that I’m the lovable underdog,
a schlemiel Horatio Alger
and they’ll all root for me,
as David fighting some Goliath
as I’ll defy the odds
until I ultimately rise
and transcend past…

something
 (I haven’t worked that
part out yet).

I’ll hire an editor
who specializes in action films
with masterful pacing
so that every scene
builds in suspense
and tension.

In the movie of my life
everything will be smarter
faster
and better
than in real life.

All the people
I could never please,
and things I never did,
and every needless worry
I courted
won’t make the final cut,

and all kind words
belated wisdom
and quotable epigrams
left unspoken
will be dubbed in
during post-production.

The final indignity:
the movie of my life
will go
straight
to home video.

[Posted in honor of my 50th birthday this coming Friday.]

Bad Boy and Family Man

I'm the guy you used to want.

I'm the one who snuck you
out the window of your
parent's house
and took you on my Harley
and we drank and rode all night
falling asleep in the wet grass
after fornicating behind the church
both of us knowing
you had an algebra test the next morning.

I'm the one who didn't take
any shit from anyone and though it
cost me a couple lousy jobs and
a high school diploma
you still acquiesced to
my fearless desire
because something in your soul
was lit when you were under
my alpha male charm.

There was no fight too small,
my fists leapt at every opportunity,
while I did heroic lines of coke
and stole what I didn't have
and I didn't care about tomorrow
and when marriage number one crashed and burned
I blamed her for it
and I did all these things
because that's what got me laid
and it felt right.

Now time has slowed me
and I have seen error of those ways.
I found a family
and maybe it was the kids that
finally softened me,

but most likely it was
my wife's love all along.

Now I wake up every morning
shave and put on a clean shirt
and I say "yes, sir" to a lot of guys
that I might have bitch-slapped
back in the day,
and I call home before I leave work
to ask if she needs anything
from the store
even if it's tampons.

I take out the trash,
help one daughter with her algebra,
pick up my son and his friend
and take them to the bowling alley,
and sit through another re-run
of "Full House" with my littlest one,

and sometimes,
in my quietest moments
both Bad Boy and Family Man
will appear to me
at the same time
asking the same question:

who are you?

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight - at www.dversepoets.com - come along and find your new favorite poet.  BTW, this is a re-posting of a poem I wrote in 2006. Everyday I'm posting autobiographical poems to commemorate my turning 50 years old later this week. ]

Retracing My Steps

When I started
I wanted to be Groucho Marx,
then I wanted to be
John Lennon
because they looked
confident,
distinct,
alive.

Hn high school
I wanted to be
John Travolta from
“Saturday Night Fever.”

Then I became
Woody Allen,
then Richard Pryor
because they helped me feel
less ashamed
that I wasn’t
White or Christian.

In college
I wrote pointless plays
trying to be Neil Simon
and I tried to love
as easily as Leo Buscaglia.

Then I wanted to be
an iconoclast
so I tried being
Warren Farrell
and Lenny Bruce.

I became a drunk
trying to write like Bukowski
and I made a lot of lousy
demo recordings trying to be
Prince.

I loved and I tried
to salvage broken women
who refused my help
because I saw myself
as a mix
of Jesus Christ and
Rhoda Morgenstern:
I would prove
that I was better
than the rest
by loving the unlovable
especially
since I believed
I didn't deserve better
than that.

When I
married and became Pop-o
I tried to become my own father,
but that was a dead end too
especially since
he didn't have much faith in me
until I graduated from college.

So here I sit
at 43
retracing my steps
I smile at my folly,
realizing all these people
were only signposts
pointing me to
here and now.

This flower is still blooming
this song is not over yet
and I know I’m closer
to the dessert
than the appetizer,

and I’ve only recently figured out
that I’m my own
do-it-yourself project

and if I do it right
maybe
I’ll be a signpost
in someone else's life.

The Starlight Ballroom

In the Starlight Ballroom
it is closing time.

The music turned tuneless,
the floor, littered
with used napkins
and discarded hopes.

He'll give the place
one last look,
finish off the drink
that's kept him company,

and remember
that laughing girl,

wondering
who's she with now?

It doesn't matter.

Tomorrow will bring
fresh glitter
and opportunities.

Finally,
when the music's over
as the lights come up,
he sees his counterparts
scattered like bodies
on a smoldering battlefield,

each one hopeless
lifeless and lost,

but the most disconcerting
thought is

how alike they all appear
this late
at night.

"Do You Have a Dark Side?"

There is a fire
that never goes out,
never forgets
the list of injustices.

I tend this fire
and stoke it with
bitter memories,
afraid to forgive
lest I might forget.

This fire has kept
the pencil in my hand,
the guitar in my embrace,
the piano in my service.

"Why didn't you call?"
"Why didn't you write?"
"Why'd you do me like that?"

The passion
will never die
because there's always
something
to enrage my soul.

I will not
go gentle into that good
night.

I may look and act
like I've mellowed
but that's just a
strategy for disarming you,

because even if I am
a nearly invisible
84 year old
toothless man,

I'll still remember
what you did,

and I'll sidle up beside you
(you won't even recognize me)
and when no one's looking
I'll plunge my blade
into your side
and drag it up
and finally out,

and then I'll quietly
shuffle away.

Do I have a dark side?

Of course, I do.
It's just inside.

This Impossible Puzzle

I don’t trust

bright sunny

Tuesdays

in early September

anymore.

My plan was to write

nine stanzas of

eleven words each,

my poetic tribute

to the fallen,

but 99 words won’t say it

and 2,977 victims won’t

hear it.

12 years gone

and I am still

buried under

the weight of it all.

Underneath the

confetti rubble,

broken masonry,

shattered glass,

melted steel,

this heart weeps

angry

but impotent,

as nothing will undo the day

and repeated viewings

do not

desensitize me

as they should.

I want vengeance,

I want to wreak havoc

and mayhem,

but I know

that is not my domain.

I want blood,

but remember

that I have been saved

by His blood,

so I pray,

hopeful that it’s enough,

while trying to solve

this impossible puzzle

with 3D pieces

scattered

throughout the

galaxy,

and trying not

to give in to

the empty,

unforgiving silence.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight @www.dversepoets.com - my home away from home online. Come on and share your thoughts and feelings.]

To Any Girls with Bullets and Arrows

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

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

I suppose these phrases
were meant to console me,

but,
how dare they?

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

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

I’ve had enough of the pain
and tears just make the words
sound stupid anyway

and the morning after
is always worse
than the night before.

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

please
stay.

Post-Marriage, July 1994

After five years
of steady dating,
we became engaged
and a year after that
we were married
on the day
before Valentine’s Day, 1994.

Our marriage was weak
and hollow
and it seemed
the only things
we had in common
were buying things
and a limited history

but I forced a sickly smile
and I went through with it,

but it felt wrong
immediately.

Very soon
after we were married
it must have hit her too
because she was leaving earlier,
staying out later
and eventually,
she chose
her computer programming teacher
over me.

I left on the day
before Independence Day,

taking only
what I could pack
into the trunk
of my Honda,

and even though
I felt I lost everything,

I knew I hadn’t.

I still had
me
and whoever that was,
I was determined to
hold on to myself.

I was alone
and my face burned
with tears and humiliation,

and I did a million
self-destructive things,
spent money I didn’t have,
recklessly crashing
into others
who I treated like
fleshy furniture,

but somehow
I couldn’t
do enough
to do me in.

So,
I dressed slovenly,
on my days off
I didn't shave,
I slept in.

I hid,
became reclusive,
emerging only to venture out
to the video store
or to get more pizza.

I watched TV and ate
and let myself heal
and lapse back
into the pre-marriage slob
of who I really was,

and that felt right
immediately.

It felt good
to be reunited with
myself again.

The Parachutists

Where we worship,
members come together 
every week,

out of their fear,
of the dark,
death,
loneliness.

Beyond logic
and rational self-interest,

in the brief moments
after the opening prayer
everyone suspends disbelief
and bids each other good morning,
offering friendship and love.

Holding hands 
they leap like parachutists,
holding onto each other
in free fall,
floating on love and faith
until they land
back in the world
where there are necessary
arbitrary boundaries.

It may not make sense,
but it doesn’t have to 
make sense.

Enough parachutists
could change the landscape,
but they would have to keep
holding hands 
long after they landed 
hard
on this dark 
and lonely planet.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com - stop by for a hot cuppa poetry.]