No Overarching Narrative

I attempt  

completing the puzzle

even though

my soul knows

many of 

the stray pieces

have been hidden.

There is no meaning

in these random occurrences,

no overarching narrative.

It's just grasping 

at disparate shards

of perception,

those meandering clouds

of feelings

and assembling them

into something

recognizable.

The spider in the bassinet,

the ice cube in the ashtray,

the eyelid closed in slumber,

the Bowie knife in the pew.

The story is not

that they are related 

in some meaningful frieze,

but rather it is

that they were

never disconnected.

There is meaning

in this world,

but it is not ours to

know,

so why ponder.

Enjoy the drink,

breathe in the air,

savor the meal,

fall asleep in

a naked embrace,

chest heaving

in the afterglow.

Mussolini the Crow

Every morning
perched atop
the three storied
steel and glass office,

Mussolini the crow

surveys the filling parking lot,
squawking declarations
and orders,
his ranting lost
on human ears.

I always stop
and smile
as he berates me
with all the others:

"You fools!
Don't you see
you're just wage slaves!

Your life is being
traded away for mere
millet!

Don't go in there,
they'll take everything
from you, and won't stop
until they have your soul!"

Nobody listens
as we all dutifully
single file in
with quiet resignation.

Still every day
he is there,
taunting us
without mercy.

Perhaps,
he isn't even a crow,
but rather
a mockingbird.

Balance

Balance
is an illusion,
only because we think
we need to achieve
equilibrium
to achieve peace.

Remembering
to breathe
completely in
and then
completely out,
forgetting the past
and the future
resets everything,
wipes the slate clean.

It is as easy
as it sounds
and
it is not as easy
as it sounds.

Now go,
and
become balanced.

[re-Posted for http://dversepoets.com/2015/05/14/meeting-the-bar-antithesis/  ]

End of the Line

To my ancestors:
biology isn't fate,
vasectomy trump.

The Kiss

And so,
after all the words
have been spent,
this is
how love is:

the lover
adores from above
and does not need
to show his face,

his beloved
bathed in affection,
eyes closed
in holy rapture,

both lost
to this world
and
both lost
in each other.
Gustav Klimt, The Kiss (Lovers), oil and gold leaf on canvas, 1908–1909. Österreichische Galerie Belvedere, Vienna, 180 cm × 180 cm

The One I Threw Away

I've kept damn near
everything
I ever wrote,

just in case
the Smithsonian calls.

The only one
I threw away
intentionally
was the whine
written for the
deranged and depraved
married woman
who pursued me
after my newlywed bride
abandoned me
and my heart
was oozing
pus all over
our still-unopened
wedding presents.

In weakness
I wrote it
and in weakness
I dishonored
her marriage.

I secretly wish
every poem I ever
gave away
is still somewhere
secretly tucked
inside a memory box,
yellowed and folded,
treasured beyond
explanation,

except the one
I threw away.

I hope that one
was unceremoniously
dumped along with
wadded candy wrappers,
sticky, spent condoms
and other detritus
born of regret.

Where is Sarah’s Miracle?

When the Lord’s Supper
is shared in our church
lights are dimmed,
and I was grateful
for the darkness,
because I was doubting,
despairing,
wondering why
the Lord
saw fit
to scratch
my daughter’s brain,
in utero, 
marking her with
cerebral palsy,
mild enough
to prompt the
well-meaning,
but ignorant
“well,
at least
it’s not
that bad.”

(Never mind that she
has been diagnosed
with depression
since she was 7;
anxiety and OCD
as a teen.)

I sat with my head
in my hands,
hiding my tears,
thinking,

“where is her miracle?
Do You even perform
miracles anymore?”

Sensing the usher
standing by,
I looked up
and it was Bill.

Bill should have died,
when he was driving
that two-lane highway
through the Badlands,
and was struck
head-on
by a Mack truck.

He was in
intensive care
for half a year,
rehabilitated
for a half more
and now
here he was,
smiling and offering me
God’s grace
in the form of
an unleavened cracker
and a plastic
cup of grape juice.

I ate the bread,
drank the juice,
and patiently
kept on
waiting
for her miracle.

Just One Star

I look into the
limitless purple black
trying to focus on
just one star.

I am dizzied
and humbled.

I don’t have the right
to look up
and examine them
as though they were
specimens
in a laboratory,
for I am temporary
and replaceable,

inconsequential,

while the stars
are unreachable,
indestructible,
lasting longer than
the stones we use
to understand time.

I look up
into that massive
dark silence,
wondering if
someone
out there
is trying to find
me.

Easter 55

Virgin birth? Life after death?

Have you been smoking meth?

At attention, in your pews,

straining for any good news?

Heard not in any church,

hidden books I did search.

Hanging there, as a wraith,

not demanding assent of faith,

seems not a divine plan;

more likely by profane man.

Remember:

Jesus’ death saved everyone.

Nonfiction Books

Nonfiction books
bought, stacked,

possessing the
truth of
the world;

more than
I can
read in
a lifetime,

staving off
The Angel
Of Death.

Fiction books
remain superfluous.

Just One More Cup of Coffee

When we met at that Starbucks
I didn't think it’d change my life
I didn't think I’d find a wife
but there you were.

Now we sit by the fireplace
in this home that we both share
in a love I’d never dare
dream would feel so pure.

Through the years so many memories
put smiles upon my face
and time will not erase
how you answered every prayer.

But lately you seem somewhere else
and the question that I see
have you lost interest in me,
do you have something to share?

Let’s have one more cup of coffee
and we’ll sort everything out,
like we did when we were new
and we didn't have a doubt,
let’s slow down and just remember
the dreams we made back when,
just one more cup of coffee
could make everything right again.

I know that time has changed my body
by it hasn't changed my heart
like I knew right from the start
and I let him lead the way.

What can I do to make you feel
the way you felt when you said yes
that excited hopefulness
grows fainter every day.

Perhaps there’s nothing I can do
to re-ignite that spark
where it now feels cold and dark,
something here’s amiss.

So we’re polite but we don’t face it
knowing something isn't right,
we fall asleep each night
without even trying to kiss.

Let’s have one more cup of coffee
and look each other in the eye,
fixing this might be painful
that doesn't mean we shouldn't try,
but if you've already decided
please don’t tease me with a lie,
just one more cup of coffee
then you can tell me goodbye.

Anywhere but There

I shared a room
with two brothers -
a bed with one of them
until I was 16-
so I learned not to expect
too much privacy.

My earliest memories
were sitting with my brothers
on the couch that my father
reupholstered himself,
(partly
because he could reupholster
and partly
because we
couldn't afford new furniture)
watching Warner Brothers cartoons,
memorizing the voices
and the jokes,
on the color TV
that occasionally died
and my father would
resurrect with his vast
collection of glass vacuum tubes
he kept in a shoe box,
again,
because he knew how
and because
we couldn't afford
a new TV.  

The kitchen
had a breakfast nook
upholstered in pleather
(again, my father)
that made our thighs
stick as we slid in
wearing shorts
on hot summer days,
and my mom would concoct
things that only now
I have the words
to describe:
her go-to meal was collect
all the leftovers
and throw them in a skillet,
bind them all together
with egg
and serve it up in a tortilla.

My favorite place,
my only sanctuary,
was the spot on the floor
in front of the "stereo"
where I would
plug in my Pop's
over-the-ear
gray and black
plastic headphones
and listen to the FM radio,
or albums I borrowed
from the library,

and I would
escape from my world
of patched-up furniture,
hand-me-down clothes
leftover recipes
and my unspoken
Mexican inferiority complex

and I would dream
I was in a New York high rise,
or a Los Angeles bachelor pad,
or a Chicago recording studio,
anywhere but there.

Decades later,
I still consider it
home.

About Sandra

The first poem
I read was
in the volume entitled

"Love is a Dog from Hell."

The perversity of the title
hooked me
and I opened to the section
about Sandra

and read about the temptress
who brought her
naive, young boys around
to show off to the author.

I had been
one of those boys
and I was red-faced
as him
caught me
in his descriptive grasp,
looked me over
and summarily dismissed me
as the inconsequential
youth that I was.

I read more
and more,
each poem
defining the man
and resonating
in me,
at once idiosyncratic
and personal.

I took it home
and Bukowski became
that unreachable standard
that all who create
must have.

An Inadequate Keepsake

This is
the best day of my life.

I'm not fooled
by its mundane patina,
its ordinary facade.

It is a golden day
because
it is not a memory
nor a dream.

It is real,
and I am awake,

and this is not
a poem,
but rather
an inadequate keepsake
of an ineffable grandeur.

Cornerman Pep Talk (In Between Rounds)

"You just have to do it.

There is nothing here
to fear
but fear,
and you must
stand that bastard down.

Besides,
what are you afraid of?
Looking stupid?
Looking pointless?
That's not gonna kill you.

Get in there!

Remember,
don't be your own
worst enemy,
be his worst
bloody nightmare,
and beat that monster
worse than
your dad beat you
and worse than
life beat him.

Listen to your cornerman:
all you can do
is re-enter the fight,
keep punching
and refuse to
stay down.

When that bell rings
don't look at his face,
just kill this ugly animal.

Forget that he is
your evil twin.

He's trying to kill you
but damn it,
kill him first!"

The Bill Cosby Rape Accusations Have Me Very, Very Afflicted...Right!

1. She was raped
at knife point.

No question.

She reported it
immediately
but justice was
decades away.

I believed her
and lived with her
and her hyper-vigilance
and her PTSD
and her inability
to emotionally connect
with me.

2. Did I ever tell you
that I was accused
of rape as well?

She was
an angry married sow
who wantonly pursued me
right after my wife left
and she boiled
when I didn't beg her
to leave her husband
after we fucked,
stupid and sweaty
in a hazy, August afternoon.

She couldn't bear
to be discarded
as easily as I did
(which is why you
don't fuck
newly divorced people)
so she told her
hillbilly caveman husband
I raped her.
He threatened to kill me.

Three months
after we fucked,
then came the
vengeance
wrapped in a false accusation.

3. Lessons Learned:

Time is of the essence:
if you're raped,
report it immediately.

If you're falsely accused,
defend yourself immediately.

Don't give any one
any time
to make up
their own versions
of what happened.

Holy Ritual

If you light a candle
as part of the ritual,
without thinking,
without devotion,

then it is just that:
a ritual,
an empty ritual.

If you light a candle
and you feel the connection
to the eternal flame,
to that which commanded
let there be light,
it is also
a ritual,
but,
a holy ritual.

Following

If I strike out
on my own
and get lost
I am alone.

If I follow you
and you get lost
then we are both
lost.

I love you
and I trust you,
so I say
let's go

and try not
to get lost,

but if we do,
at least
we won't be
alone.

Not Optional

From the beginning
I had no doubt:

we are to love
and take care of
each other.

Liking them,
however
is optional.

The Unseen Three Haiku

They cannot be seen
but each one, Air, God, Music,
make this life real.

November 12 and January 6

Every November 12
I remember,
thankful that they found
each other
and eventually made me.

If he didn't die
they would have hit
54 years on
November 12.

This coming January 6th
my Pop would have been
80.

Between these dates
came Christmas
the best time of the year,
a time my mom said
my father was relaxed,
different,
maybe happy.

They seemed happiest
at Christmastime.

It was always
the best time of the year,
many years
it was the only good
string of days
I knew.

So, every year
I start playing
Christmas music
November 12
and I end 
January 6,

thankful
for the precious gift
of memory,
which becomes more
fragile with each
holiday.

Muse Trouble

Poised to write
…
…
…
…
…
…
…
come out , come out
wherever you are
…
…
…
…
…
…
…
…
reluctantly,
I admit defeat.

Weather Report

The national weather map
with its colored waves
purple, blue red
produce
in an inverse bell curve
of temperatures
that will dip from
the mid 70s
down to the teens.

In just one day.

Our nation
will be one
prematurely shivering,
freezing monolith.

Except California
and Florida,

where it remains
sunny and perfect.

So,
how's that news?

Blind Faith

Who suffers more
from blind faith,

the one who believes
in what he cannot see

or the one who only believes
in what he can see?

The Itch

There is an itch
in the middle of my back
just out of reach
and i scrape myself
like a pathetic grizzly bear,
against trees,
stucco walls.

Try as they might
no one can get right at it.
Either it's the wrong pressure
Or the wrong location.

It's maddening
this unreachable nagging
that cannot be answered.

I used to fear it would
drive me insane,
until I realized
it was the thing
driving me.

Happiness

Happiness
is a
fleeting thing.

Only fools
try to
contain it
as it
dries up
and dissolves
upon touch.

All we
can do
is make
our hearts
and homes
ready to
welcome her
and maybe
convince her
to stay
just a
few minutes
more.

Keep This Moment

Keep this moment

as a memory

but not a museum piece.

Make this moment always shine

like a diamond 

under a spotlight, 

make it sing like

a bird before dawn.

Let it be alive,

a rose in perfect bloom,

thick and swollen

with red passion.

Let your fingers

slide over and pluck

this stringed harp

and feel the reverberation

deep in your soul,

echoing a million times

or more.

Keep this moment

and really study the light

caught in her hair,

her lips,

moist and inviting.

Keep this moment

because somedays

the sun will be hidden

and the birds will be asleep

and you'll need

these memories

to get you through.

Keep this moment,

yeah, 

I know you can't,

but that doesn't mean

you shouldn't try.

Dirty Lenny

“Heroes aren't born,
they’re cornered,”
said the Foxx.

I wasn't around
to see his battle,
I only read about it.

His modest proposition
to say the things
he thought comical,
the things
everyone thought
but were too timid to speak,
brought him to light.

Some intone his name
as one would a martyr
for the hipness cred,
forgetting his own definition
that a comic needs
“to make an
audience laugh
at least once
every 20 seconds
for a period
of not less
than one hour.”

Some try to see him
independent of his milieu.

You can’t
because he couldn't exist
without the repression of the fifties,
with its paranoid boundaries,
and spooky religious superstition.

The nerve he let tumble out
fueled by hypocrisy and speed
was a crazy quilt of jazz argot,
metaphysical poetry and
Yiddish schtick
at a seedy San Fernando club.

They called him
Dirty Lenny,
and he was my favorite kind of hero,
Jewish, with a correct sense
of moral righteousness
not unlike
Jesus, except
Jesus wasn't
a junkie.

Lenny Bruce
my hero in life,
done in by
the heroin life.

Blankets

It's easier to surrender
the warm summer nights
to the first chill
of Autumn
knowing I will be
warm,
under blankets
of stars
and promises
with you.

I Believe in Heaven

The Ebola nurse
and her spaniel
after between apart
for three weeks

or the soldier father
back from Afghanistan
seeing his
toddler daughter
talking for the first time

both elicit
the same tears.

The natural response
of such reunification
is primal:

we existed
before we were born
in the infinite,
together with God,
incorporeal.

Bringing us down
to this blue planet
makes us
human and alive
and finite.

I believe in heaven
because I believe
in the power of
reunification:

everyone finally
together again,
awash in a mist
of embraces, laughter
and tears
of thankfulness.

The Heroin Game

Sure, it's a game.

You put down your nickel,
and you take your chances,

but make no mistake,
the game is rigged.

It lets you win
at first,
and you ride the high.

It's unlike
anything
you've ever known.

It's like your first pastrami,
the best blow job
and infinite Christmas presents
all rolled into one.

You coast for a while
and it begins sneaking up on you
that you're
winning less
and paying
more and more
for an ever diminishing
payoff.

Yes,
you win at first,
but remember
everyone
who plays
either
cleans up or dies.

So,
don't play.

Not even once.

The Stench

I ran up to my front door
stuttering my key into the lock
and I could feel that presence,
a stiff, steaming stench
breathing at my back.

I turned on every light,
reflexes at the ready,
and I inspected the room
(there are only so many places
a psychopath can hide in a studio
apartment).

I snuck up
on the shower curtain,
and whipping it
to one side,
I found nothing
and then proceeded
to give myself a one-handed scrub,
with my kitchen knife
poised in the other.

Finally,
I lay myself down
in the darkness,
safe in the knowledge
of the gun in the drawer,
the knife under my pillow
and the door
chained and tripled-locked,
and I drifted
into slow, deep-breathed
slumber.

The last thing I remember
before feeling
the piercing of my chest
was the stench,
laughing and derisive:

“I knew you’d
eventually
fall asleep.”

[Written for Fireblossom Friday at  http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2014/10/fireblossom-friday.html - write something scary...boo!]

What I Kept From My Father (a Dia de los Muertos tribute)

I kept his humility
but not his shyness.

I kept his loyalty
but not his tribalism.

I kept his laughter
but not his derision.

I kept his discipline
but not his strictness.

I kept his skepticism
but not his cynicism.

I kept his patriotism
but not his blind allegiance.

I kept his faithfulness
but not his routine.

I kept his integrity
but not his inflexibility.

I kept his hairline
but not his irregularity.

I kept his high cholesterol
but not his naivete.

I keep him inside me
but never hide him.

Making Peace with War

There is always war
waging somewhere.
This is the nature
of this pageant
that begins
bathed in blood
and ends
in the snuffing out
of the breath.

Even Jesus,
the Prince of Peace,
was at war
with those who did not
honor God.

Trying to eradicate
this malevolent pulse
will keep the foolish
and the naive
running in circles,

so I try
making peace
with war:

Yes, I see you,
but I refuse
to fight back,

or cause your demise,

and I will not
surrender
to your
destructive ideology.

Live and let live,
you can't kill me
for this soul
has no beginning
and no end.


[Posted for my friends at dversepoets.com - come on in and lose your war.]

Love Note to the Muse

Turn me on baby

wrap me up
in your electric
fuzz guitar solo

send the firecracker
giggle of spicy coconut
chicken to my tongue

give my body
a gazelle’s grace
as I jete
off the cliff

and then spread
my wings and land
just south of
the fragrant field
of sunshine roses.

Let the Beatles music
play
and let this guitar
be the extension
of my arms

soften this heart
to catch a glimpse
of God
in every shape and hue
and tone

and help nurse
my hopes in this borough
of disappointment and filth.

It’s an ugly world
but you always give me
x-ray specs

to penetrate
and see all those things
otherwise hidden and divine

and give me
a pencil and paper
always within reach
to prove that
it’s more than
a dream

turn me on baby
you know what I need.

I Want To Be an Old Man with You

I want to be an old man with you

to weave a lifetime tapestry

and repaint bedrooms,

plant more Korean box woods

and take more pictures

of the kids as they dress up

and become adults.

I want to be an old man with you

and feel the warm,

reassuring grip of your hand

as we stroll through Decembers

and sit on our bench

on the warm July nights

beneath a blanket of ancient stars.

I want to be an old man with you

and remember all the ways we changed

and inwardly smile because

we never were in doubt,

not for a second.

I want to be an old man with you

and hear you laugh a million-fold

to dry your tears, both happy and sad

and feel your heartbeat

when in your embrace,

and to wonder

who said “I love you” first,

and to revel

in its infinite echo.

Predestined

As the Earth
orbits in lazy silence,
we are mostly helpless
but to do the same.

I am ever amazed by
the orchestration
of falling leaves,
ripples awakened
by the pebble,
roses proclaiming
ecstasy in the breeze
not just for their mystery,
but because they were
put here for me.

Dear Jesus,
your followers
want to put you in a box
of containable contradiction
to carry around
and show to their friends
and possibly make a sale or two.

I don’t need to know.

I just want to
feed your sheep
with humility and gratitude,

even when all I have to offer
are crummy little poems
like this one.

The Goddamned Wart

He sits on the knuckle
of my “fuck you” finger.

I've had him removed
at least 7 times
but he must like me
because he keeps coming back
bigger
and uglier than ever.

They tried cutting him off,
freezing him off,
burning him off with putrid chemicals,

but he returns,
unrepentant
and defiant.

I try not
to obsess over him,
he’s less than
an inch
so I try to keep him
in proper perspective.

If I fight him
and just try
to rip him off with my teeth
I’ll only end up
bloody
and the sonofabitch
will just return again.

Why do you love me so much?

I can almost
forget you’re there
as I gesticulate when I speak
sometimes enamored
with my own brilliance
and I know my listener
is similarly enthralled,

but then I catch a glimpse of you

and I become self-conscious
and my timing gets shot
and my soliloquy dries up
and I rein in my hands.

Even if I wanted to show
my wedding ring
everyone will see
the goddamned wart,

but perhaps that
is his purpose:

to remind me that
while I sometimes
temporarily delude
myself into thinking
that I am perfect
I am not,

but also to remind me
that I don’t have to be perfect
to be lovable to someone

warts and all.

The Inevitable Conclusion

No poetry.
No wisdom.
No insight.

Just life
and work
and mental illness
and discouragement.

I always said
if I'm not writing,
then I'm not a writer.

This blog mocks me
just waiting for something
to give it purpose.

So, I'm going on hiatus,
as they say in TV land
where my dreams of writing began.

Thank you for the kind words.
Thank you for your attention.
Thank you for making me believe
I wasn't invisible.

There is a heaviness
in my heart lately
and before I surrender
and let it win,
I need to get offstage.

Maybe I'll be back,
but if you ever want
to get in touch with me,
just read what I've left here.

When you read me,
then there is no existential question
of whether I exist,
whether I matter.

When you read me
I am in your mind,
and if I ever make it through
to your heart,
to your soul,

well,
that's closest
of all.

With much love
and respect,

this is your humble servant
Buddah Moskowitz

signing off
for now.

"Yay, Fullerton!"

We were transfixed,
watching the
slow-speed chase
that Friday afternoon
in 1994.

A white Bronco,
an unlikely center of attention,
carried
an even more unlikely
murder suspect
who held a gun
to his head
threatening
something,
as his narcissism
would not allow
suicide.

From our
Southern California
living room,
my Pop and I
watched
as the newscopters
followed O.J.
from Mission Viejo
north to Irvine,
Santa Ana,
Anaheim

and as if on cue,
we both looked
skyward out of the
sliding glass patio door
and saw the
tiny army of helicopters
that was taping the chase
from above,
the chase that was beamed
to the world
and to our living room
in Fullerton.

We smiled
and cheered,
not for O.J.,
but because we felt
a perverse pride
that our modest hometown
was part of this
huge,
ludicrous
news story.

“Yay, Fullerton!”

It’s still one
of my favorite memories
of my Pop.

Sippie

1982 and

synth washed New Wave

was the soundtrack

of college days,

and my college pub

modestly marqueed

“LUNCHTIME CONCERT:

SIPPIE WALLACE.”

I couldn't believe it:

The Texas Nightingale,

and her heartache

wise blues

would be singing

for the blonde-haired

blue-eyed

Born Again Christian

twenty-something

Philistines

at Cal State Fullerton?

And no cover?

Must be a mistake

I thought,

but I got there early,

took my place

on the side

of the stage,

as her time drew near,

she was escorted

to the stage by the pianist.

She leaned against

the piano,

a legend,

a modest mountain

of passion and pain,

laughter and learning,

singing her slightly salacious,

saucy songs from the 1920’s

and I loved every minute

of it.

The crowd wasn't interested,

they ignored her.

Sippie and I were both

outsiders here,

and I stayed there cheering

her on,

basking in her glow,

the halo of the gifted.

Her set ended,

and rather than escort her

backstage,

she was unceremoniously

seated out of sight

behind a speaker.

I had to go to class,

and as I walked by

she appeared in thought,

perhaps wondering

how she was received,

where she was,

I broke her reverie

with a stage whisper

“SIPPIE?”

“SIPPIE?”

and she looked at me

trying to place me,

and I smiled and

stage whispered

“I LOVE YOU”

and she beamed

and cocked her head

in acknowledgement,

and we connected

in the way that

the blues connects

us all.

That Elusive, Undying Flavor

The hunger never leaves
and it rarely takes a break.

Like a furnace,
it keeps demanding
coal, fuel,
lest its flame die.

The world is one
endless smorgasbord
of desire and temptation
and I have committed
to keeping kosher.

Tamed desires are
merely tastes and
preferences,
and
I want
that wildfire,
so consuming,
an all-encompassing conflagration
moving with such velocity
that I no longer care
whether I am alive
or I am dying.

When I find
that thing,
that elusive, unending flavor,
I will consume it
and consume it
and consume it

until I can
no longer
desire it,
or anything else,
ever again.

Hey “Poet”

Hey ladies,
Prince Charming isn't coming
to your door,
that’s the UPS man.

If you want him, get off the couch
and get him.

Hey loser,
you think you’re ever getting laid
on a regular basis
without a job?

Put down your bong
and make yourself
useful enough to get paid.

Hey “Poet”,
you can wait for inspiration
to randomly glide by
like the prize
in a shooting gallery
and hope you
catch it in one shot,

or you can
don your camouflage,
strap the quiver to your back,
put on your
night vision goggles
and go deep inside
the slippery, steaming darkness
and sneak up on it,

and pounce,
feeding lustily upon
that which you've hungered for,

and when you’re sated,
release it,
give a reasonable head start
and begin the chase again.

Take Me Deep Into the Flower

Take me deep
into the flower.

Let me search
for the mystery
of her beauty,
of her scent.

Though the answer
will elude me,
we both know
this silent, devoted
and unabashed worship
remains the only
glorious response worthy.

Threesome

Put down your pen,
power down your computer,
turn down the lights,
and with desire pulsating
over and under
every tantalizing curve,
write your poem,
your skin on mine,
until our threesome
you, me and the moon,
float away in the
cool, dark night.

A Room Marked "Secret"

She left
the door
to her room
marked
“Secrets”
wide open
for all to see
and marvel at
its emptiness and
her courageous
disclosure,
but did anyone else
notice
the trapdoor
in the corner
with the word
“Private”
demurely carved
into the floorboards,
among the knotholes
and other imperfections?

Over Latte and Scones

He said
“you told me you Loved me.”

She said
“no, I never said That.
What I meant was
‘I love you.’”

“Yeah, but…”

“What?”

and then
a swarm of
ellipses and
question marks
hovered over their
latte and scones.

My Demise

It won’t be
like anything
I have planned:

with my luck
when I get that
final shove
off the cliff
into eternity

I’ll probably be
straining too hard
while sitting on
the toilet,
a well-read Sam Ash
music catalog
still in my hand
and my heart will say
“Check, please”
and I’ll fall forward
in a crumpled ball
my ass fully exposed,
forehead on the
cold hard tile,
immobile,
save for some drool
unceremoniously
dripping,

and I hope this happens
on a day
when everyone is out
and hours pass
before I am discovered

frozen
in rigor mortis
in this royal pose,
much like King Elvis.

So,
Lord,
now that I've described it,

please

don’t let it be
like anything
I have planned.

Distrust

The believers
with blind faith
intimidate me
with their confidence.

I’ve been
too wrong
too many times,
too many ways,
to trust anything
too much.

Trusting little
helps keep the bar
low,
diminishing
the sting of
disappointment
when gravity
predictably prevails,
and betrayal
descends upon me
like a sandbag from the
rafters.

I trust God
only because
I don’t know God
very much,
except that
He can be vindictive,
so I try to keep
a civil tongue in my head
when praying.

As the days
collect around my feet
like crunching, dusty leaves,
distrust gives way
to certainty,
as I make preparations
for that inevitable
final visitor.

Blankety-Blank

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

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

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

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

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

and then my heart just sankety-sank
when, in a tone too frankety-frank,

she said "never again, Mr. Blankety-Blank,
will you blankety-blank my blankety-blank!"

You Were My 1983

You were my
1983.

You saw my heart,
naked for the first time,
I heard yours
echoing mine,
as I basked in your
approving glow.

You were
Boy George’s
silky voice,
that opening warm synth
of Spandau Ballet’s “True”
and you kept me company
as I listened
in the still,
quiet night.

You were
first-love
electric potential,
and it was too short-lived
for any disappointment.

Now you are
a Polaroid snapshot
in a photo box
of a shy smile
in a red graduation robe,
youthful and expectant.

Now your memory is
a welcome surprise.

You were my 1983
and when I hear those songs
I find myself
in the time machine,
remembering those days,
savoring
my long lost innocence,
and wondering
if I was your
1983.

Onward

We cannot wait
until everything else
is put right
to act.

No,
through the
smoking black
choking stench
failure,

we must press
onward.

[in Soupy Sales foramt - 25 words or less.]

Identity Politics

Am I one of those
writers
who only comes out
when there's an audience
in need of distraction?

Close down the
Tuesday night poetry club,
turn out the lights,
remove my avatar
of Chunky King David.

Without your reflection,
your approbation,
am I only
fingers tapping
on an anonymous keyboard
in a blip of a blog?

No.

I am the minesweeper
clearing a way
through her moody minefield
of stultifying depression
and angst.

I am the handyman
fixing leaky relationships
dripping human sewage,
patching torn parachutes
and crossing my fingers
that they'll work
if ever needed.

I am the servant,
trying and failing
before a God of
infinite mercy and kindness,
who remains
ever silent,
so that the only
castigating voice is
my own.

I am all these things
and many more,
but I only ever
become a writer
when I stop being
everything else.

“The Last Waltz”

At the far right end of the dial,
the ignored AM radio station
whispers out
Englebert Humperdinck’s
“The Last Waltz,”
and I am
immediately
transported
to my childhood:

sitting
in the front seat of
Grandma Irene’s Impala,
feeling happy
and safe,
and blissfully ignorant
of adult responsibility.

Comrades (for Anita)

Rising from the battlefield,
bloodied but unvanquished
she still radiates.

I know the struggle.
I nurse her wounds.
I am her partner.

There is nobility
in her rising
and fixing her vision
on the next horizon.

At times like these
she appears to me
exactly as she did
at our beginning:
valiant, heroic,
and beautiful.

The contour of her
smoke-smudged profile
and the jewelry of her tears
inspires me
as I gird my armature.

We embrace
silently taking any
hope and strength we can
from one another
and declare again
our allegiance
and commitment
to victory
under the maxim:
“I love you, baby.”

Facing forward
side by side
we march onward again
onto the battlefield
of our daughter’s
mental illness.

[Originally written 2006, in the early stages of our daughter's depression.]

Swooning

The horizon is
invisible,
the sun is
untouchable,
and the snow
is an slippery,
daunting
gauntlet.

I don't know
how I arrived here,
or what crimes
convicted me
to this fate,
but those things
don't matter

as much as
breathing deep
until my lungs ache

and swooning
underneath
the dizzying,
infinite
blue.

[Written for Heather Grace Stewart's writing prompt at http://heathergracestewart.com/2014/03/20/take-ten-thursday-writing-prompt-3/ - the picture above inspired it.]

The Sins of the Mother

Among my earliest memories:

it was a Sunday afternoon
and I was less than
5 years old

but I was
old enough to know
my weakness
because it was also
my mom’s weakness:

we were both fat.

I was taking
my bath
and my mom came in
to check on
something
and she saw my
slippery, overweight body
luxuriating in the soapy
water.

I remember
her face contracting
and her jaw tightening
as she hissed:

“if you don’t lose
that weight
I’m going to take you to the
doctor’s and he’ll cut
the fat off you
in strips!”

Her words seared me
like a surgeon’s scalpel.

I still have the scar.

My mom rarely
ventured out of her
self-imposed prison
in suburban Southern California
because
she always thought
she was too fat.

Sometimes the sins of the
mother are the sins of the son
and I fight for self-control
as I keep stuffing cookies
candy
anything
into me
far past the point of
satiety or enjoyment.

I have long since
forgiven my mom
because
growing up
as a fat boy
who didn't like sports
and would rather go shopping,
many times
she was my only friend
and because I know
what we detest most in others
is the part of us
that we hate the most,

but it still haunts me
forty years later

as I sit at my desk
with a soda
and a drawer
full of snacks
never far
from reach.

Soul Mates

"Look!
There he is, Eddie.
Every morning
same time
he leaves the house.

Don’t worry,
this’ll be easy-
he’s predictable
like a Timex.

Yeah, I know,
he looks like a real
tightass.

Yeah, I got your money.
You know where
he works, right?
Just give me
15 minutes.

She never needed much time.

Did I tell you I saw her
at the store
the other day?
Naw, she didn’t see me.
Looks great.
She always looks great.

What? Naw, he ain’t
gonna give you no trouble.
Kick his ass if you have to.

Just bring him back here
so he can see it
with his own two eyes.

Of course she still wants me.
We were soul mates,
she said so.

She’s just with
him for his money.
Yeah, she always was
kind of a whore.

I called last night
but when she answered
I hung up.

There he goes, man.
Follow him.

Okay, I’m hanging up now.

Got to reclaim
what’s mine."

Clean Break

You said you wanted
a clean break.

So I cleaned
the apartment
just like you trained me
(as you disdain
messiness and clutter).

I can clean anything,
but a lie
no matter how white
can never be cleaned.

Don’t bother to check
as I cleaned out
our joint checking account
and gave it all to charity.

As for my broken spirit,
a little hydrogen peroxide
should cleanse
that wound.

I even cleaned out
the barrel and chambers
of the little pre-owned
snub-nosed accomplice
I purchased
just for this occasion.

So, goodbye.

And, for the record
it wasn’t an accident
that I decided to do this
on your favorite white rug.

This is one stain
I won’t be able to clean
for you.

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.]