Cripple (For Johnny Masuda)

This world is stocked
with misery and sickness,
suffering pustules
and weepy abscesses
that don’t heal.

We've social leprosy
infectious paranoia
and contagious fear.

Limbs are broken
by greed and distrust,
backs wracked with
painful memories
and regret.

We've gone deaf
from cranking up the volume,
drowning out
all the advertisements
calculated to exploit
the unspoken suspicion
of our innate worthlessness.

We are blinded
by too many things
bronzed in covetous flesh.

We didn't start out
like this
but this world corrupts
perverts and
convinces us
there is no other way.

But I've found my way
out of this madhouse,
one desperate prayer
at a time.

My detractors try
to discourage me
but they speak the truth:

“Christ is a crutch.”

Yeah?
Well, I’m a cripple.

[Posted for Poets Pub at http://dversepoets.com/ -where we are to write on a poet that influenced us to write.  Johnny Masuda was my friend and colleague, in writing and in life. He died last year.  This was based on something he said to me. Rest in peace, brother.]

The Eternal Transaction

The rose,
the flame,
the babe;

these living things
exist
temporarily
and then
pass away
from this plane,

and this
reminds me
to not hold on
too tightly
to that which
I have now,

because
either I will outlive
that which I hold
or it will outlive me;

and this is
the eternal transaction:

freely given,
freely taken,

and what I want
isn't part
of the equation.

Remember Me

“I know your world
is full of
noisy details
and there’s always something
or someone trying
to get your attention,
but, please,
remember me.

When you see
a rose,
breathe in
its sweet scent
and remember me.

If you see
a skating chimpanzee
wearing a tuxedo
and smoking a cigar,
laugh and
remember me.

When you hear
“The Tears of a Clown”
by the Miracles,
remember me.

If you remember me,
then I’ll always
be with you,
alive in your world,
neither gone
nor forgotten.

Remember,
this wasn't my idea,
and don’t blame the
public defender;
we all know
I was framed,
but that doesn't matter
now.

I know
I have to go now,
but,

remember that impossibly
bright summer day
when we went
to Newport Beach,
and we just watched
the waves,
and we breathed in
the sea breeze
until the sun went down?

Well,
thank you
for letting me
love you,

for letting me know
how sweet
it all could be.

I’ll wait for you
on the other side
of that sun.”

Burlesquing My Soul

I started out
wanting to be
a song and dance man,
an entertainer.

I haven't
the hubris
to assume
you'll follow me
down the
rabbit hole
of vague,
inscrutable
imagery and
poetic conceit,
so I just try
to amuse
with the
workman's toolkit of
humor and pathos,
sex and violence.

I need
an audience
for confirmation,
so I'll sing,
dance,
and in desperation,
burlesque my way
into a motley strip tease,
revealing my
naked soul,
every hairy orifice
and unflattering bulge
on freakish display,
hoping you won't
turn away
and find someone else.

I don't write about
the horsetails in Asia,
or a church bell's lonesome tail,
or anything noble
like that;
its most just about
me.

Seemingly, in humility
I don't describe myself
a poet,
but rather a documentarian
and my only subject
is me,

which,
upon reflection,
is hubris
in its purest form.

Masuda is Dead

Masuda is dead

and I am sometimes

caught off guard

knowing that he isn't

in his wheelchair

somewhere I Oregon,

a phone call away.

I mourn because

sometimes I avoided his calls

because I knew he was going

to ask me for money

and how do you say no

to a man with

an incurable illness?

When I was an atheist

he told me I was

one of the most

Christian people he knew.

We went through

graduate school together,

he also wrote poetry

and he was able to crank out

entire books

thanks to the manic part of

his bipolarity.

He was Vince Neal

until 18, when he

accidentally learned

he was adopted

from a Japanese-Norwegian

couple named Masuda.

He was a red-headed

mountain of a man

who loved Jesus

and still considered himself

married, a Catholic,

even though his wife

threw him out

a decade ago

for philandering.

In many ways

he was a cautionary tale,

but he was also

just another broken kid

who wrote brutally honest poetry

about social injustice

about the challenge of the Christ

about getting raped at five years old.

Now

he’s free

from the vasculitis,

from the diabetes,

from the poverty,

from this moribund

life sentence.

The last thing

he told me

was to read

“Ragman and

Other Cries of Faith”

and I told him

I would.

It arrived

months ago,

but I haven’t

opened it,

as if somehow

my reading it

would somehow

close the door

on him forever.

I’ll get to it

someday,

when I’m not so

weepy.

Me and Johnny Masuda, August 2005.

[If you want to buy Johnny's book, I think it's still available at lulu.com .]

My Secret Recipe

Take a beautiful,
unique child
and unfavorably compare him
to everyone else.

Buff out his unfinished edges,
sand off his spiky angles.

Paint him ghastly colors
(because those are the colors
that are on sale),
and dress him not for
aesthetics,
but rather
because they fit
his bulky girth.

Feed him daily
three squares of
shame, guilt and self-loathing.
He’ll balk at first,
but he’ll get used to it.

Make him a bookworm,
call him a sissy,
give them a ringside seat
at the glorious childhoods
of his joyous, unworried
classmates.

[Extra Spicy Option:
Make him Mexican,
but don’t make him
dark-skinned,
that would be
too obvious.
Make him
light skinned
so that he thinks
he’s one of his
white classmates,
until they start
telling Mexican jokes.]

Let this concoction
stew for 15-16 years,
and then
when he’s 5 foot 2
and 210 pounds,
with greasy skin,
an erupting face
and tumbleweed hair,
make him suicidal
after the girl he’s been
writing love poems for,
tells him that she only
likes him as a friend.

But
don’t let him die yet.

No.

Give him
a pen,
some paper,
and the loneliness
he’s known for years,
stretch him into
a full-grown man,
and whisper in his ear:

“It’s ok to be angry.
Now, write.”

Teach him how
to deny
everything he
used to shove
in his mouth
(because he’s so
orally fixated)
and teach him
to begin running
obsessively.

Awaken him
so he can
write his own destiny,
paint his own paradise
and then enter it.

Guide him
through college,
through losing
his virginity
(wherein an angel of mercy
took pity and
deflowered him
a month shy
of his 20th birthday,
just so he could say
he had sex at least once
as a teenager),
through college
and into adulthood,
where he will become
a nervous-stomached,
130 bpm pulse pounding
faceless, over-achieving
college dean.

Then,
he’ll crank out
these poemonologues
to miniscule acclaim,

never really triumphing over
his guilt, shame and self-loathing,

the secret ingredients
in the recipe of his success.

My Lord's Prayer

Lord,
please.

Please help.

Please help me.

Please help us all.

If it be Your will, help, please.

You know what I need,
hear my pleas,

please,

please,

Lord?

Sadie the Cat is Missing Haiku

Dirty gray cotton
threatening, menacing rain;
find a warm place, cat.

For Adults Only: An Incantation

When the tiggle-de-biggles
go bump-bump-bump,
and the mischkel-lee-fishkels
go glump-glump-glump,

don’t look an oopy-dee-doopy in
the eye-yi-yi,
lest your dingle-mack-shmingel
might die-yi-yi!

No, better bratchet your fatchet
with a wee small small-wee,
and don’t fobble your dobble
under the brown globble tree,

just grab your sexi mac-lexi
and squish-up your dish-up,
forgot the blah-lah-ders
and mish-up your frish-up,

by the zizzel of kizzel
I invoke Lord Snapwaggle,
does any of this schmizzel
make you want to persnaggle?

The Leg Man Speaks

“Every leg
I ever worshiped,
from the ankle
on up,
ended
beautifully.”

Love Poem Recipe

1. Decide if you want
it to be
abstract
or representational,
as this will
determine the
poem’s trajectory.

2. Pick three memories
of your beloved
(two obvious ones
and one almost forgotten one),
and set them aside.
Later, scatter them
throughout your work
to suggest
your beloved
has casually become
the center of your
universe.

3. Write something
about your beloved
that you cannot say
about any other person
in the world.
Do not despair,
if necessary,
fabricate something credible
and trust that the person
will grow into that.

4. Make a positive comparison
about one of your partner’s
physical attributes
to something non-physical,
“your lips
hold the promise
of a hundred
Christmas Eves.”

5a. (for men only),
if you must write
about her body parts,
do not use slang
or the anatomically
correct Latin term;
either of these will
kill the mood,
5b. (for women only),
if you must write
about your future plans,
do not mention marriage
or wished-for children;
either of these will
kill the mood.

6. Dump all
these ingredients
into a word processor,
hit the start button.
Turn it off
when your words
begin to look
like mush.

7. Do not present your poem
in calligraphy
or have it center-aligned,
both of which
imply insecurity.
Simple handwriting
or a plain font,
left justified
should suffice.

8. If you realize
that your poem
doesn't adequately
convey the expanse
of your love,
that means

a) congratulations,
you have a love
for the ages! or

b) your poem
needs a rewrite.

A Gentle, Wet Kiss

Gray mist envelopes
the valley,
blessing everything
with a gentle, wet kiss.

This fog
makes everything
soft and beautiful
as if I were driving
through a
soft-focus photograph.

There may be
disappointment and
despair waiting
somewhere in
my day,
and I can’t change that,
but for now,
my heart is near
bursting,
my soul,
silent but electrified,
gliding through the dawn.

My Name Is Buddah Moskowitz (and I Am Funky)

Self-abnegation
brought me to
Buddah Moskowitz.

My teenage plan
was to be a sitcom writer
when I grew up.

Growing up happened
when I realized
there were no sitcom writers
with last names resembling
Reyes or
Martinez or
Garcia or
Ramirez or
Gutierrez or
Torres or
Salas or ...
...you get the picture.

Also,
I didn't look like
anyone in
Hollywoodland,
and I didn't have
the self-confidence,
the flamboyance
to bust out as
the fat freakshow
that I was.

I wanted a name
that would confound
these prejudices
and be all my own,

Q: Why Buddah?

A: Because Judas was
already taken
and I tend to be
a non-dualistic,
non-materialist.

Q: Why Moskowitz?

A: Because even though
there is nothing but
gentile Mexicans
in my lineage,
I know my soul
is Jewish,
plus
I think it looks
very cool.

So, when you see the name
Buddah Moskowitz
do you picture
an overweight 52 year old
Mexican American?

Neither do I,

and I like it
that way.

Anita (April 20, 2015)

I see her
on the treadmill
focused
and determined,
her stride
controlled and
graceful.

I watch her from
the weight machines,
wanting to
catch her eye
but not wanting
to distract her.

Her chestnut hair,
bouncing like
children on a hayride,
makes me smile.

She cannot see
herself
the way I see her,

but she is perfect,

and for her
I will lift a little more
run a little faster,
try a little harder,

and I cannot believe
the good fortune
that she wears my ring.

Mindfulness Exercise

Feel the crush
of the grass
beneath your feet
as you
inhale and exhale.

Take note
of the breeze
how it kisses
your face and
tousles your hair
as you
inhale and exhale.

Witness the
many shades of green
and the blues
in the sky
as you
inhale and exhale.

Be grateful
for every moment
because you know
each one is a miracle
as you
inhale and exhale.

Know these things
are true and remember
life is sweet
even as
you scoop
the dog poop
as you inhale and exhale.

Ocean Haiku

Infinite ocean,

terrifying but soothing;

meekly, I wade in.

The Eternal Challenge

No two heartbeats
thump exactly alike
and no two sets of eyes
perceive the same thing
the same way
and so it is with
the self.

So,
tear open your soul,
not neatly as though
you were unzipping
a windbreaker,
but madly
as a thirsting man
in the desert,
guzzling it,
too lustful in
consumption
to worry about
appearance.

Remember,
the Infinite
does not just move
outward
but once you recognize
that it penetrates
inward
you will never
be bored again,
as you dig deeper,
revealing more
layers of mystery
hiding in your DNA,
interwoven in your soul.

I cannot tell you
how to access this,
but I know
once you understand
that everything
has been building
up to
this
very
moment
right
NOW!
then your days
will be made as
fine masterpieces,
universal yet personal
works of art,

that no one else
can teach
and only you
can inspire.

Folly

I have guitars,

both electric and acoustic

including the

Yamaha Guitalele

the ukulele;

a Korg microarranger,

my other Yamaha keyboards

and synths,

assorted samplers,

midi controllers,

my Novation MiniNova

synthesizer

and a variety

of effects pedals;

the Korg Kaossilator

and the KP Mini

grooveboxes,

a handful of

microphones,

and a few

multitrack recorders,

some analogue,

some digital.

Thousands of dollars

all spent in the service

of making

musical recordings,

still hoping I will be

“discovered”at 52,

the World’s Oldest

Child Prodigy.

Broken Girls

I see broken girls

everywhere,

trying to hide

behind polished smiles

something secret

and shameful

that was born

so long ago

and was pushed

down so deep

it is almost forgotten.

Almost.

I see broken girls,

frantically flapping,

always trying to

win approval

from parents

who have long since

departed this realm.

Broken girls

never rest feeling 

that they did 

enough.

Broken girls

possess hearts

ever weary,

muscles exhausted

from always holding back

that sadness they keep

in the dark,

lest it see the light

and multiply

like malignant cancer cells.

Broken girls

can see each other

and in their

invisible bond,

they make silent prayers

for each other,

knowing that

even they 

are entitled

to a bit of happiness

now and then.

I see broken girls

in line at the supermarket

at evening prayers

fighting with the insurance company

waiting out colorless marriages

in drunken, half-naked stupors

frozen and stuck in therapy

writing poems no one will see

stroking cats in silence

worrying about the future.

When I look 

into the mirror,

I see a broken girl.

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.