It's All Medicine (Mixed Blessing)

First-time
cannabis use
last night.

I'm 52.

Thoughts:

1. This is a revelation, and

2. Uh-oh.

Five Again (For Sarah)

Little one,
like a dewy tulip,
you are too fresh,
too fragile
for this milieu
you selected.

I told you
that there’d be boys
interested in you,
but now
how do I teach you
you can’t save all of them,
or even most of them,
and many of them
will just piss all over
your kindest efforts
anyway.

You deserve better
and I don’t know where
you learned to
act as their saviour-servant,
because backstage
you’re a pouting,
shouting princess,
more lazy than malevolent.

Still,
I wanted you
to return,
but now I know
you can’t come back,

and what I really want
is a time machine
so you could be
five again
and I could memorize
every detail,
every simple joy,
before life
and your depression
stole so much.

I’m always here
little one,
and I’ll always be here,

no matter how
painful it is
to watch you
as you stumble
and trip
into your self.

Testosterone

This predator
courses through my veins
and I cannot stop him,
I cannot ignore him.

When I am held
captive
by the unmistakable scent,
the breathy low moan,
the contoured shadows
of the feminine breast,
I know he is
at the wheel.

I have tried
to work with this fiend,
naively thinking
I could
control him,
but
he demands payment,
he demands food,
he demands flesh.

He rarely waits
and he listens
even less.

The worst part
is knowing
he is the untamed
beast of the man
that she craves
in spite of
her protestations;

(even those women
who purport to be
elevated
over this wretched
biology),

for these ladies
will surrender
their dignity,
without remorse
or shame,
and the bastard will laugh
and consume them,
leaving only
sticky,
unclothed skin.

However,
I can’t entirely blame him
as he’s got me laid
more than a few times,

and besides,
he’s only a chemical,
an amoral, inculpable chemical .

Even as he wanes
and dissipates into
his slow and flaccid death,
he’ll still have the last laugh
as he abandons you,
in all your spongy
failure
with a wife
who is taking your
situational impotence

way too personally.

[Written for Poets United and their Predator prompt,]

Synthesizer

Turn on
the power,
and begin:

play the keys
twiddle the knobs,
change the filters.

Thankfully,
there are few rules,

only imagination
and sounds
never before produced,
only dreamt,

filling all that
empty
silent space,
with aural color,

and ignore the presets,
as they were made
for efficiency,
not experience.

Truly,
this synthesis of
the machine’s heart
and the creator’s soul,

working in concert,
can make
something
out of nothing,

wherein lies
the magic of art.

[This is Moskowitz' present synthesizer of choice. Photo courtesy of usnovation.com]

Days and Years

Whether the days
feel like years

or the years
feel like days,

I'm thankful
all of my
days and years
belong to you.

My Heart Sees

I'm not looking
for new wrinkles;

my eyes
just don't focus
that way anymore.

These days,
my heart sees
more
clearly.

Incomplete America

“They're bringing crime. 
They're rapists. 
And some, I assume, are good people.”
- Donald T(he )Rump on Mexico

Make America Great Again?

Nothing screams
Clueless White Male Privilege
than pining for
“The Good Ol’ Days.”

Anything
pre-1965,
pre-Civil Rights Acts
pre-Voting Rights Act,
is an
Incomplete America.

I piss on your nostalgia.

I shit on your romanticized
Hollywood fantasies
of a sanitized,
White Protestant
America,
where everyone
had their place,
and they knew it
and they kept there
and they were happy.

Their mythology comforts
for there is
no conflict,
no desperate, hungry pleas
to distract
The Exceptional, Chosen Americans
from their enviable dreams.

I’m an American
and my country
needs me,
and the rest of us
who have been left out
on the sidelines,
in the boiling kitchens,
under punishing sunlight
in the fields,
wiping the asses
of the royal offspring
of the rich and pampered,

to register
and vote,
vote,
vote.

Don’t let them
“Make America Great Again”
because we know
where that led us.

Vote and
“Make America Complete, At Last.”

Moskowitz voting in California Primary, June 2016

[For Poets United suffrage prompt.]

I Refuse

I refuse
to believe that darkness
will vanquish the light
permanently.

I refuse
to distrust you
just because
we do not look alike.

I refuse
to believe
that my side
is infallible.

I refuse
to join others
out of fear
instead than love.

I refuse
to dogpile on the
lone,
dissenting voice.

I refuse
your negativity,
your avarice,
your pessimism.

If you offer me
your friendship,
your time,
or your love,

in exchange
for my belief
in the inherent
good of my fellow,

then,
I refuse.

No!

“No!

She cannot be
gone!

She is my light,
my food,
my breath.

Without her,
this life will be
a gray, unrelenting
sentence.

She’s still
just a baby,
my baby.

Perhaps, God,
if I held her
strong enough,
close enough,
You would
trade my life
for hers?

I won’t ask
why.

No answer
will suffice.”


Inspired by Käthe Kollwitz, 
"Frau mit totem Kind" (1903)














[Written for http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2016/07/words-count-with-mama-zen.html ]

Intimacy

She knew
what he
secretly liked,

and he liked
what she
secretly knew.

An Infinite Palette

In black and white
photography
there is rarely
any pure white,
and rarely is there
any pure black.

Most images are in
subtle shades of gray.

Different skin tones
are gray.
Snapshots of the sky
are a different gray.
Spilled blood
reflected in the sun
is a yet another variation
of gray.

I used to think
using black and white
in a colored world
was an affectation,
a pretense.

Now I see
that truth is like
a black and white photo:

a little black,
a little white,
and an infinite
palette of gray.

[Written for With Real Toads - go and read and praise.]

Lost in The Moment

If you're worrying
about what
I'm thinking about
while we're making love,

then
you can't be lost in
The Moment
like I am.

I Couldn't

“First, she told me
her name was Ashley.
The next time
it was Brandee,
and then,
it was Millicent.

She was young
and firm
and flexible,

with clear blue eyes,
and a nape made
for her
long
blonde
hair.

I kept feeding
her singles
and she ate
like a dirty city pigeon,
out of my hand.

I‘d have her lean in
as I pretended to listen
over the mix of
rap-metal
and classic rock,
but I was actually
breathing in her
heady mixture of
stage perfume and
overpriced alcohol.

I learned
she dropped out
of school when
she got pregnant.

She told me
she had the kid,
and a pimp,
and a coke habit,
as she slid her
lingerie’d torso
up against mine,
straddling me
during one of the
many table dances
she performed
under those predictable
red and purple
pin lights.

And I wanted
to rescue her,
to take her away
from all that decay,
to tell her
I loved her
and that I would
always take care
of her,

but I couldn’t.

So, eventually
I left that
smudge
of a town,

and told everyone
when I arrived home,

the agency was wrong,

and she wasn’t
our long-lost
second-cousin.

Now,
I just wish
I could
forget her.”

[For Fireblossom Friday @ With Real Toads ]

Negotiations

Love,
as an action,
is unilateral;
a velocity moving
outward
in a specific direction.

Loving relationships
are always
bilateral negotiations;
at worse,
unwilling compromises,
at best,
complementary
sanctuaries.

In The Temple Between My Temples

I always start
in the produce section,
and soon I am lost
in the beauty
the splendor
of it all:

inside my head
Elvis Costello is still writing the book
and pumping it up
and the New York Dolls
are dancing like monkeys
in spandex

and Dusty Springfield
tells me it’s a sign of the times
as I compare prices
on frozen pizzas

down the snack aisle
Curtis warns me about
the Pusherman
and I look to see
if he’s watching me
from his funkyfine heaven

and I try to remember
if we need milk
and Prince bumps up next
to the Carpenters
next to Public Enemy
next to Bob Dylan
next to Julie London

and I’m no longer
just grocery shopping:

I’m having a divine
religious experience

in the temple
between my temples.

Caveat Emptor, Prospective Believers

The deal looks simple:

just say you believe,
take a dip in the baptistery
and come up a new person.

So many agents sell it as
After Life insurance,
trying to earn their share
of that great
Great Commission.

Caveat emptor,
prospective believers,
before you sign:

remember
taking on the Christ
means losing yourself
and all your pretty things
for the sake
of Jesus.

If words like
obedience and discipline
scare and intimidate you,

they should.

To follow
is the hardest thing
and the days when
the cool water soothed
my aching, burning soul
are rare indeed.

It’s not as simple
as saying
“I believe, I believe.”

It is in denying yourself
the delicious pleasure
of self-righteous hatred and anger.

It’s in feeding your neighbor
with the last piece
from your pantry.

It’s in the very Un-American idea
that says
“I am not self-reliant,
I am weak,
and I need someone
to show me
right from wrong.”

It’s humbling,
but far easier than being hung
naked on a cross
to show your devotion to God
and nowhere near as
humiliating.

It’s not about being “saved”
from the Hell of the future,
it’s about living through
the hell of the present.

So, before you say yes
think it through,

and if you still can’t
rationalize it
or explain it

but you still want it,
really gotta have it,

then
you’re ready.

Slowly

To resist the temptation
to jump to the end of
the paragraph

to make the meal last
almost until it is too cold

to make love with fiery passion
and intensity
and to do it slowly.

Is it that the world
moves too quickly

or is it that I am blessed
by so many treasures
that I zip from one
flower to another

speeding like a hummingbird
with a two-minute warning?

I decide
I haven’t the time to ponder this
as I wrap this poem up

and speed home.

Why There is No Poem Today

This is not
a difficult question:

should I sit at the keyboard
bending thought and word
weighing simile and metaphor,
vainly trying to scratch out
a hitherto unheard phrase
on the off chance
that some anonymous reader
might comment positively
and feed my voracious appetite
for approbation and
self-aggrandizement,

or

watch another episode
of “Curb your Enthusiasm”
sitting next to
the most beautiful woman
I’ve ever seen
and feel the
comforting glow
that only comes
from finally knowing
true love?

I’ll be right there,
babydoll.

No One Wants Another Poem

No one wants another poem,
obviously it’s way too easy to grow ‘em.

Writers with insight are numerically few,
true artists are rare (the sure sign that they’re true).

Too many claim a literary profession,
thinking that art is merely confession.

Mistaking the insular as a merit unique,
they fill MA programs with empty technique.

With words they dig a verbal excavation,
but many of us think it’s just masturbation.

I’ve gone on too long, for now I just realize,
I’ve done the same thing that I came here to criticize.

Weedpuller

As a kid
I was instructed
to pull the weeds,
like it was
instinctual.

I didn’t know
what a weed was,
so I tried to surmise
meaning from context:

“I hate those
God-damned weeds.”

“Those weeds
are choking out
the grass.”

I thought
weeds were bad, ugly,
mean-looking,
so I set about
my task.

After an hour
of pulling,
I’d acquired quite
a mound of
dead vegetation,
and when I proudly
showed my mom,
she blasted:

‘WHAT THE HELL
ARE YOU DOING?
THOSE ARE MY
GOOD PLANTS!
YOU LEFT
ALL THE WEEDS
IN THE GROUND!”

I didn’t know.

They all looked ugly,
bad and mean
to me.

To this day,
I can’t easily predict
how others will judge
the cursed from the desired,
the worthless from the proper.

It’s been that way
with
plants,
music,
art,
and people,

and it taught me
to respect my choices,
especially
in who I would become.

[Written for Real Toads challenge.]

Keep Your "Carpe Diem"

When you’re a kid,
birthdays seem like
they’re forever
faraway.

The calendar pages
turn at a glacial pace,
adulthood,
still a mirage.

Then,
somewhere in your 50s
without noticing,
the days begin sailing by,
like dead leaves in a river,
moving too quick
to appreciate
all their detail,

and when you
want to stop them
and really study
their delicate veins,
their cracked
and weathered skins,
they slip away from
fingers
that were once
nimble enough
to catch them.

So,
I don’t wait anymore
for my birthday
to celebrate,
I do it today.

You can keep your
“carpe diem”
with its implicit specter
of Death.

I prefer “Happy Birthday”
with all its
boundless potential,
optimism,
and cake.

[Written for Poets United, Birthday Prompt ]

Not a Great Mystery

As philosophies
dry up and wither away
in untouched bookcases,
remember,
it’s not a great mystery:

breathe in,
breathe out,
and help someone else along the way.

The world is an equation
but rarely is it
an equality.

Sometimes a “greater than,”
sometimes it’s a “less than,”

and if you need
to boil it down
further,
it’s this:

others first,
then you.

Anything else is
merely
narcissism.

The Dusky Pink Rose

The dusky pink rose
promises divinity,
simplicity,
humility.

Unaware of her
fate,
she represents
all that is
beautiful and perfect
in this world.

If you
cannot see her,
breathe in
her soft perfume.

To swim in her
velvet petals,
is to be
forever changed.

Why Do I Love Christmas Music So Much?

My earliest memories
are in bittersweet sepia tones,

in a family of depressives,
sadness and low expectations
came with the deal.

Until I was old enough to
decode a calendar,
“A Charlie Brown Christmas”
heralded the start of
the season of tract homes
transformed by red and green lights,
it was like being sent to Oz.

Somehow, magically,
the world became prettier
and teeming rich with exciting,
beautiful possibilities.

My father would finally
sit on the couch enjoying
Christmas music in front
of his tree,
and my mother would
let me help her bake cookies.

It was the happiest time
I had all year.

More than anything else,
the music took me
far away,

to places where families were happy,
where the snow hid all the misery,
where people were in love.

Then, as mysteriously as it came,
it was gone on Christmas Night.

I remember playing the records
too far into the next January
when my parents would
pack them up with
the whole holiday season
and stash it away
until the next year.

And life went back to
its mundane necessity,
like Dorothy returning
to Kansas.

With every year
as I play them,
the memories
of my youth sweeten.

I play them
for my children now
in the hopes that

one of them
will carry on
this tradition
and remember
their Christmases
spent with me
and smile.

Onward (for Cookie)

The white-haired burst
of firecracker laughter
named Stella
finally went silent
this morning.

Cookie sits
at the kitchen table
surrounded by
pill regiments
insurance papers
and her reassuring family.

“What am I going to do?”

I have nothing profound
to offer.

When the center
of your world
has been taken,
ruthlessly, stealthily
like a cyclone
in a silent movie,

when the directions
on your compass
have been smeared away
by grief

in what direction
does one proceed?

Slowly
step by step

onward.

To-Do Stack, 9 a.m.

Proof and send out
that schmuck’s report

this bill is “past due”

there’s a penalty for
late registration

your anniversary
is the 29th

I need to update
the website

did you check Sarah’s
homework?

make sure you sign
the vacation requests

you’re three weeks behind
in your Bible reading

what do I have
coming in next
from Amazon?

call and make sure
the doctor renewed
your blood pressure
prescription

think of some clever
remarks that will appear
off the cuff when making
that presentation
to the faculty

check on Ma
and let her know
Danny and Elise
got to Germany
safely

re-check the poetry site
and try to remember
what the hell was
the prompt for today.

Settlement

Out here in
this frozen,
virgin terrain,

I stand shivering
with a canvas bag
filled with food
I never saw before.

I can’t remember how I got here,
or when I acquired
this throbbing bump
on the crown of my head.

I don’t even have a map
to show me where
my settlement ends
and the next one begins.

Why Must I Say "I Believe"?

Before taking the plunge
I asked,

“Why must I say
I believe in Jesus’?

Why can’t I just do
what He said
and try my best
not to sin?”

The chorus
bleated back:

“You can only be justified
by faith alone –
there is no amount of works
you can do to earn it.”

I counter:

“Right,
but isn’t
deciding
to follow Jesus
an act in itself,
a work on its own?

So, then,
will I receive
the free gift
of God's salvation
only when
I do something,
like believe?"

A long, presumably thoughtful pause:
“No, believing’s not a work.”

I remain unconvinced.

If the omnipotent,
omniscient,
Om-everything
Lord and Master of all
will save me if,
and only if,
I acquiesce
and give a confession
of my faith,
then,
where the hell
is the grace
in that?

No,
children,
here’s the Good News:

God loves you
no matter what,
and wants to be
re-unified with you,
and God can wait
longer than anyone
on this miserable and finite
planet can fathom
to celebrate your return.

So,
rather than
give pious rehearsed speeches
about the necessity of
professing one’s faith,

remind them
that God loves them,
and that any
good work you’re doing
is to honor Him,
and to not
to earn Heaven,

and then,
by God,

be Christ-like
and do the good works
already.

I Am Not Writing to the Prompt

Robert says
he plans these prompts
a month in advance.

He’s kidding, right?

I thought he just
made them up on the spot,

just like he expects all of us
to jump and write to the prompt
just because he says:

“Today’s prompt is
‘write a poem about water ’
or ‘being in the middle’
or ‘write a goodbye to your childhood poem.’”

I’m sick and tired of acting
like a programmed monkey
every time
the prompt comes out,

and I’m also sick of
checking the website to see
if anyone commented on
what I wrote
and finding
I'm still invisible.

Fine,

but I’ve had enough of this
“creating art
with a gun to my head”
ethos.

So,
I am not writing to the
prompt.

Is that clear enough?

Next Steps (for Anita, circa 2010)

I can’t even remember
what brought it on,
except that we were both dying
in other relationships
and it all seemed so futile
and so overwhelming.

Then I leaned in
and kissed her,
took her hand
and placed it on
her heart and said
“This is to remind you
that you’re still alive.”

Ostensibly,
I was saying that
to her.

The next steps were
long and often
torturous,
but we finally came through
together

and now,
after I cap off this poem
we’ll celebrate the
eighth anniversary
of our wedding.

This Task Should Get Easier (Video Included)

Every year
the task should
get easier –
one less
Father’s Day card
to buy.

Years ago,
I stopped torturing
myself by reading
all the cards
I’d never get
to send.

Time has softened
the sting
of his departure,
leaving a hollow,
dull thud.

These days,
I play his part,
on this darkened stage
after midnight,
when everyone
is sleeping,
and I check all
of the doors
and the windows,
just like he did,

and I talk to him,
still trying
to earn his favor,
still trying
to make him laugh.

Every year
the task
should
get easier,

but it doesn’t.

Pop Moskowitz, offering marriage advice, February 1994. Yes, he was that adorable.

Baby, I'm a Star! Plus Rare Moskowitz Pix!

I've been featured at Poets United this week!  If you are curious about el Mosk (that's me), go to

http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2016/06/blog-of-week-update-with-buddah.html

As an added bonus, I included some pictures from my life. Ooh.

Thanks, Sherry!

Poetry Template

First,
start with the title:
it must be
directly related
to the content
of the Poem -
or not.

Then begin the Poem
with a phrase
of tempting ambiguity,
a detail so compelling
that the reader
will follow you
as you pull back
to reveal its unexpected
milieu.

Continue by making
an arcane allusion
to a 17th century English essayist
or by adding a sly reference
to one of the
lesser known Beats
(nothing from Ginsberg,
Kerouac, Burroughs or
Bukowski, please) -
this will establish
your lit cred
among the cognoscenti.

Include densely worded
passages, overstuffed with
arbitrary and completely insular
imagery
to buttress your emerging status
as a solitary, enigmatic genius.

Bring it on home
with an unexpected punchline
that either disorients
or brings a cynical smirk
to the morally ambiguous,
postmodern reader.

Send it out to the same
twelve friends
who always read your work
and always love it.

Repeat as necessary.

The Best Laid Plans

We started on
November 21 1987,
I was the kind of person
who didn't want surprises,

so I told her in 1990
"after we'd dated three years,
I'm gonna propose
on our fifth anniversary,
so please be sure."

She nodded and continued
the courtship.

On our fourth year of dating
in 1991
I said "I mean it,
I'm going to ask you to get married
a year from today,
so if you don't want to marry me,
you need let me know."

She nodded
and we continued the dance.

True to my word
I gave her the engagement ring
on the fifth year,
in 1992
she said yes

and we spent the next year
planning the start
of our lives together.

We were married
the day before Valentine's Day
1994.

I remember finally feeling
safe
my long search was over,
and I had somehow
beaten the odds.

Then came the
hushed phone calls
the late nights at work,
I even busted her
after their furtive trip
to Costco when I inquired
"where’s the other half
of this lettuce four-pack?"

Two months into my marriage
and she was with someone
who wanted to give her children
and made twice as much
money as I did

and I finally understood
that quote about
the best-laid plans
of mice and men.

The Next Logical Step (For Anita)

What really happened
is I decided that I didn’t have to be
the comic relief in my own life anymore.

I didn’t have to be the
good-natured, lovable
schlemiel that never caught
the brass ring.

I decided I didn’t have to be
Rhoda Morgenstern anymore.

I could be Mary Richards
and I deserved to be happy.

From there
the next logical step was
to marry
the woman of my dreams.

My Hard and Dark Bittersweet Soul

She unwraps me
and imagines a new lover.

My hard and dark
bittersweet soul
was designed
to tease and savor.

She breathes in
my heady scent
and remembers
her first time,
and she is
transported again
and again and again
to my narcotic netherworld.

Seeing no one around,
she teases me,
gliding me over
her pink pillow lips,
my soft edges tickling her
and eliciting
a conspiratorial smile.

I bask in her worship
and glow in her love.

Her fingertips are warm
and I begin softly melting
from the desire
coursing through her.

She places me
on her tongue,
so warm and slippery
and I brace myself
for the slow steady force
of her bite.

The pressure is divine
and with one snap,
I am broken
and swimming ecstatically
in her mouth.

I giggle helplessly
as she rolls me,
left then right
then presses me up
against her palate,

and I am singing to her
an unrestrained Yes!

She gently tosses
her head back
and I begin
the long
lovely
descent down
her waiting
alabaster throat,

and she feels me
rushing and tingling
through her whole being.

With another bite
I happily and
shamelessly surrender
crying breathlessly,

yes! take me!
consume me!
give me my reason!

and suddenly,
my chocolate wrapper
lies empty
and discarded,

but I am
complete,

for I have been united
with my beloved.

[Posted for D'Verse Poets - come along and play!]

The Moment

For the moment
it’s a clear sky –
so blue it almost hurts

and I spring-step
across the parking lot
with enough money in my pocket
to buy the milk and eggs.

There is curly breath
in my lungs and it’s forcing
this smile to peek out.

The girl scouts smile back
and ask if I want to buy some cookies,
but I shake my head
still smiling
at their determination,
their perfect innocence.

For the moment
it’s almost too much
to for me to gather
and pull into my embrace

until I stop

and ruin the moment
by trying to figure out
how to make it last
longer.

Customization Nation

An app for this,
an app for that,
thousands of them,
mostly free.

Make your own ringtone,
personalized wallpaper
and
wrap it up in its own
protective plastic skin
designed from
your own uploaded
jpeg.

Customize your phone
so it’s no longer
the ubiquitous
tool of
instant
human connection.

Change it
from the window
that could remedy
the disconnected multitudes

into the mirror
that reflects
you you you
and bask in
its hi-tech
narcissistic glory,

as we create
a whole new nation
of disconnected
multitudes

one subscriber at a time.

Advice to The Artistically-Inclined

Don’t be so full of yourself.

Your competition
is everywhere,
mostly toiling
in anonymity,

and I saw
the greatest proof
of that at Don Jose’s
on karaoke night.

Across the way
we spied
a young single mother,
baggy eyed,
arms flailing,
orchestrating
her 3 kids’ meal,
as she was handed the mic
and tore a soulful,
defiant hole
in Alicia Keys’
“If I Ain’t Got You”
making it her own.

It was madness.

There but for
familial responsibility
was the greatest singer
in the world,

or was it her lot
in life that gave
her voice
The Truth?

So, Pampered Artist,
don’t be so full of yourself.

Chances are
the laundress
cleaning out
your shit stained shorts,
the plumber
snaking your porcelain throne,
the gardener
leaf-blowing away your debris,

each have
the same talent
but more heart
than you’ll
ever know or see.

Thank your lucky stars.

It's a Small World After All

The war machine presses on
seemingly without a cause or vote,

the water in our shared ocean
is testing positive for radiation,

a young adult woman lures
an 11 year-old girl
into a public park bathroom
where she is gang raped
by seven underage gangbangers,

and all I can be
is thankful

because my 14 year-old
is being released
from the hospital

where she has been
on suicide watch for
the past week.

Yes,
it’s a small
brutal
world
after all,

and often the victories
are even smaller,

but
I’ll take them
wherever I find them.

My Overrated Organ

I was told very early on
that mine was different -
not necessarily bigger -
but that it could do
special tricks,
it was a gift.

Most days
from the moment I wake,
it is ceaseless,
searching and seeking
for solutions that never satisfy,
never quench.

Nudging, prodding me
into new fire pits,
never knowing peace
or succor.

They never
just come in and sit
each represents a challenge
and is thrown upon the heap
of things to be conquered

or discarded as inconsequential
rubbish.

My overrated organ says
it’s never enough.

There’s so much
simple daisy beauty
in this world
I miss while tending
my overrated organ.

If it appears
narcissistic,
I understand.

You just don’t see
and the insecure hand
and the whip held therein
rarely resting to
let the slightest comfort
slip by

in those rare moments
when the beatings stop.

Etta James Sings

“I was losing
the man that I love
and all I could do was cry.”

She’s practically bleeding it
as it reaches across
the decades
through the speaker
piercing my heart.

Glancing over
at my bride who has
been playing Bejeweled
on Facebook for the
past hour,
I see her eyes moisten
too.

I didn’t use to cry
before we met
and now it happens
with the certainty
of gravity.

Once I finally felt
it
deep, deep inside
my cavernous soul,
nothing was ever the same

especially music.

The tears are
two-sided:

sorrowful
remembering the silent gray days
before she came along

and elated
that she finally did.

Red Exit Door

I am lost
in a market place
and I am the only one
who looks human,
everyone else is humanoid.

Someone-in-charge
mutters something
and I am taken away
to a stone cell.

No English spoken
and I can’t read this situation
or remember how
I got here.

Hours pass.

I am in a crowd
and we are whipped
worse than chattel
or Auschwitz Jews.

They all seem to know
something I don’t
and they all seem to
belong.

I panic and am lost
in a world where
I cannot find the
red exit door.

Walking through
a dark and humid tunnel
I hear screams,
desperate and frantic.

I look down and see
I am walking on tightrope
over a snake pit
littered with
half-eaten corpses.

I shift and lose my balance
and my heart erupts,
I scream out

which awakens Anita
who tells me

“you were having
a bad dream.”

I exhale
thankfulness,
I am found.

That Natural Tumbling

You don't have to
suck it 'til it pops,

or keep on pumping it
like you're performing
CPR on a crash victim.

All those
black lace outfits are nice,
but you know
they'll be torn off
in less than a
minute,

and I love the candles
but don't light them
if it will
break the momentum,

that natural tumbling,

when everything
feels right
and I allow my pulse
to beat
crazy-mad
and the breaths not stolen
are quick
and uncontrollable.

Let me forget where I am,
just let me know
that I am

and that you are
here too.

Don't think about
all the celluloid fantasies
or that article in Cosmo,
any aberrant cellulite
or how you think
I might think
you smell,

just lose everything
and kiss me

kiss me

kiss me.

Life On a Streetcar

What matters most
is that I slow down enough
to drink in the
swirl of clouds
against the fading pink
and orange horizon,

but I will not linger there
too long,
for life
and all its demands
speeds by
like a cable car,

so I’ll pick up the pace
run alongside,
and hop on,
letting the breeze
wash over my smiling cheeks,

as the streetcar
randomly picks up some
and lets off others,

setting the stage
for the next
marvelous,
breathtaking
surprise

to rouse me
from my
quietly
grateful

reverie.

"It Ain't Easy Being Everyone's Raison D'Etre"

"You just can’t understand
the pressure,
the expectation,

everyone claiming you
wanting a piece of you.

The Jews claim me
as one of theirs own
but you know how
that all ended up.

The Christians
think they’re all doing things
in my name.

The Muslims call me
a prophet
but still
subordinate me.

The Buddhists
draw parallels
and come closer than most,

and the atheists love me
because they find
their strongest arguments
in my weakest followers.

I’m tired of being everyone’s
raison d’etre,

it’s lonely
being the leader of it all.

It's always
“here’s a beautiful rose
I grew for you”

“listen to this song
you story inspired”

“thank you for saving
my soul.”

I’m tired of it all.

Can’t they all
just get over themselves
and their crippling insecurity
long enough
to just sit by my side
and keep me company,

just like any other friend
would do?"

Confetti

Hundreds of poetry websites,
thousands of poets,
millions of poems.

I send up mine
and hope it will not be lost
in the cyber-abyss,
but I know better.

My smoke sculpture soul
and precious imagery
are superfluous and temporal,

as inconsequential
as the confetti
trampled and left for dead,

in Times Square
on New Year’s Day
at 6:07 a.m.

The Balance and the Slip

The difference between
the balance and the slip
is microscopic.

Remembering the rules
and honoring the impulse
are flipsides of each other.

Id and superego
fight me for
the pride of
ownership,

as I struggle
daily,
hourly
and sometimes
between
this thought
and
this one.

And that’s only me
and you’re no different,
and if we multiply these
infinitesimal decisions
by 300 million,
under the right circumstances,

rioting occurs,
futures vanish,
innocence, raped
and God, forgotten.

The balance and the slip
is not a 50-50 proposition:

with sin and gravity
as our natural defaults,

nobility and decency
become statistical anomalies.

CSI: Golgotha

Fully human
and fully divine:

the hallmark of humanity
is sinful
imperfection
and yet
you had none.

I wonder
how you managed
to steer clear
of everything
but the bull’s eye.

I reconstruct
your ignoble demise
like a forensic scientist
searching for something
to connect me
over the centuries
to you,

something that would
betray
your humanity.

As you hung there
dying
and they mocked you,
you petitioned the father
for a pardon
on their behalf.

I keep rooting around
for even the slightest whiff
of rotten humanity
and I still
come up empty.

I know you were sinless.
I know you were perfect.
I’m a believer.

I just want to know
how you did it.

Gray Orgasm

Sweaty,
chest still heaving for air,
our blood-rushed skin
warm and damp,
the natural, eternal
narcotic coursing through
our bodies,
her gentle snore
confirming
what I usually only sense,

a thought niggles
just as I drift into
blissful unconsciousness,
too late to shoo away:

what if that was
the last time?

[Composed for Fireblossom's Fridays at the Real Toads' Lilypad .]

A Fireman in Hell

“Didn’t you
used to write poetry?

I mean,
it wasn’t very good
but still you cranked them out
like pretentious sausages.

What happened?

Now, you look like
a confused fog,
trying to keep smoldering
embers from sparking
into wildfires.

Your sleep isn’t restful.
Your worship isn’t comforting.
Your sunshine is gray.

You’re too old
to flail about
with your
angry feathers blazing
trying to rouse the world
from its sleep.

Now you’re just
a sputtering
impotent
leftover,
marinated
in his own
flop sweat.”

Yeah, I used to write poetry.

Now,
I’m a fireman
assigned to
the hottest borough
of Hell

and when
I’m off the clock
I pace in
counterclockwise circles
around my kitchen table
in a vain attempt
to turn back time.

I pace
inside my house,
with lights out
and shades down,
because it would
scare the community
to see their fireman
crying
in the street.

...Or Was He Pushed?

“Higher”
came the command,
calm and firm
to an unseen pilot.

Then the voice asked
“so, what else?”

Crouching by the hatch,
I looked out
the window
and saw the world I knew
get smaller and smaller
as the plane
kept at its creaky ascent.

I pondered his question
as he quickly slid
the hatch open
and I lost my balance,
instinctively grabbing
the door frame.

The strength of the vacuum
threatened to take me
but I regained footing
and looked out to see
everything
from a fresh perspective.

I barely spoke
but he heard it:
“I just don’t want
to look stupid.”

“You won’t look stupid.”

I almost jumped
but caught myself
for one last assurance:

“You wouldn’t trick me,
would you?”

This surprised him
and he smiled:

“No, I wouldn’t trick you.”

Turning to the hatch
I decided to loosen my grip
on the door frame

then the plane lurched.

I quietly decided
to stop fighting it

and I was free

falling and
heart pounding alive.

I resisted the temptation
to pull the rip cord
to release the parachute.

I just surrendered everything
and enjoyed
the view.

My thankfulness
overcame me

and I was overjoyed
to realize
I stopped falling

and started flying

and by the grace of Christ
I haven’t landed yet.

Skid Marks on the Highway

My compulsion
as I drive on the highway
is watching
the black skid marks
on the road ahead of me.

I fight the absent-minded
impulse
to follow their aberrant
trajectory.

Hypnotized,
my eyes follow
their smooth arcs
and abrupt sooty ends,
and I wonder
what was the driver thinking
just before
it
happened.

Some trail
off the road
in tight,
unpredictable curves,
while others
fade gracefully
suggesting
a narrow escape,

and others still
lead
nihilistically,
willfully
into the cement
guard rails.

Scared back
into the moment
I intentionally
loosen my grip,

as I keep my eyes
fixed straight ahead

ignoring
all the wrong moves
I have been
fortunate thus far
not to make.

Pray Strategically

Lord,
I ask that you take away
my daughter’s pain,
but I realize
if you do that
then the doctors, nurses,
insurance adjusters and
pharmacists might be
negatively affected
so I won’t ask for that.

Lord,
please help my mother
in her elderly loneliness,
even though
if she were healed
then she wouldn’t buy
so many unnecessary things
from the Home Shopping channel
and perhaps that would make
all the vendors, shippers,
and Federal express workers
unnecessary too,
so I won’t ask for that.

Lord,
I ask that you find homes
for all these homeless,
help them find their
place in this world,
but if I do,
it might displace
the social services industry
and throw their lives into
chaos,
so I won’t ask for that.

Lord,
would you help
the little children born
with AIDS and cancer
and give them a future
even though
it could completely
upend the charities
designed to help them
and create more
unintended consequences?

Can I ask for that?
Can I ask for anything?

Lord,
can you teach me
how to pray strategically,
so that my requests
are big enough
to make a difference,
yet are small enough
to keep the unintended
collateral damage
to a minimum?

Until then
I will pray
as I always have,

with thankful
ambiguity.

Reaching For the Pull

I approach the door
cautiously,
my footsteps
heavy and slow.

I am deliberately
making this choice,
and I accept
whatever consequences
await me.

Things will never
be the same
when I cross
that threshold,
but I must do this.

Nothing’s going
to bring back
my father,
and I’ve been in pain
so long,
I’ve gone numb.

Whatever I find
in the coming steps
will determine
my path
from here
into eternity.

Reaching
for the pull,
a fleeting thought
nags:

Am I arriving
or am I leaving?

[Written for Dverse Poets - write about a door; photo used by permission by Lillian Hallberg.]

How I Became a Human Being

I cry easily now
and I wonder
“when did this start?”

When did I become
a human being?

As a boy
I was taught to feel
invincible.
I had to learn
to make I on my own.

I didn’t expect anyone
to help me.

I had to believe
I was the master
of my own fate,

a god unto myself.

This was a necessary delusion
because without it
I would’ve froze
and been someone’s
punching bag forever,

but now I’ve grown up
and I see how small
my domain really is
because
in my kingdom,
people still die
hearts are still broken,
women and children still go hungry,
and trying to stop
all the death and sadness
was like trying to hold back
a flood with a broom.

So I figure
mostly
I’ve just had
some lucky breaks

and undeserved grace

when I stopped trying
to be a god
I became a human being

and I haven’t stopped crying since.

The Utility of Secrets

The secret
sits like
a land mine,
waiting for
accidental discovery.

It may never be
activated,
but that gives me
no comfort.

Perhaps
the secret will go
all the way
to my grave,
as, happily,
all the witnesses
will have met
with tragic accidents.

The secret
reminds me
that when I look
in the mirror,
I do not see
a free man,
but rather
an indentured servant
forever paying
interest only
on a debt
only blood can satisfy.

Most days
I forget the secret
is there,
but when things
are running smoothly (too smoothly),
and my heart is light (too light),
and the sun is shining (too bright),

I tempt fate, pondering
what could
possibly
go wrong?

The secret ensures
that I am never
too happy
and never too secure.

It keeps me
necessarily
humble,

and if you knew
my secrets,
you’d know why
I need the lessons
of humility.

[Written for Poets United - come out and play.]

Chicken Today, Feathers Tomorrow (for Grandma Irene)

I heard that song today
and I pictured you
in your floral print muu-muu
in your overstuffed chair
in that stuffy duplex
in San Fernando Valley.

Has your limp healed yet?
Are you finally at peace
and not worried
about your wayward children?

I can still hear your voice,
comforting and cautious
"Chicken today, feathers tomorrow."

Your gently acrid humor
would sure come in handy now.

There was so much
I could've learned from you,
but you died too early
and I became a parent too late

I hope they're playing
Englebert Humperdinck
in Heaven for you.

Immerse Yourself

Don’t catch the butterfly
but listen to it sing.

Don’t take her photograph
but kiss her into delirium.

Play the piano
until you’ve coaxed out
your tenderness
but don’t try to record it.

Take your notebook
and be a servant
to your pen
and never show it
to anyone.

Sigh deeply as you
savor the taste
of coconut milk and curry.

Immerse yourself
in the pulsing, demanding
force of life
but don’t try to capture
any of it.

Life keeps flowing
like a waterfall
smoothing the stones
as waves crash below
with a pure abandon
no artist can exploit.

Marvel at
its incomprehensible pattern
its mystery

because someday
it will all stop.

Everything ends sometime
and when it does
surrender those joys
and embrace
the next mystery.

[Posted for The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads ]

This Perfect Moment (for Anita)

Skip the laundry,
dump the chores.

Come to me!
These open arms
long for you,
ache for you!

This perfect moment
doesn’t come everyday.

So let’s dance,
in this kitchen.
Close your eyes
it’s a ballroom.

It’s not everyday
the radio plays
the Del-Fonics.

[Written for D'Verse poem quadrille challenge ]

We Never Said Goodbye

It’s not goodbye.

Growing up,
we never said
goodbye.

My parents
always said
“be careful.”

They also
never said
"I love you."

It used to
bother me,
until I realized
“be careful”
meant

“I love you and
I don’t want anything
bad to happen
to you,
so be safe and
come back and
see me again,
sit with me,
talk with me,
laugh with me.
Just come back
because I love you.”

So,
I’m not good
at goodbyes.

Be careful.

Perpetually Friday

Downtown Riverside, California, April 29, 2016, 12:45 PST

This is
just like
I dreamed
how being
an adult
would be:

there would be
bright sunlight,
a cool breeze,
I’d have
a nice job in
a clean city,
and it would be
perpetually Friday,
happily
anticipating
a weekend getaway
with my beloved bride.

Just like
this photograph.

So,
then,
why am I stuck
obsessing
over

the unintended
vertical
reflection

found in the
middle third
of this scene?

[For Real Toads Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads ]

Bio

California-born
but Hollywood-fed,
Moskowitz
loves to create.

His defiant, contrary
iconoclasm remains
his preemptive
defense against rejection.

His modesty prevents him
from self-identification
as an artist;
his ego deludes him
into foisting his therapy
onto an unsuspecting world
and calling it art.

He is a married,
Mexican,
post-theistic
Christian
existentialist.

[Written in response to Kelli Simpson's prompt at Words Count with Mama Zen at Real Toads. ]

The Opening

The opening,
the blooming of the rose,
still does not explain
its beauty,
its mystery.

The opening
of the window,
still does not ensure
birds singing
or even fresh air.

The opening
of one’s self in word
still may not help
this lonesome
misunderstanding.

The opening
of myself to you
still does not explain
who I am;
thus, my pseudonym.

[Written in response to the Poets United prompt .]

There Is No Purple in This Poem

There is no purple in this poem,

nor mentions of paisley,

no crying doves.

It wasn't his
fashion sense,

his androgyny,

his apocalyptic

religious beliefs.

No, what soul'd me
on Prince
was the liner credit
on the "Controversy" album
(the first Prince I ever heard):

"Produced, Arranged, Composed and Performed
by Prince."

A true auteur,
who could seemingly
do it all
like Charlie Chaplin,
like Stevie Wonder,
like God.

As time went on
the music got
funkier
and he became
stranger,
branched out
into formless movies,
pastel clothing,
ponderous poetry
CD-ROMs,
almost daring the fans
to stay attached
to his decidedly
unpopular
vision.

(To prove my devotion
I wore a fuchsia silk suit 
when I graduated 
from college,
my version of 
Gangsta Glam.)

It was this belief
in himself,
in his prodigious
iconoclastic abilities,
that inspired me,
a fat
Mexican American
kid
in the Orange County
suburbs

to think
I can make myself
into whatever I want
to be,
just like Prince.

So now,
at 52
I still write my poems,
record my songs,
plan my movies,
and I still wish
I were Prince.

[For the good folks at http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/ ]

Origin Story

I am from
a suburb close enough
to see the fireworks
of the Magic Kingdom
from my backyard
but too poor to visit.

I am from
the middle child cell
and I come out
to soften arguments
and distract people
from their petty scrapes
and I am largely
ignored,
except when I
say something funny,
which is still
my most powerful
form of validation
and my proof
of worth.

I am from
inside a fortress
of books
where I hide
away from
my pragmatic
and prosaic roots
and dream
of alternate endings
to what seems to be
the fate of my life.

I am from
a land of the blind
where my appearance
is secondary
to my song,
and when I sing
I not only fit in,
I transcend.

I am from
a bloodline
of small, scared people
who never ventured
and consequently,
never gained,
but we had carpeting
and never missed
a meal.

I am from
the comfort of
the television
always playing
in the background
as a reminder
there's another world
out there.

A Bad Poem

You are
what you do,
not what you
say.

If you don't
write everyday
how can you say
you're a
writer?

Not everything
you write
will be
a hit.

A bad poem
is better
than no poem,
even it's
shit.

The Power of Life and Death

"Give
Me
My
Gun.

It's
My
Right

And
Who
Are
You
To
Say

That
I
Shouldn't
Have
The
Power
Of
Life
And
Death
Over
You

Because
Weren't
We
All
Made
In
God's
Own
Image?"

Safe

Oh my love,
when will you succumb
to the good fortune
we've been granted?

I don't know
who you think that I become
when you allow doubts to
undermine us.

You must decide
that this world we've made
is more than a dream
and worth banking upon
even with an end
we can't see.

Yes, you've a man
whose adoration is real,
and though he may
be ugly,
his heart is pure gold
and he truly desires
to fulfill
your every desire.

Until you decide
to step out in faith,
entrust your world
In my care,
we will remain
in a bubble,
shallow but safe.

My Soundtrack, 1982-1998

I can't understand
all the things people say.
Am I black or white,
am I straight or gay?

Let's pretend
we're married and
do it all night.

You're gonna have to fight
your own damned war,
'cause we don't wanna fight
no more!

Mommy,
why does everybody
have a bomb?

Darling,
it appears to me
that you could use
a date tonight,
a body that'll
treat you right,
am I qualified?

Maybe
I'm just like my father,
too bold.

Everybody's looking
for the ladder,
Everybody wants salvation
of the soul.

Life can be so nice.

Until the end of time,
I'll be there
for you.

Lovesexy is the one
until my day is done.

I've seen the future
and it works.

Live 4 love.

My name is Prince
and I am funky,
when it comes to funk,
I am a junkie.

Push your way
up to the front and
shake your motherfucking 'do
loose!

Could you be
the most beautiful girl
in the world?

All that glitters
ain't gold.

Everybody's here,
this is the jam of the year.

What if everything
you've been told
turned out to be a lie,
how would you know
the truth?

Welcome 2 the dawn.

Be Careful What You Ask God For

I asked God
to give me an experience
to write about,

one to illustrate
the human condition,
visceral and exciting,
to make my writing
sail through the blank pages.

Be careful what you ask God for.

So when
the hell broke out,
and Lauren left me
for another man,
I asked God for
something
to take away the pain,
and along came Kim,
and with
a giggling acquiescence
without a struggle,
she disrobed,
and climbed upon
the dessert cart,
naked and splay-legged,
and invited me
to partake.

And take I did.

Be careful what you ask God for.

I thought I could
talk my way out of it.

If her husband
ever found out,
I'd just deny it.

(yes,
I know, I know.)

But when he called,
three months later
screaming and blood
furious,
(she told him
I raped her)
telling me he was
going to shoot
my balls off
and he knew where
I lived,

the police told
me to go into hiding
until they could
calm him down
and I could get
a restraining order.

So, as I began
recounting
this sordid tale
I realized,
that I was writing about
the human condition,
visceral and exciting,
I just never guessed
it'd be for
a police report.

Be careful what you ask God for.

Offload

Don't think
just because
we've seen
5,000 sunrises together
that today is
any less exciting
than the first time.

The balmy breeze
on this April night
echoes the tremble
of that first embrace.

My memories are rosy
and I know
I'm only recalling
a few of them.

I don't hold on
to the dark times,
the unavoidable
bruises and scratches
that all great loves
gladly suffer.

No, I just want
today with you,
and the day after that,
and the day after that,
until my memory
is completely full,

and to make room
for new memories,
I will happily
offload
the old memories,
the sad days
before
you came along.

Plumbing Mishap Haiku

Flooded living room,
turn the water off and breathe;
dance with squishy toes.

On Sleeping Again in My Childhood Bed

These rooms are all
smaller
than I remember.

The life,
captured within these
plain but sturdy walls,
was smaller than
I remember too.

Tucking myself in,
feet hanging past the
foot board,
I realize I've outgrown
my modest beginnings,

and I am
simultaneously
proud and sad.

Objectification Lesson

To objectify women,
measure their bodies,
is abject exploitation.

To objectify men,
measure their power,
is male socialization.

Thoughts Elsewhere

Friday afternoon
in the mandated workshop,
I long for her touch.

The Aftermath, August 1994

This loneliness
I wear like
a prayer shawl.

I’d talk to God
but I never
get a response.

What did I expect
anyway,
for the good luck
to last forever?

No,
our wedding waltz
barely lasted
to the end the song,
and when she left
it was without a tear.

She couldn’t even
fake a tear,
but she could fake
a wedding vow.

Now,
I sit in this
rented room
aftermath
wishing she was
missing me,
but I know
better:

she’s going down
on him,
letting him
spew his hot paycheck
all over her face,

and I l know
someday
I’ll see this clearly,
but right now
I can’t,

so I’m going to
eat
at some other man’s
banquet

and wonder
what fresh hell
it will bring.

Eye Contact, Guilt and Shame

When she does not
make eye contact,
I know something’s
wrong.

I know it
in my bones,
like I know
when infection
is creeping inside
waiting for the moment
to strike.

Maybe something I’ve done
has caught up with me,
or an old primal fear
found its way back to her door
like a bad habit,
like an IOU owed
to an impatient loan shark.

There’s no way
to escape
her indictment,
as the shame
and guilt
sear me.

My guilt
and my shame
have been in here forever
and they’ve have no expiration,
so I don’t even try
to sweep them
from my pantry.

But now, she’s not talking
so I’m left in the dark
just guessing
the reason
(if a reason even exists)
why she’s not making
eye contact,

and why it
worries me so.

Bumpersticker

“Be the change
you wish to see in
the world”
says the self-assured
bumper sticker.

When I went
to check the attribution
of this quotation,
the New York Times
declared it
was not even a quote
from Gandhi.

So,
write the poem
only your days
have inhabited.

Sing the song
that threatens to
burst your heart
in ecstatic fantasia.

Make the movie
and give light to
the madness and serenity
of your dreams.

Create what
no one else can,
sign your name,
then go create
some more.

“Be the creation that only you can summon.” – Buddah Moskowitz

The Free Will Sales Pitch (Jesus Never Said This)

“Before you decide,
let me remind you
that after you die
you will either go
to Heaven or to Hell.

Heaven’s great,
because that’s where God is
and it’s always clean,
everyone gets their own mansion,
and you’re never hungry,
and you live forever.

Hell is a place
disconnected from God,
you also get to live forever,
but there fires burn eternally,
and you will suffer
and be tormented
eternally
by Satan and his minions.

So,
those are your choices.

Choose freely.”

Three Songs for the Rain

When the clouds 

are dark like dirty cotton,

and the air

is heavy with moisture,

in my mind I hear 

that tikki-tikki-teek-teek

of the raindrops

and I hear

Tina Turner's voice

"I can't stand the rain

against my window,

bringing back sweet memories."

As the rain gets stronger

and the sheets are

purposeful and unrelenting,

I remember seeing

Prince and The Revolution

in 1985 

and I remember hearing them

from the cheap seats singing

"let the rain come down,

let the rain come down"

Being a 

southern California native,

after an hour

I've had enough,

and I am taken back 

to a Terence Trent D'Arby concert 

in 1988 

when he sang

"rain, rain,

go away, go way,

rain, rain,

come back again 

some other day."

Humble Bumble

When I read
Moses was
the most humble man
in the whole world,
and that he had
God's favor,

I knew I wanted
to be
even more humble
than that.

The sin of
prideful folly
must be
in my DNA.

No Poem Today Haiku

Be honest with me,
did you quietly rejoice
at your good fortune?

What Has Changed

I used to walk
the streets of
the foreign city,
window shopping,
dreaming and
observing,
touching different
cultures,
new media because
it inspired me.

I looked for
strange inspiration,
the latest stimulant
because there was
something in my
soul, wanting.

Now
I walk the streets, 
and it is not
the same.

I no longer have
the same drive.

What has changed?

I have changed.

The streets
are still there,
all the stimulants
still there,
but now I am
missing you.

What happened to me
was you.

I think
I am looking
for inspiration,
but I am
only
missing you.

Probabilities

It's tempting

to wrap yourself up

in statistics,

but if you remember 

that they're only

probabilities,

you won't be 

as surprised.

Some people think

Death comes 

like a royal flush 

or a twenty in the gutter: 

once it comes, 

it'll be awhile 

before it comes again.

On Saturday,

February 27, 1999 

my long-suffering grandma 

Trini, 

took her rightful place 

among the angels.

She was 96 

and we silently figured 

we'd have some time 

before Death would re-appear 

and compel 

another family reunion 

via funeral.

Two days later, 

March 1, 1999 

my father, 

(Trini's son)

who never had 

a bad medical report 

(because he never went 

to the doctor) 

died quickly and quietly 

from an undiagnosed 

clogged artery.

I used to be angry, 

now I'm just amused, 

but I'm rarely ever 

surprised 

anymore.

Ritual and Artifact

Power on
and flip some switches,
open up that envelope
and turn down
that filter.

Hear that
digital buzz and zwerp,
as I dial
the resonance up
and down.

Really listen,
hone in on the vibration,
and let my body feel it.

Groove to
the low frequency oscillator
tripping down the timbre
and let that bass
bubble and wash
over you.

Nee-wruh-ruh-op
and shee-oouhuhooo
sheeeee- wah.

My mouth mimics
the sound wave shape,
my hips swaying
naturally,
like the sagging belly
on Sadie the Cat
as she slips by
to get more food.

I am alive
and connected
via headphones
to the Everlasting Now,
to the Great O(h)m,
to the Alpha and the Omega,
to the divine itself.

This is my religious ritual.
This is my holy artifact.
This is my synthesizer.

I Almost Walked Away

There was a melody,
a sad, plaintive tune
that I followed
all my life,

and it brought me
to the doorstep
of the true love
I thought lived there,

but when the door
opened,
you weren't there
and I thought
I'd made a mistake

and I almost walked away

but I could smell
something warm
simmering
in the kitchen,

and she invited me in
and we sat
on the couch,
disregarding boundaries,

time melted and
years fell away,
and I found myself
17 again,

and she told me
all the ways
I was told
I was wrong
were wrong indeed,

and though
I'd never been
there before,
everything fit
as though it were
custom made for me,

so I stopped searching
for you
when I found her,

and,
if you're still waiting,
sorry,
but I'm off
the market now.

The Fan Letter

Dear Buddha,

First off,
I'm a real big fan
of your writing.

I especially like
how you don't use
words that are too big.

I don't usually read
poetry,
but I can understand
yours,
so I think
it's pretty good. 

I think I know why
you don't put your picture
on your site.

From your poems,
I figure you're pretty
insecure
about your body
and face.

I understand: I'm an
uggo too.

I also like
that your poems
are funny,
especially the ones
about your first marriage

(like the one when
your ex wife asked you
not to kiss her so much
during your
wedding reception!)

I need to
confess something to you:

for the past three months
I've been taking
your love poems
and giving them
to my girlfriend,
telling her that
I wrote them for her.

Guess what?
I've gotten more pussy
with your poems
than I did with Axe body spray,
and that's saying something.

So you'll understand why
I don't publicize your site.

Anyways thanks, bro,
David

The Longing

Those beautiful
mid-century homes
I grew up walking past,
dreaming of
are still there.

My longing to know
how life is
within those walls
still lingers. 

I resist the urge
to peer inside,
enjoying the mystique
and fantasy,

knowing the reality
will never measure up
to a lifetime
of delicious wondering.

I Kill Myself Nightly

I do not count on
being reborn everyday,

so I kill myself nightly,
and collect the days' missteps,
wipe away the unnecessary
ugly sentiments,
the emotional fecal matter
from the bung hole
of my self.

I cherry pick
the two or three
good moments
of my day,
the divine reminders
of charity and grace
and take their snapshot,

and in my evening
prayers,
I place them on the pyre
of impermanence
of regret
and light that holy mess
on fire.

The evil ashes
float to heaven
for forgiveness,
and the near gold
is heated in the hope,
that it will become
purified,

and I take these
few shiny nuggets
and start again
upon awakening.

The time is at hand
for my nightly sacrifice
of self-destruction.

See you in the morning.

The Nineties

There were still
payphones

and you could watch tv
over the air
for free
with a bent coat hanger
for an antenna,

and there were
countless chat lines offering
respite from loneliness
for $3 a minute,

and his name was still
Prince,

and OJ was not guilty
of murder,
but then he was responsible
for Nicole and Ron’s death,

and there were still
bookstores
and record stores
and video stores,

and I was still
young and single
and spent money
like time,
and days
like water,

and everything
I thought was
so fast,
now moves slowly
through my mind
as a lumbering dinosaur,
bathing my memories
in a romantic,
dreamlike patina,

or so it seems
from the vantage point
of this on-demand culture
I find myself
running alongside
just to stay current.

I Pray

It's not my business
where the prayer goes
after it’s released.

Still
I find myself
searching for a place
outside
of my ego
to send
my thanks
and modest petitions.

When the smoke
clears away,
at the end of play
at the end of the day,
I pray,

and take my place
among the strivers,
the jivers,
the connivers,
the late arrivers,
and the stay alivers.

Counter-Terrorism Strategy

[The tv goes click]

“What’s that?

Human madness
running through
the smoke and confusion,
blood and anguish,
screams and cries.

Another attack?
A suicide bomber?
Hm.

They found an
un-detonated belt?
Well,
that’s something new.

It matters
less and less.

I was wondering when
the latest threat
was due.

No,
if they’re trying to scare us,
a random explosion
in an airport
a thousand miles away
won’t do.

Hell, they shot up
a Christmas party
20 miles away
and that barely held our attention
until December 17th.

Sure,
I’m angry and
I’m outraged,
but I won’t let them
see my tears,
my fears.

I cannot.

I watch
from a distance
and keep hidden
these wounds,
refusing to let them see
what  it’s doing to me.

If I let them
kill my soul,
my body will
surely follow.”

If I Could Fly, I'd Find You (for Anita)

The sky is bright
yellow and blue
and if  I could fly
I’d find you,

and we’d glide high
over the freeway,
past all the traffic
in the beach
parking lot,
to find that spot
that’s too far away
for people to walk to,

and I’d be the
richest bird
in all the world,
our basket
full of insect snacks
and sugar water,

and we'd share this
private shoreline,
just you,
my fine feathered
lovebird
and me.

It’d be
the one gift
that everyone
would covet:

time alone,
all alone,
watching
the infinite waves

crash and retreat
crash and retreat,

content to breathe in
the ocean spray,

and you’d still
love me,
even if I were
only a cuckoo.

Are You Really Experienced?

I saw her
in the bookstore
but she didn’t see me.

We went
to junior high school
together
but she fell off
the radar screen.

It was four years later
and I was
a high school graduate.

I knew a thing
or two
and I was going
to the university
next fall.

I won
a national
student journalism award
and gave the commencement address
at my high school graduation.

Most importantly,
I lost 50 pounds
and I started dating
and maybe even
broke a heart or two.

Yes, the world
was my oyster
back in that
summer of 1981.

So,
I stealthily
snuck up
behind her
and said

“Teri?”

She turned around
and smiled
“Hi”
crooking her head
in an inexplicably
cute way.

The conversation flowed
and I knew
she’d say yes,
so I looked
for an open window
to toss my invitation
into

and just as I was
about to ask her out,
she said

“Would you like
to meet
my son?”

As if on cue,
like a perfectly planned
prank,
a brown-headed
preschooler came ambling
around the corner,
holding a book out
to his Mom.

Dumbstruck,
my words stumbled,
I stammered out
a compliment or two,
and made a graceless,
hasty retreat.

Suddenly,
I didn’t feel
as sophisticated
or experienced
anymore,

but on the other hand,
I wasn’t
so embarrassed
that I was still
a virgin.

[For Open Link Night at D'verse Poets at http://dversepoets.com/2016/03/17/openlinknight-168/]

Driving Through the Fog (for Sarah)

All fog
does not come in
on little cat feet,
resting on silent haunches
over dark, picturesque harbors.

Some fog is
unforgiving, maddening,
dangerous and dense.

When driving through
such fog,
slow down.

So much
unintentional damage
can be done
with one wrong reflex,
to one unseen victim,
especially to yourself.

If you can’t witness
the fog
safely and serenely
from a distance,
pull over
and let it pass.

No,
all fog does not
come in
on little cat feet.

Sometimes
it masquerades
as anger
or depression
or relentless pain.

Don’t let it
drive you
into the side
of a mountain.

Roar/Shock

Serious business,
this Christianity.

Willingly,
I traded
my skepticism
for the Holy Trinity,
and gambled
that I'd find
something that
I could not find
any
other
way.

I was new,
hungry 
to find my answer,
my place
in this family.

Flash forward
nine years:

I read the entire bible
(took seven years),
countless tracts,
books, blogs
trying to
untie the mystery.

The mystery
still exists, but
this I believe:

God is neither
frightening
nor boring
nor grim.

God is a metaphor,
(or perhaps an
extended allegory),
not intended for
literal interpretation,
pointing the way
to something,
someplace
wordless and inspiring.

Like the movie
"Eraserhead",
or a Jackson Pollack
action painting,
or any breathtaking art,
God is a Rorschach test,

a outward projection
of our inner selves:

So, then
my God must be
beautiful,
funky,
explosive,
funny,
creative,
loving,
forgiving
and alive.

Nines

I look for
nines
everywhere.

My birth month,
my birth date
a multiple thereof,
my year in the century,
yet another multiple
of nine.

The highest digit
to stand on its own.

Perfect multiples
18, 1+8;
27, 2+7,
36, 3+6,
you get it.

Even 9 times 564,821=5,083,389,
which breaks down to
5+0+8+3+3+8+9=36
36 becomes 3+6,
it's damned near magic.

Just before
the odometer
clicks over
into a milestone,
the nine holds on
for just
one
more
moment.

The whole nine yards.
Picking up
a nine-pin spare.
Lennon's #9 Dream.

Thesis, antithesis, synthesis
(count the syllables).

Is there any number
better than nine?

Nein!

[Written for http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2016/03/kerry-says-lets-count-on-our-fingers.html ]

Holy Communion

Everywhere I look
I see the flock
lost in their prayers:

young and old
rich and poor
Jew and Gentile.

Each in holy communion
huddled around
their electronic beads,
their mutant rosaries.

Speaking in tongues
to unseen companions,

each believer
in holy solitude
connected
to something greater
than themselves.

In gratitude
they offer
the abstract sacrifice
of their time.

At last,
the world is of one accord.

Bridging the gap
between human loneliness
and cosmic emptiness
is this
God With a Hundred Names:

Verizon.
AT&T.
T-Mobile.
Sprint.

[Posted for http://dversepoets.com/2016/03/03/open-link-night-167/ ]