Hey, Pimp

"Hey, pimp,
I ain't fooled.

You ain't never
been cool
despite your
shiny, freezer burnt
ensemble
and the badass
persona
you wear like
a shitty prison
tattoo.

You're the
manifestation
of all the worst
impulses
of amoral capitalism
and atavistic masculinity.

You're nothing but
a goddamned slave owner,

and shame on
anyone attempting
to glorify that
wretched ugliness."

[For
http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2017/08/poets-united-midweek-motif-human.html]

Two Promises (for Oliver)

I was gifted
with two grandfathers.

One I saw regularly
but never spoke with
because he spoke
only Spanish
and I didn't.

The other grandfather,
because he
divorced my grandmother,
I saw less than
10 times in my life
Including his funeral

Where I gave a eulogy.

Oliver,
I promise these two things:

whatever language
you end up speaking,
I will learn it,

and,

I will never divorce
your grandma.

Welcome to the world, and
welcome to our familia, mijo.

Exotic Flowers and Ethereal Memories

I hail from
Boys Only
planet.

On the
televisual dataport,
I saw
girls,
women,
ladies,
from another galaxy
with curiosity,
open-mouthed wonder.

They smiled
and sang,
they reminded me
of exotic flowers
and ethereal melodies.

For the longest time
the only one of them
I knew
was our Queen Mother,
who was really just a man
with wide hips
and a bullet bra.

I snuck
off to the
launch pad,
years before
my scheduled
puberty flight,
and crash-landed
uninvited,
and tried to
infiltrate their
world.

I watched
from a distance,
amazed
but timid:

they were all
too smart,
too strong,
too capable and
too beautiful
for me.

All I wanted was
their approbation,
their approval,
their recognition,

all things
the Queen Mother

didn’t,
couldn’t
wouldn’t

provide.

Trust, Spittle, Dreams and Sweat

This unpredictable
and glorious collage
of blood-splattered memories,
semen-stained butcher paper,
tear-fueled promises,
depends so much
on spittle
and dreams,
and sweat.

When you finally
discover
the horrible truth
hiding behind this
smiling harlequin mask,
I hope I am long gone,

a memory
of ashes spread
unceremoniously
into the murky
blue-black sea,

too far gone
to retrieve.

May I be
past the point
of all redemption,

save for Jesus,
who I hope
keeps His promises

and saves me.

My Most Comforting Childhood Memory

The nightlight.

Really High

If you hold
the vapor deep
in your lungs,

long enough
to quickly recite
"The Lord's Prayer"
in your head,

by the time
you get to
Amen,

you will get
really high,

and really high
just means
you're closer
to Heaven,

closer to God.

Vape Playlist - June 28, 2017

Note: These are the songs I listen to as I sit outside in the June night and vape into relaxation. 
Vape along, or have a nice glass of wine, smoke, or just enjoy!

Cash in Your Face - Stevie Wonder

Stand - Sly and the Family Stone

In The Stone - Earth, Wind and Fire

Hip Hug-Her - Booker T and the MGs

Sha-La-La (Make Me Happy) - Al Green

Turn Off the Lights - Teddy Pendergrass

Creepin' - Luther Vandross

Mourning

It feels quicker than a blink
since I first saw you
and took you to raise up
as my very own.
Through laughter, patience
scrapes and tenderness,
I readied you for
a cold and undeserving world.

Through the seasons
you blossomed
and the world became
resplendent with possibility
when seen through your
naive and limitless vision.
I knew the world
would sing your song
once you taught them.

You asked if I was ready
and I snapped awake
from my reverie.
With a weak, sincere smile
and moist, quivering eyelids
I face my hardest challenge
as your stepfather:
to smile bravely
and not let you see my loss
as I walk you down the aisle
into your destiny.

[Posted for Dverse Open Link Night.]

What Would Atticus Do? (For Sarah)

We get in the car,
my 20 year old daughter
who suffers with depression
and I,
driving around
looking for normalcy.

Her moods,
dark and bleak
marinate in her room,
her hospice cell
she calls it.

So, everyday
I try to get her
out of the house
out of her own head
out of her sadness.

Some days,
we have errands
but some days
all we do is
aimlessly drive
the freeways
as she reads to me.

Right now,
we're in
the middle of
"To Kill a Mockingbird,"

and as we drive
her mood lightens
(being outside will do that)
we talk,
we share,
we get a soda.

I'd like to think
Atticus Finch
would do the same
if Scout had
treatment-resistant
suicidal depression.

and Suddenly, it was Clear (for Anita)

A little before midnight
on my way back
to my bachelor apartment

her perfume still in my nose
her heat still on my skin

my mind replayed
the evening:
we sat with the kids
laughing at
“Spongebob Squarepants”

and after they fell asleep,
we did likewise
in each other’s embrace.

It felt like home,

but there I was
driving back to a place
I called home.

As I came up
to the intersection of
Alessandro and Moreno Beach

an idea I’d banished
long ago

floated in

like a leaf
through an open window

and suddenly,
it was clear,

and I said it aloud:

“I’m going to marry that girl.”

When the Fruit is Ripe

You have to trust
that when it is
ready
to spring forth,
it will.

It does so
out of necessity,
because that
is what it was
made to do.

When the fruit is ripe
it will fall.

When the faun is ready
it will walk.

Don’t try
to predict when.

Just try
to be ready.

Life presents
all that
you need.

The trick is
to know when
to reach out
and grab it.

[Posted at Open Link Night on dversepoets.com.]

Oliver's Inheritance (for Sarah)

It's not going
to be found
in a stack of books
you leave him,
no matter how carefully
you choose them.

No,
the real legacy,
his true inheritance
will come from
memories
you'll make,

the part of you
left behind

in the cluttered
emotional attic
of another.

Stoned AF (A Cheer)

T-H-C!

T-H-C!

Alter me,

beautifully!

The Foggy Unknown

Just as we
cannot predict
which hue of blue
the sky will be today,

or how the really
best films
are going to end,

or how sweet
the red-black cherry is,

no one knows
exactly
how this will
turn out.

I couldn’t predict
my world changing
-thunder loud and
lightening fast-
with a phone call,
telling me Pop died
unexpectedly
two days after
his own mother died.

My world was
not just thrown,
but cosmically fucked
off its axis,
my compass pointed
in every direction

and each way ahead
was soft, foggy
and unknown.

Some paths were bright,
some dark gray,
a few even black,
but none of them
were clear.

I got lost trying to find
my way back
to my life before,
until eventually,
I gave up that
search,

realizing
his death
also erased
who I thought
I was.

Only when I accepted
I couldn’t go back,
then I started moving

forward.

Be not afraid
of what the world
and this life have
waiting for you.

Stay open to
the foggy unknown
for one day
it will be
your turn,

and then you’ll be
reunited,

and it’ll all
make sense.

Right now,
however,
it remains
a heartbreaking
mystery.

Written for D'Verse Poets's prompt: Poems To Save a Life

Neither Condition nor Profession

"To be a poet
is a condition,
not a profession." -Robert Frost

To be a poet
is neither
condition nor profession.

It is
confession.

Stray Strands

Years after
she committed
suicide,

we keep finding
stray strands
of
her long, red hair
throughout the house, 
silent,
painful reminders.

The Monster in the Mirror

"Yes, I know
why I'm here:

I'm scaring people again,
but listen:

I'm trying to save you
from a terrible monster,
an inescapable, ubiquitous threat!

They're all around,
everywhere!

You don't
even notice
them anymore!

Yes, I know
what it looks like, but
when I break
those mirrors,
I am not
just smashing
someone's private property,

I am slaying the monster!

Yeah,
I has hospitalized,
once in 2008
and again in 2011.

In every reflection
I see
a hateful monster,
a creature of ignominy,
simultaneously,
proof of
no God and
proof of
a God Who Exists But Does Shit Work.

Don't you see
a monster
when you look in
the mirror?

You don't?

You're lucky,

and I feel
a little sorry
for you."

[Inspired by "We all go a little mad sometimes.” - Psycho - for the with real toads' Monster writing challenge. ]

Fixing (for Sarah Lynn)

To fix something
outside

usually requires

un-fixing something
inside.

[Inspired by Poetic Asides prompt and dejackson.]

Better Than Music

Blood pumps
through
my veins,
loud and strong.

Breaths come
shallow, ravenous
in heady
anticipation.

The gentle
slurp and kiss
of tongue and lips
on the skin
of a lover.

This lubricated
piston,
finding home
repeatedly.

These are
the only sounds
better than music.

[Written for Dverse - Quadrilles with Sound]

The Perfect Idea

In the haze
of my
self-induced
twilight,

I had
The Perfect Idea.

I don't know
from where it
came,

but I was alone,

so,
I figured
I made it.

Thinking
"this thought is
so good,
I don't have to
write it down"
I luxuriated
in the in
thick warm glow
of satisfaction.

Then,
just as mysteriously
as it arrived,

it disappeared.

I despaired
until I realized
it came from
inside,
so the ingredients
are still there,

and then I remembered
the wisdom
of my teacher

"Don't Try."

I stopped frantically
trying to recover
this cloud-memory,

just accepting that
The Perfect Idea
will come around again,

and when it does,

I'll write it down.

I Come Here for Hope

Laying on the floor
of my walk-in closet,
it is the darkest
quietest
place in my house.

Between boxes and
piles of dirty shoes,
I lay myself down
listen to myself breathe
and pretend
I am all alone.

I come here for hope.

I know there is a way
out of the present morass
but I can’t see it
in the light of day.

I need the comfort
of the dark
where any obstacles
are hidden.

Here,
I am limitless
and aware of my
connection to all
living things:

I don’t see
where
one thing ends
and the next thing

begins.

I open my eyes so wide
they hurt, but all I see
is the monolithic,
unanswering
black.

It reminds me that
there is no me
and there no you
and there is even
no us.

It’s all one infinite
interconnected
experience,
and since it cannot
turn back on itself,

there is only one way
it will all turn out
but I can’t see it
right now,

and I like it that way.

[Posted for Open Link Night at https://dversepoets.com/2017/05/18/openlinknight-196/]

Tightrope

It’s a tightrope,

only it’s not tight
and it’s not a rope
and it’s more like
a straight line
on the floor

and I walk it,

It really isn’t
life or death
if I slip
but still I know
it’s under
my feet

and one end is tied
to my past
and the other is tied
to someplace
I can’t quite see yet

and veering to my right
may be too little
and tipping to my left
may be too much

and sometimes
when I follow the
beat of my heart
I look at my feet
caught like fugitives
in a searchlight
and I find
I’ve jumped the track.

So I resume the practice
of my loopy walking zazen
respectful of all
that hangs in the balance:
my sobriety
my self-respect
my soul,

but I still try to enjoy
the cool sweetness
of the morning dew
and a tune
is always on my lips
and the cotton clouds
delight and awaken
my heart.

It can’t only be about
self-denial .

I could be easily pulled
from my path
from the sensual
toward the ascetic

but every one of my
excesses
courts future regret

and I’ll do the walk

in my own time
in my own way.

Too slow for some,
too swift for others

because I know
this time
on my feet
is so brief
and lightening fast
and to walk it
solemnly and prophylactically
seems hardly worth it,

a death sentence.

So I smile
and I continue
on this line
of mine
at my own
jagged, jaunty pace.

Do That (for Erica Falk)

In the 11th grade
he wanted to be loved
or invisible
but he was stuck
somewhere in between.

He failed another
algebra II test
and stood there
in the stairwell
as the flood of students
rushed around him.

He dreaded his fate:
“Pop’s going to be mad.
He’ll think I’m a bum.
How am I ever going
to get anywhere in life?
And what the hell’s
the square root
of -1?”

A disembodied voice
came up from behind:
“Don’t worry about that.
That’s not who you are,
a numbers guy.
You’re a writer.”

It was Erica.
They were just friends
as she was too tall
to be anything else.
She must’ve seen his grade.

“I remember that poem
you showed me.
You’re a writer.
Do that.”

Continuing down the stairs
she passed by
and out of sight
unaware of the fire
she’d lit.

Right there
he rearranged everything
in his life
and set out to be a writer.

He wrote
plays
songs
jokes
poems
screenplays
articles
love letters

and it comforted wounds
preserved victories
reified dreams
and it gave him
a place in this world.

So,
Erica Falk
if you Googled
your name,
and found this poem

please know

David says
“Thank you.”

Long-Ass Days

Long-ass days
as my father
used to call them,

days full of
graceful sunclouds
boiling tears
serving others
and undeserved laughter,

and every night
I lay myself down
to recharge my batteries,
but as with
all batteries
as they age,
my batteries aren’t
holding their
charge so long.

So
in between
the morning alarm
and the last
consciousness
there is so much
to do –
more than can be done
or even listed
in a day.

So, it’s not a
complaint
but rather just a note
of gratitude
for the privilege
of another
long-ass day,
as my supply
of them
sadly and
predictably
dwindles.



Now,
to add to my exhaustion
I must post this poem
before
midnight.

Draw More Blood

Here I go again,

secretly picking up
my favorite blade
and cutting myself.

I don't know
what I'm chasing
but sometimes
I find it.

Perhaps someday
I'll no longer need
to pick at the scab
and feel the sting
as I tear
my beautiful brown skin open
to provide a canvas
for all this pain.

Sometimes,
if the skin is intact
I will swallow it
in a shameful communion

"this is my body
broken by everyone"

and as the full rich red
slowly drips
down my forearm,
I taste it
and am not surprised
that it is flavorless.

"This is my blood
drink this in remembrance of me."

I replace my bandage
and roll down
my long sleeve shirt
and rejoin the party.

Afterglow

After I shoot it inside her
I float on a morphine cloud
and I swim with dolphins
through banana pudding
and I am warmed and soothed
by her warm and sticky skin
as her breathing lulls me
into a lucid dream where
everything moves slowly
and nothing is in focus
it's blissfully soft
with every sense engaged
and I do not exist
because there is no place
I am needed right now
and I peer over a cliff
spread my arms and shove off
and fearlessly glide
back to the meadows
of green marshmallow clover
where pan flute breezes
guide me to the only
person who wouldn’t ruin
this moment and I
close my eyes as we embrace
and open them only briefly
to find the blankets
to cover ourselves
and complete the cocoon
we started with a kiss.

Her Moaning Assent

The memory of
her moaning assent
echoes forever.

The echo bounces
off one block
of memories,
onto another,
ad infinitum.

However,
they do not decay
as naturally occurring
sounds do.

No,
they loop
at full-volume,

a supernatural siren
ever distracting me
into lustful dizziness.

[Written for De Jackson's quadrille prompt.]

Raindrops Applauding

In the
flash rain storm,

I sit on the swing,
under the patio cover

listening to 

millions of raindrops
applauding my decision

to sit outside
and enjoy it.

Pang

This hunger
doesn’t sate.

I drink in
her sweet skin,
my private treasure,
face down
and naked
in our bed,

perfect in hue
and contour,
spilling like silk,
smooth
and cool
and luxurious.

She looks
over her shoulder
in my direction
giving that
unforced
beaming smile,
a lustful mix
of consent
and encouragement.

My eyes glide
downward
to her feminine curves,
as I
fit myself in
perfectly snug,
mounted skin to skin,
rocking and swaying
to the rhythm
of the cosmos.

I grab
sumptuous handfuls
of her thick
honeyhair,
and pull myself down
on her,
front to back,
sticky warm
skin to skin.

I proceed,
faster and deeper,

part of me
fearing I may have
a heart attack

and part of me
hoping I do,

as this is
the best moment
of my life.

Afterward,
a momentary
heavy silent bliss
hangs over us,

until I feel
another hunger
pang.

Trance

Nightly
I sit in the cool spring air,
rocking back and forth
on the patio swing,
trying to put myself
into a trance.

I inhale
the cannabis vape,
and play the recording
of Liz Damon’s Oriental Express
singing “1900 Yesterday.”

I am drawn
to this hopelessly dated
recording,
anachronistic for 1971,
it must seem positively
prehistoric now.

“Where's the love 
that we knew, 
is it gone, 
or have you 
thrown it away?”

Something about
those voices,
that 1960’s Hollywood sound,
takes me back
to my earliest memories
of something beautiful,
someone unblemished.

I perform this ritual
hoping one day
it will be
the key
that unlocks
who I really am,

who I really was
before the crash.

[Written and posted for the Tuesday Platform at the Real Toads.]

Still (A Quadrille)

Still,
I believe you’ll triumph
even though
the torture
still
continues unabated.

What are
the magic words,
the black market
black magic
to still
your raging wildfire
of sadness
and wholesale
emotional immolation?

I just wish
your plans
for your
threatened suicide
would
still.

[Written for today's challenge at DversePoets.]

Life's Job and My Job

You can only do
so much,
so
stop killing yourself.

That’s life’s job.

In the meantime,
find some meaning
and don’t be mean.

That’s my job.

The Enemy of God

"Fear not,
we have God
on our side."

Realize how
ridiculous
that statement is.

Show me someplace
where God doesn't
exist.

You can't tell
a believer
"show me the
enemy"
and believe what
they tell you.

Show me the
enemy of God?

Well,
there's a mirror
over there.

Glide

I stand on
the precipice,
looks like
a cliff,
but I choose
to see it
as a launching pad,
a runway.

I peer over
the toes of my shoes,
shifting my
body weight
ever so slightly,
and
gravity takes over.

I do not
fall.

I do not
fly.

I extend my arms,
as if on a cross,
and I glide,
carried on
the currents of
the wind,
trusting that I will
land

precisely
where I am
supposed to be.

Groovin'

At the moment
when it all kicks in,
and I follow
the natural rhythm

I dance
to whatever is on
the tv,
most likely old sitcoms.

It's not quite
a dance,
but rather, a sway-

back and forth
like a backup singer
in a black and white
kinescope loop -

forever groovin'.

Be Here Now

This world
doesn't stop
or even slow.

To keep up
I must run
alongside it,
as catching a streetcar,
running with guilt,
knowing I am late.

However,
there is no timetable
that says I am late,
but I have agreed
to the world's sense
of time,
and forgot
that this time is neither
fleeting nor dripping.

This time
is my only possession
and even that
is an illusion.

To be here now
is the only appointment
I have to keep.

Now,
what is now?

Blank Pages

All my dreams
began with paper
because as a kid
that's all I had,
and some pencils.

Once I embraced
the freedom,
this uncensored liberty,
the world was mine
and there was nothing
but potential,
tantalizing potential.

Now I have
computers,
cell phones,
unlimited space
in the cloud,
but in my mind,
it's still
just a blank sheet
of possibilities.

May the excitement
and the thrill
of a blank sheet
of paper
never diminish
in my soul.

Unraveling

Show me
your most private places,

where you dream
and where
the unfinished surfaces
of your soul
await your touch.

Loosed from these bodies,
we can float and dance
like the essences we are,
light and graceful
as smoke
snaking upward
to Heaven.

I am not what I seem.
None of us are.

Each one is
part-mystery
and part-illusion
to the other.

Let’s spend
the rest of our lives
unraveling
each other,

until
there is no you
and no me,
only us.

Grace

A day of grace
during
National Poetry Writing Month

means
a day off for me

and
a day off for you.

You got
the better
of the deal.

Flowerbreeze

Vapor-soft
and berry-sweet,
the essence of you
is not possessed
by any embrace,
but rather
in memories,
some cherished,
some embarrassed.

I don’t know
where your
Earthly home
is today,
but I know where
I can always find
you:
in the first scent
of spring,
wafting on the
flowerbreeze,
with the saxophone intro
to “What’s Going On”
reverb-filtered
playing under
my memory
of you,

in an image
that all great
romantic movies
attempt,
in vain,
to emulate.

Hope and Optimism

"OK, so the
neurologist
didn’t have
the answer.

Don’t worry,
we’ll find
the answer
somewhere.

I know we’ll find
the answer
because if we don’t,
you’ll die,
simple as that.

So, do you think
we’re going
to just let you die
just because
you want to?

It’s just
a problem,
a puzzle,
which implies
it has a solution.

Besides,
you know
how Mom is
with puzzles.

She doesn’t stop
until it’s solved.

Me?

I’m selfish
and I just want
to keep hanging out
with you.

So,
I know
you're tired
of holding up
all the necessary
hope and optimism,

so you can
put down
the hope and optimism
for today,

but we
won’t."

Quality Time: Vaping in the Early Spring Twilight

We vaped
in the early spring
twilight,

my adult daughter
and I.

Later
I opined,

"This is
quality time:
me talking to you
and you texting
on your phone."

In spite of
her treatment-resistant
depression,

she smiled
said "Yup,"

yielding
a drizzle of laughter.

[posted for https://dversepoets.com/2017/04/10/quadrille-30/]

Bake Your Cake

You don’t have to
bake a cake
that everyone will want
or that everyone will eat.

Just bake the cake
and feed someone.

Someone,
somewhere is hungry for
what you have to offer,
and to deny it would be a sin
and a tragedy.

Yes, bake your cake
and share it with someone.

Someone, somewhere
is starving
and needs
your
cake.

Please Don't Follow Through

Someday
you may
break our hearts
and finally
follow through
on the threat.

When
all the doctors,
all the pills,
all the talk therapy
have failed to
bring you
out of the darkness,
you may plunge us
into even more
darkness
with one
desperate
act.

You might feel
alone
but you are not
alone.

We are here.

You might feel
lost
but you are not
lost.

We are here.

You might feel
unnecessary
but you are not
unnecessary.

We would grieve
your loss forever.

Please don't
give up.

Please don't
break our hearts.

Please don't
follow through.

Smaller

Take me back
to in the world
that was smaller
where my children
were smaller,
my worries
were smaller.

In my memory
things were
the right size,
but that's just
my memory,
which, as I age
is also getting
smaller.

"Can You Remember the First Time Your Heart Was Broken?"

“Can you remember
the first time
your heart was broken?”

The cold emptiness,
that unfriendly clammy feeling
in my soul
has been there
always.

I knew the world
wouldn’t end,
but I also knew
there was no way
to make the suffering go
faster.

So,
I learned to
accept the suffering,
try and make
a friend of it.

Things are mostly
the same since then,
some good days
some bad,
but always suffering,
with some lapses
for laughter and music.

So,
can I remember
the first time
my heart was broken?

Makes me laugh.

I can’t remember
the first time
my heart was broken
today.

Always Looking Forward

The anticipation,
the waiting,
the hunger:

these things drive me,
propel me
because I am
always looking forward
to the next thing,
the next meal,
the next high.

Ultimately,
it is an optimistic view
that holds promise
for everything
that hasn’t happened yet.

I have no defense
for this faith,
so don’t ask.

I just keep punching,
keep writing,
keep trying.

No one can live this life,
wear these mistakes
like I can.

Yes,
one day I’ll be wrong
and there’ll be no more
breaths,
smiles,
embraces,

but until then
I breathe in the sweetness,
exhale the sadness,
live with hope.

You'll Fly (for Sarah)

Little bird,
come on out
of that nest
made of sadness
and fear.

Tiptoe out
onto this branch,
you won't fall,

but should you slip,

your life instinct
will kick in,
and you'll flap
and flutter
and eventually fly.

You'll fly
because
that's what
you were
made for.

[I hope this fits the prompt: https://dversepoets.com/2017/04/04/anthropomorphize-me/]

Keep Moving

If you keep moving,

and do not stay 

anywhere too long-

you'll resist roots,

which are only 

more things 

that keep you bound 

to an illusion

that there is something 

worth being bound to

or for.

If you keep moving,

more and more

you'll grow 

weary of the ritual:

unpacking,

questioning, 

finding a storage spot, 

and then,

eventually

picking it all up,

repacking,

and moving 

to new location,

beginning all over again.

But,

carry forward 

memories in your heart,

facts in your mind,

music in your torso,

caresses in your fingertips.

these are 

the only things worth

keeping,

the only things 

of value.

Anything more,

and you're just 

a pack rat.

Small Pleasures

It is tempting
to overlook
the small pleasures
of life.

So unstoppable
is the weight of
this life,
that we can
become lost
looking
for the grand
production.

At the end of the day,
all we really have is
the laughter of others,
the warmth of good food
in our bodies,
good and restful sleep
holding on to a loved one.

These little things
in this otherwise drab
and indifferent world
really are
the big things.

April Rose

The rose
came out again
like always
in spring.

It was brilliant,
with orange and red
spread on its petals,
against a smogless,
blue sky.

I enjoyed it,
this moment of
miraculous,
surprising beauty,
before this bubble
was pierced
by the wail
of my suffering
daughter.

This was a cruel
April Fool's joke.

Stumbles (for Sarah)

It doesn't matter 

how often
one of us
stumbles 

on the trip wire,

waking the dark, 

unmovable monster,

and you scream at me,
cry in your room,
slam doors,

and I sit here,
heartbroken and defeated,

I still love you.

Come Back

I've stopped waiting
for Jesus
to come back.

He never left.

I have to
come back.

If a Poem Falls in the Forest

If a poem falls
in the forest
and there is
no one there
to read it
is it still
a poem

and,
more precisely,

can I still
even write
a poem anymore?

My Naked Selfie Collection

I’m trying to collect
all my stray poems-
the ones I’ve sent here
and there
and way over there-
into one definitive collection.

However,
I know there are
a few naked selfies,
literary self-portraits,
that could come back
to haunt me-
and just because
I tore and burned up
my copies
doesn’t mean
they don’t exist anymore.

So, this is my plea
to Laurie, Bonnie,
Jean, Gracia, Kim,
Darra, Teresa, Cyndie
and the handful
of others
whose faces
I remember,
but not
their names:

If you’re holding on
to any of my poetry,
I’ll buy them
all back,

$5 bucks apiece,

no questions asked.

Valentine's Day Playlist 2017

Every year, I make my lovely bride, Anita, a mix CD of songs for Valentine's Day.  Here's this year's playlist. Enjoy it with someone you love, naked if possible.

My First Love

My first love
was music,
comforting, exciting
and mysterious.

As I grew,
I put myself into
the lyrics of the song,
as though they were
a script for my heart
to follow.

Years lumbered by
and as I fell into
what resembled love,
I would hear the music,
look at the women,
and knew
they were disconnected.

Then I met Anita,
and all the songs
were new.

I couldn’t sing them
anymore
without my voice
cracking
with joyful tears.

She was the one
to make all the lyrics
true for me,

all the melodies
poetry for me,

and because of her
true love,
she was able
to improve upon
my first love.

[Go to https://dversepoets.com/ - it won't hurt much.]

My Vietnamese Ghost Bride Confesses

My Vietnamese ghost bride
from 1994
confessed
through a dream:

“Yes,
you followed the rules,
kept your promises,
waited years,
but I was
bound to betray you.

I’m sorry,
but neither
your scrawny penis
nor puny
credit card limit
could satisfy
my avaricious
vagina.”

[For Dverse, you know, right there: here]

Capitalization Counts (for Sarah)

The search for
Happiness
is elusive, illusionary.

However,
happiness
exists in smaller,
more modest
forms.

So,
have a donut,
look at the rain,
remember
I love you.

Her Wedding Prayer

As she stuttered
her vow
“for p-p-poorer,”

she prayed
the semen
of the man
she eventually left me
for

wouldn’t
trickle
down
her
white-laced
leg.

[In commemoration of Black Sunday, February 13, 1994, wherein yours truly plays the part of the Biggest Schmuck in The Universe.]

Micropucker

Her moist,
yielding lips,

twitch and
micropucker,

waiting to be
answered,

filled
and fulfilled,

by this warm,
and slippery friend,

so firm,
uninhibited
and ecstatic.

Buzzing

In our afterglow,

she radiates 

serenity, satiety.

I roll over,

confidently 

drifting 

into slumber,

as a buzzing 

emanates 

from her side 

of the bed.

[Written for Fireblossom Friday at http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2017/02/fireblossom-friday-looking-beyond.html.]

The Christian Agnostic Speaks

So,
if God
"gave us"
free will,

then,
couldn't God also
"take away"
free will,

and what the hell
is so
free
about that?

Numb (A Rehearsal)

I walk these
faux-comforting
corridors,
past loss,
elation,
birth,
death.

Numb.

Someday
I’ll walk these
one last time.

Last night
was just
a rehearsal.

Madre Moskowitz, awaiting dialysis

Casual Beauty

There is still
a rosebud
waiting,
dew-moistened
for me.

In this miasma
of  fear
and uncertainty
and mistrust
and doubt,
I remember
that casual beauty
exists,
often hiding
in plain sight.

Ignoring
my cold,
scared
jittery stomach,
I turn
and keep my eyes
forward,
scanning the horizon
for the edges
of the dirty-grey clouds,
squinting hard
looking for
that reluctant,
explosive blue
that I know is still
out there.

Who put all
these treasures
there for me
to find?

Never mind,
it doesn't matter.

Just slow down,
be quiet,
exhale gratitude.

Walk Me Through This Darkness, O Lord

Walk me through
this darkness O Lord,
I do not know
where You are taking me
but my faith tells me
I must follow and
I must be with You.

Walk me through
this darkness O Lord,
because I feel afraid
and I need the help
of something
bigger
and stronger
and wiser
who knows the ending
of the story.

Walk me through
this darkness, O Lord,
and guide me to where
there is light,
guide me to where
I can give her
some answers.

O Lord,
there's so much that
we do not understand,
like why you put
this malignant worm
inside of her brain,
inside of her soul,
and yes, I know
why
is a fool's question,
but I must ask.

Walk me through
this Darkness, O Lord
because I want to say
you owe me at least that
because I can't think of where
this Darkness came from
and it's so fucking huge
that no doctors in my HMO
can fix it.

Walk me through
this darkness, O Lord
and please forgive my anger.
Please forgive my questions.
Please forgive my doubtful heart. 

Please heal my daughter.

Her Greatest Gift

Through the smoke
and patches of blaze
still smoldering,
I see her
and I cannot help
my movement toward her:

I must be
by her side.

That is where I belong,
where I thrive.

Christmas after Christmas
we collect memories,
all our own,
that no one can touch.

Every year,
I gratefully remember
her greatest gift
to me:

I have never
wished to be
anywhere else,

never envied
another’s coupling,

since I found my place
beside her.

Off-White Christmas

One Christmas
I ventured far from
the West Coast
land of my ancestors
and spent the holidays
in Maryland
where the people
were pleasant
and surprisingly
multicolored.

On Christmas Day
as I strolled the boulevard
with my white companion,
a warm blanket of security
and belonging
and perhaps universal
love
surrounded me,

and as we walked past
others I greeted them

“Merry Christmas!”
“Happy Holidays!”
“Season’s Greetings!”

I was thankful
for the profound effect
the birth of Jesus
had on peoples' kindness.

It felt good.

Two young white men
approached us
and they appeared to be
more than a little drunk
and carrying a few more
6-packs
back to their home
and as they walked by
they said something,
and I answered them with
“Merry Christmas”

but something didn’t feel right.

I stopped and
looked at my companion
whose face betrayed
a puzzled expression.

She asked
“didn’t you hear
what they said?”

“Didn’t they say
‘Merry Christmas’
or something like that?”

She said
“No, they said
‘Happy Beaner Christmas.’”

Shit.
Really?
On Christmas?

I shrugged it off -
what can you expect from
a couple of
gabachos borachos?

Perhaps they had their fill
of love and brotherhood
this holiday season and
my appearance afforded them
an unexpected chuckle.

Perhaps
they saw me as a gift
from their twisted
and diseased god.

Mercifully,
I was scheduled to return
to Southern California
the next day

and I’ve decided that
I’ll spend the rest
of my Christmases here

just as my ancestors
always have.

(Notes: "Beaner" is a derogatory term for Mexican-Americans, which is what I am.  Gabachos borachos translates to "drunken White men.")

The Enemy, Defined

To people like us,
the enemy is clear:

creativity,
the flight of the feather
is weighed down
by the brick
of perfection.

It can never
be attained
by human hands,

so stop trying.

The quest for
perfection
arrests the dreams
and ambitions
and freezes them
in a cycle of review
and rewrite.

So, stop trying.

Rather,
burrow deeper within
and find the
soft
sweet
center

and then
go back there
daily,

taking everything
you see,
dipping it inside
and then
bring it out,
let it dry,
buff to a high polish,
then put it
on display.

It won’t be perfect
but it will be
yours and only yours

and you won’t be
paralyzed
or feel compelled
to make that

Big Statement,

but you’ll make
of lot of
small honest statements,

sometimes
30 days in a row.

December

I’ve no rustic,
romantic imagery
of cabins
in the snow.

No,
December is cold
and wet
and harsh,

but when experienced
under warm blankets,
against the soft skin
of a loved one,

December can be
a quiet respite,
a sacred prayer.

December softly
compels an accounting,
demands
a grateful response.

Days run out
the calendar,
hours run out
the daylight.

With certainty,
there will be
tomorrows,
and blooms
will dot
the near-naked
branches,
the chill will
escape from
these bones,

and I’ll await
December again,
trying to love it all
not as a memory
nor a mirage,

but rather
as a moment.

How to Live Forever

“Well,
not every experiment works.

We try and learn from the stuff
that doesn’t work as well.

Not everyone can discover penicillin,
you know.

So,
even though you still
have not unlocked
the mystery of mortality
perhaps,
you amused  yourself,
and that’s something.

The captain said
“the reward is in the doing,

and if that’s not the truth,
then you
better find something else
to do.”

Whatever you’ve got
in front of you,
lowly and modest
though it be,

experience it,
live it,
inhale it,
jump in it
and splash about
and from that

make something
that will outlast you:

the best would be
if you made
your life
a glorious gift,

freely given
to everyone.

It would be
so beautiful,

that your love would
outlast you,
outlive you,

and that’s’ how
you live
forever.”

Bequeathed

"Here's how we're
going to do this:

take all those boxes
labeled
"Writings: 1977-1994"

make sure they are
double sealed and
and put them in
the archive stack.

No one's going
to want to read
those,
besides everyone
he wrote those for
are either long dead
or married.

Then there's that
plastic bin
of cassette demo tapes.

I don't think
he's ever going
to bounce those
to digital,
so I think we can
archive those too.

Then,

all his stuff from
online....sheesh 
it's scattered
everywhere.

It's like he had no
discretion
just because he wrote
under a pseudonym.

You have all the
passwords, right?

OK, then
here's what you do:
go through
each site
and take each one offline.

Don't delete them,
just don't let
anyone see them
until his daughter
has had a chance
to see them,
to review them.

Well,
since he
bequeathed
to her
all the rights
to all his artistic
(yeah, right)
artistic products,

until she decides
how to proceed,

I guess we can consider
Buddah Moskowitz
offline indefinitely.

For now.

Wow,
it just hit me
that he's really gone."

The Consultation

"Hey, Danny,
listen before
the girls get back,

I gotta
ask you something:

I'm thinking about
marrying Anita.
What do you think?

Great.
Yes, I agree,
she's a phenomenal woman.

Yes,
I love the kids,
they just sweetened
the deal.

No, no tonight,
but I'm planning
to propose
on my birthday.

Yeah,
great, thanks,
and obviously,

don't tell anyone.

Thanks, Sh!

Here they come."

The Gold Experience

"Of course,
we can make that
happen,
silly.

You're one of
my favorites.

Ok, let's make sure
we're on
the same page:

So, you're looking
for the
"Silver Experience?"

Oh, "Gold?"

That's a better deal
because it starts
with a warm stone
table bath,
including the
pomegranate scrub.

And we'll follow
that up with the
full-orifice lubrication
with imported
Middle East
saffron oil,
including all-digital
full prostate gland
stimulation.

Following that
you get the
full-body
45-minute
skin-on-skin
Swedish Massage.

And
by that time,
if I've done
my job right,
you'll probably be
ready for
Arrival Expression.

So, let me total
that out,

just a sec...

So, that comes
to $740,
before tax and tip.

We take all cards
(except American Express)
and, of course,
cash.

Yes,
cash is
best of all."

Last Words

"I said
everything
I needed to say.

You found me
guilty anyway.

I don't expect
any mercy,
any understanding.

That's beyond the scope
of what you mere mortals
will ever  understand.

So I leave you here
but my blood is
on your hands,
my death is
on your head.

Someday
when the evidence finally
exonerates me,

you'll see.

But,
how are you going to make it up
to my kids?

You're taking away
their father,
and you know it was all
circumstantial.

You will have to lived
with this.

I won't.

I'm free.

That's all."

Do You Have a Hotline to God?

“No, she didn’t make it
today.

Well, she’s been having a lot
of ups and downs lately.

Mostly downs.

Yes,
she still sees
Dr. Emma,
but she’s kind of lost
faith in science and
medicine.

She has
what they call
Treatment-Resistant
Depression.

She’s tried pills.

Yah, she’s
tried that one…

and that one…

yes, and that one too.

We just got
the name and number
of a psychiatrist
at Loma Linda
who performs
ECT.

Electro-Convulsive
Therapy.

No, it’s not like
in Cuckoo’s Nest

It’s more controlled
than that.

Yes, we know it’s extreme,
but so is
having my 19 year old
daughter in constant
psychological pain.

No,
I don’t think
she’ll want that.

Because she’s been
praying for respite for years,
and what makes you think
your special prayer group can help?

Do you have
a hotline to God?

I’m sorry,
I’m not trying to be rude,
but I have a daughter
who hates being alive
so much
that she’s
investigating countries
where they have
assisted suicide.

Yes, I know.

Look,
if you want to pray,
don’t let me stop you,
but

after all this time,
I admit I’ve lost
some of my faith.

Who wouldn’t?

Maybe you should
pray for me
too.”

The Day After Thanksgiving

"Thank you
for coming and
helping out.

Well,
you probably can
help out
in the kitchen,
but honestly...

at the moment
we've actually got
more volunteers
than we need...

yeah,
but that won't be
for long.

There'll be another
wave soon,
but I'll give you
this tip about
volunteering:

on the big holidays,
especially like Easter
and Thanksgiving,
people always come
out big to help...

but do you know
when we
really need help?

The day after Thanksgiving,
the week before Christmas,
the month preceding Easter...
you get it?

No,
we don't need your help
just on the days
when you remember
the poor,
the hungry,
and the homeless,

they need your help
on ordinary days when
they're forgotten.

OK, I see some folks
just came in,

you, find them a place
to sit
and you,
follow me
to the kitchen."

Our First Thanksgiving

"From this
vantage point,
all we can see
is a peaceful
bluish planet
in silent orbit
in a stardusted
dark infinite.

We have our
freeze-dried turkey,
and the reconstituted
cranberry sauce,
and some
pumpkin pie paste
we can suck out of
this tube.

We're going
to try and make this
as close to home
a possible.

Our first Thanksgiving
in this floating
space station,
and we have much
to be grateful for,

but the nagging thought
persists:

who is already
out here
that we're preparing
to displace?"

Since the Turkeys Took Over

Can’t catch
my breath!

Since the
turkeys took over
it’s been
RUN!
RUN!
RUN!

No, I don’t know
how it happened
but damn it,
it’s real!

They don’t care
if you’re Vegan,
they’re out
for blood!

For God’s sake,
stay in
on Black Friday!

[for D'verse Quadrille Challenge.https://dversepoets.com/2016/11/21/quadrille-21-take-a-breath/]

Bad Timing

“Hi Stacia,
thanks for meeting
me now.

What?

Oh, it already
came in
the mail?

Good.

There’s something
that I need to tell you
and I don’t want to
wait any longer.

I don’t think
we should
see each other
anymore.

There’s someone who
was in my life
for awhile and
now she’s
come back into my …

no, it’s not Darra.

And, well, I think
I want to pursue
that relationship,
and I don’t want
to be unfair to you,
and…

I’m sorry.

I didn’t mean
to…

ok.

What?

Uh, yeah,
just ignore that
Valentine’s Day card
that came today.

I’m sorry,
for the bad timing.”

How Marriage #1 Ended

“Hey, Lan,
I know what you did.

Yes, the management company
give me a copy
of the cancelled
check.

Right, I
can see that you forged my signature.

Were you not going to tell me
that you got it?

No,
no,
no, you’re not entitled
to all of it.
You’re not even entitled
to half of it
if you ask me.

Hey, I didn’t fuck up
our marriage
only two months into it.
That was you.

By the way, how’s Steve?

Does you read you
his bank statement
when he’s fucking you?
You’re such a
money-grubbing whore,
I know that would
get you off.

Ok, whatever.

Look,
the bottom line is that
you forged my signature
and took my half of the money.

Listen,
listen,
listen!

Lan, I’m give you exactly
one chance to
do the right thing
and stay out of jail.

If you don’t deliver
my half of the money
by tomorrow night at 6pm,
I’m going to
the Corona Police Department
and having you arrested
for grand larceny.

Hello?
Do you understand?

Do you understand?

Ok, whatever, I’ll give you
a 15 minute grace period,

but if my money isn’t left
in my mailbox
by 6:15,
then at 6:16
I’m going to the police.

Do you understand?

Good!

What?

Ha! Don’t worry,
after this is done
I never want
to see you again
either!

With friends
like you...

look, just get me
my money
by tomorrow
at 6:15.

Nope, that’s all,
we’re done.

Goodbye, Lan.”

Voice Mail from December 24, 2001

"Hi,
this is Teresa.

I just wanted
to leave you
this message
on your phone
this Christmas Eve.

I know we're not
together anymore
but I wanted
to let you know
that my Christmas gift
to you
is that you don't
have to spend
anymore Christmas Eves
with me.

That's my gift
to you,
and that's how
things should be.

So, I hope you
and your new girlfriend
have a Merry Christmas
and a Happy New Year
together.

OK, bye."

Thankful

"No,
I don’t know you,
but you know me.

Every year,
right around Thanksgiving,
the LA local news
show the homeless,
lined up and waiting
for Thanksgiving dinner
at the Fred Jordan Mission.

I’m that guy –
I’m always the one they
talk to.

Yeah, the homeless problem’s
pretty bad out here, but
the way they film it,
you know,
they way they cut it,
it looks like
there’s camaraderie here,
and that it's almost fun.

they show
lots of people
and tents,
maybe some dogs.
They make it look like
all we’re missing is
the s’mores.

And because it’s LA,
it’s never snowing or raining
so it makes for a nice
“this year
let's all be Thankful
for what we've got,
and be thankful
you’re not one of
these poor wretched souls”
story.

They make it feel like
by just watching the story
about the homeless,
that you’ve actually
done something
to help.

Well,
I don’t mind
going on camera
and talking about it-

Right!
I probably qualify
for my SAG/AFTRA card
as many times as
I been on TV –

but it’s not getting better.

No, it’s getting worse, and
I’m getting discouraged, and
it just keeps getting
colder."

The Voice Within, A Transcription

"You ain't foolin'
no one,
mutherfucka.

It only looks like
you have this talent
because you keep taking
the same 5 events
in your life
and recasting them
as new
to the ever changing
coterie of followers
who think they're new
or worse, insightful.

You ain't saying nothing
that you already didn't say in
1998,
1994,
1987, 1985, etc. blah blah blah.

Why do you keep
at it?

Nobody,
underline that,
nobody reads you
and if they do
it's because
they feel sorry
for your ignored
and unread ass.

Nope,
I don't get it,
You just wasting
your time
and what's the
payoff?

Is there going to be
a
marathon
poetry
reading
of all your shit
at your funeral?

Do you still think
you're gonna be
discovered
and become a star
in your 50's, schmuck?

You ain't getting laid
from any of this shit
now
and it sure
ain't gonna happen
anytime
in the near future.

So, why?

Love?
That's an illusion
and you can't trust it.

Every woman
who ever took you
to their soft, perfumed
bosom
did so out of pity.

They didn't want you.

Hell, even the one
that wears your ring,
she only
throws you a bone
every now and then
just to keep you
mollified.

Listen,
why do any of this?

Why even try?

The truth is
no one'll remember you
after you log off,
sign off,
retire and die.

Hell,
your time would be better off
rather than struggling
with these competing voices,

just go off someplace
and jerk yourself off.

I mean,
someplace beside here."

The Non-Compliant Patient

“So, Mrs. Moskowitz,
your numbers look
…ok…
for the most part,
but I’m still worried
about your blood pressure.

Are you taking your meds?

I know it’s difficult
to remember to take them
all but, it’s …

Yes, I know, it’s been
a rough week,
most everyone
I know has been upset by the
election, but still…

Well, do the meds give
you any bad side effects?

Yes, I know
it’s hard to remember
when you’ve got problems in
your personal life, but…

…

Well, then
maybe what you need
to do is get
one of those pill boxes
with the days of the…

You have some?

So, I don’t understand,
why won’t you take…?

Well, it’s all connected:
if you get your blood pressure
under control,
it’ll help that pain
in your kidneys…

yes, it’s all connected,
Mrs. Moskowitz.

I mean, your numbers
have been … ok,
these past few visits,
but that luck
won’t hold out forever.

Well, no, I wouldn’t agree
with your son
that you have a death wish, but …
…

most likely,
you’re not going to go
in a sudden
quick flash,
but rather,
you’re increasing
your chance of stroke,
and you’ve already…

right,
two strokes already.

I’d like to see you
back
in two months,
and please,
please,
just take your meds,
everyday.

Please?”

Charise

“The secret to
my happy marriage?

Once a week
I go to different
places like
Home Depot,
or Lowe's
or anywhere you see all those
Mexicans hanging
around the parking lot
looking for day-labor.

I look for the
most handsome,
cleanest looking
young man,
I don’t care
if he can speak English.

I tell him
I have some
light handyman work
for him to do
and we negotiate
a price.

He follows me back
to my place,
but before he gets
to work,
I ask him to wait.

Then I slip away
to the guest room
where I change into
lingerie,
something from
Victoria’s Secret
that shows off my legs
and my tits.

Then I call him
into the bedroom,
and I’m stretched out
on the bed
with an unmistakable smile.

You remember
that thrill of a new lover,
that feeling
of a young, hard body
on top of you,
warm muscles
and a strong throbbing,
hard and deep
inside you?

Well, I do,
because I get it
every week.

After he’s done,
I pay him
and he leaves.

Then,
when Randy comes home,
just before
he falls asleep,
I play a DVD
of the sex tape
I secretly made with
the day laborer,

and remind him

“This is for
fucking that
fat slut receptionist
in your office.”

One of these days,
I’ll tire of this
and forgive him.

Or not.”

Meanwhile, In Marketing...

"Ok, I'll make this quick:
we're having trouble
marketing the product
for Thanksgiving, pre-Christmas sales.

No, forget Tom Turkey.
The vegans
ain't gonna buy that bullshit.

What?
A free-range turkey?
Who gives a shit!
The schmucks
who still
eat meat
are goddamned gluttons,
what do they care
about a turkey's welfare?

No, get off
those whole turkey theme.

What's that?
Pilgrims?
You wanna base a campaign
around killjoys
who didn't drink booze,
are you kidding?

Besides we're already
having a bitch of a time
selling that new
Pumpkin Pie Spice Ale.

Who cares
it's locally brewed?
The stuff reeks like piss
and tastes worse.

How would I know?
Hysterical.

Listen,
if we don't
find a way to move
this product by
Thanksgiving,
someone's getting
the chop.

What?
Something with
the first Thanksgiving?
With Indians?
Do you want to get
our balls sued off us?
It's Native Americans,
you idiot!

And, no,
Native Americans test badly.
Nobody wants to throw
any money their way
unless its a casino.

Wait...
maybe we're going about this
the wrong way.

What's Thanksgiving about,
at its root?

Right,
thankfulness,
gratitude.

Taking the time
to slow down and appreciate,
everything you've been
given.

We could show
lots of people,
all different demos,
telling what they're thankful for,
and what brings them all together?

Right,
the client's product!

OK, you two,
Rabinowitz and Wong,
you're in charge of this.

Remember,
keep it tasteful.
Remember that whole
gratitude angle.

Yes, by Black Friday
I want everyone talking at
their family dinners about
JackRabbit Thrustin' Vibrators!

And try to remember
we've had soft-market penetration
with the over 65 set,
so make sure
you hook them as well.

OK,
you've got your orders.

Go!"

Phone Transcript, November 2, 1994

"Listen, motherfucker
I know
what you did
and I'm going
to kill you.

Don't act
like you don't know
who this is!

I know
what you did
to my wife,
you took her
to your house,
laid her
on the bed
and raped her!

I KNOW
WHAT YOU DID
AND I KNOW WHERE
YOU LIVE
AND I'M GOING
TO KILL YOU!

I'm from the East
and you know what we do
to guys like you?

All's I'm saying
is you better
pack up and
leave town.
I know where you
live!

I HAVE A GUN
AND I'M COMING OVER
TO SHOOT YOU!

I KNOW THE
DAY YOU DID IT!
SHE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE
SHOPPING FOR
MY BIRTHDAY PRESENT!

All I'm saying is
you better leave town
and find another job!

YOU RAPED
MY WIFE!
I'M GONNA KILL YOU!"

Phoning in a Personal Day

"Hi,
it's me.

Yeah.
No, I won't be
coming in today.

No, it was
Sarah.

She tried again
last night.

No,
thankfully,
she didn't have enough
pills to
do any lasting damage.

Yeah,
well, she's
on a 72 hour hold.

No,
first I'm going
to sleep for awhile.
We didn't get home
until 5:15 this
morning.

OK, thanks,
yeah.

Look,
I might need
some more time off
later in the week,
when she comes home.

I just don't want her
home alone
for awhile,

at least, not until we
suicide-proof it.

Yeah,
I'll try
to get some rest,
but I've got lots
of bad adrenaline
still flying around, so...

Hm?
Thanks, I'll take any help
I can get,

even prayers,
especially prayers.

Yeah,
ok thanks,
talk to you later .

Bye bye."

My Soul Shook

"So I'm sitting there
in the chapel,
holding my
91 year old
Grandma Trini
who doesn't
speak English,
who is sobbing
in Mexican tears,
mourning the taking
of another son.

I'm at a loss
because I love her
and I cannot
say the right thing
to calm her,
to comfort her.

This is the woman
who loved me and
let me sneak cookies
from her kitchen
and was always
happy to see me,
what could I do
to help her?

From somewhere
inside
and completely outside,
I said to myself,

"God, please help me.
Help me find
the right thing
to say
to make her feel better."

Then
a competing voice
in my head said,

"Shmuck,
you're an atheist."

I didn't fully
comprehend it then
and I still don't,

but right then
my soul shook,

and it hasn't
stopped shaking
since."

Kookoo Savant and My Secret Weapon

"Yes, it's been
a rough year, Kookoo.

So many things
went wrong.

Now, I can't even
fathom
how we're going
to get through.

My country is divided
between gloaters
and the glum,

the have nots and
the have more
than you can imagine,

us and them.

So,
even though
it seems dark now,
I have a secret weapon:

when I flew out
out to Missouri
to bring you home
after being away
for three weeks,

you came down
the stairs
of your friend's
budget apartment,

in pajamas
way too late in the day,
your red mop
frenetically free,
and your wide
unforced smile,
your face's fingerprint,
that's the happiest
I felt in a long time.

That memory
sustains me,
carries me,
tides me over.

Just remember,
Kookoo Savant,
everything changes
and you can always
come back home."

Now, Kiss Me

“I’m sorry
you can’t
come with me
on this path.

This path
I must walk
may be lined
with devils and imps,
the flames of hell,
so I’ll not be
taking you.

No,
you stay here
and breathe in
the mist of the ocean,
the grandeur
of grilled onions,
honeysuckle wafting
in the breeze
for me.

I’ll send you
a signal
when I reach
the other side,
maybe in a dream
or when the radio plays
the DelFonics
just when you need
to hear it.

This is
the longest trip
I’ll ever make
and I am
not taking
anything,
except the memory
of your smiling face.

Like that,
right there.

Oh,
how I'll miss you.

Now,
kiss me
and I’ll sign that
“Do Not Resuscitate”
order.”

[For Poets United - Wednesday challenge - path]

Stephanie

“This isn’t what
I expected.

What’s she doing
here?

Yeah, she’s one of those
pious church ladies.
Everything is
“Jesus this” and
“God Bless Whatever”.

Is she here to pray
for me?
Probably wants me
to change
my ways.

“Come to see the light.
Get right with Jesus.”

What a crock.

Is that my Dad?
Where’d they find him?
And did he do
all his time
or did he make
early release?

Don’t come nearer.
No, agh!
Don’t kiss my forehead,
you miserable fuck.

You’re lucky
I’m in this goddamned coma,
because I’d bust your ass
if I could,
you selfish prick.

Don’t stare.
Don’t you know it’s not polite
to stare at someone
who can’t stare back?

Just get out.
…
…
…

Wait,
is that…
no, it can’t…

Stephanie?

Steffy?
oh my God.

Don’t cry, honey.
I'm sorry you have to
see me this way.

Ain’t you married
no more?
Where’s your
wedding ring?

Shh. Shh.
Don’t cry.

I forgot how
your head felt
resting on
my chest.

That memory feels
a million miles away
now.

Steph?

Steph,
I’m sorry
I let you go.

I’m sorry
I couldn’t change.

I’m sorry
I took that corner so fast.

Steph,
if I get out of this,
can we,
you know,
try again?”

[Written for https://dversepoets.com/ and http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/ ]

I Wasn't Breastfed?

“Mom,
the latest research says
you deprived me of
necessary chemicals,
so now,

I am an adult
searching endlessly for

that essential tenderness,
that intimacy denied,

parting
my vulnerable pink lips,
waiting for a nipple,
some milk,

all because
I didn’t suckle
on cue.”

Protection

"It's rough here, right?

Well,
it could've been worse,
but everyone knows
you're with me,
so they know
not to fuck with you
or else
they have to deal
with me.

This is how it is:
once you learn
the hang of it,
it's pretty easy.

You want some more
toilet wine?
Yeah, it ain't champagne
but it'll get the job done.

The shower help relax you?
Good.

OK, this is it.
Come on.
You know what I want.
Right.
Just relax.
No, relax.

Listen, you want me
to throw you
to the wolves?

I mean it, man.

I'm not fucking around
here.

Get on your knees,
and open your mouth
and make me feel
good.

And if I feel any teeth,
I'll kill you,
bitch."

Prayer of the Uncertain

"Dear God,

I've run out
of things to ask for,
because I don't want
to seem greedy
or get my hopes up,
but...

help me
to get to the point
where I am joyful
at whatever
nonsensical hell
you send my way.

Help me
to stop asking for help.

Help me
to just be here now.

Help me
to stop picturing you
as an eternal daddy,
and treat you
like a friend.

No, better than a friend,
better than a parent.

Help me
treat you like my God.

But don't make it
too difficult,
we both know
I have problems
with follow through.

Okay, amen,
I guess."

Nowadays, You Can’t Just Pluck an Apple,

“This is a beautiful apple.

It’s a Granny Smith,
green and tart and juicy.

I’ve always loved them
and I haven’t had one
in years.

They put me in mind
of when I was a kid
and we’d pluck ‘em
right off the tree.
Nobody cared
who they belonged to.

There was
nothing better.

Those were
the days before
everything changed,
and everything became
more
complicated.

Nowadays
you can’t just
pluck an apple,
you’ll get sued ,
or worse yet,
arrested.

Everybody’s got their
precious rights.

It ain’t like
the old days

No,
that’s why I did it.

I wasn’t trying
to hurt anybody.

I want America
to be great again.

How was I
to know
there was someone
inside that church?

It was dark inside.

Well,
I guess it doesn’t matter
anymore.

Please,
just do me a favor
and make sure you vote
the right way,

because they won’t
let me vote
anymore.

Yeah, it’s ironic.

This is a fine way
to treat a true patriot
like me.”

Calling Dr. Chau

“Look, I realize
you don’t understand me
and I’m not trying to be
condescending
when I say that.

I know you don’t speak
English, doctor,
but just keep nodding
like that
and I’ll keep talking.

I come here because
I can say anything
I want
and I don’t fear judgment,
I don’t fear
the moral recrimination,

you just smile,
and nod your head
(sometimes you write
something down)
and after 50 minutes
I get up
and give you a check
and point out
on the wall calendar
when I’ll be back.

Therapy
used to be
me putting on
another persona,
saying different lines,
still trying to impress
or amuse
the practitioner,
and I’ve never had
a breakthrough.

Now,
I come in,
I talk, I don’t talk
I pay attention,
I nap.
I read.
I meditate.

Finally,
a place
with no demands,
no responsibilities,
no schedule.

I can just
be me.

Now,
that’s therapeutic.”

Tingled, but Entangled

“Remember when
we were first
thrust together
in that college
acting class,
instantly pulled together
with undeniable velocity?

Everyone could tell
when we performed
our class final exam,
a scene including
a kiss so passionate,
and prolonged
it was almost comic.

But you remember
the problem:
I was with someone else,
entangled,
so what we glimpsed
could only be hinted at,
sampled,
but never consumed.

We kept tiptoeing
around the borders
of our friendship,
pushing it
until something
or someone
was bound to break.

Then you got engaged.

What was his name?
Tim.
Right, Tim.

Something wasn’t right
because the electricity,
that tingle,
wasn’t extinguished.

Then,
I found myself
no longer entangled,
unfettered by neither
obligation and morality.

I made the offer,
you accepted,
and unclothed
between naked sheets,
we gave in
and it was everything,
every tingle promised.

In the afterglow,
you mused about
whether you should tell Tim,
and at that point,
I knew we were doomed.

I don’t blame you
for weakening,
for confessing.

I secretly think
you wanted out,
and you acted on that,

but It doesn’t matter now
because we haven’t talked
in thirty years,

and I can’t help
but feel guilt
and remorse and sadness
because I still miss you,

especially when I hear
that song,
that syrupy pap playing
when we made love

and drove any tomorrows
we may have wanted
over the cliff.

So,
I’m sorry, Katy.”

[And here's that song I remember.]

Orale, Ese (Pronounced Oh-Rah-Lay Es-Say)

"Orale,

I've been waiting
for you, ese.

Where've you been?

Yeah, I know,
you're alive and kicking,
and no one wants
to come down
to the cemetery
on their day off.

I've been watching you,
from here,
and you're still
kind of a boring
guy, pocho.
Jes' kiddin', ese.

I get it.
I'd trade with you
if I could.

Why you keep
looking at your watch?

Yeah, I know
you got kids waiting
for their Chick-Fil-A
but first,

I dunno,

just think of me
sometime,
you know?

You don't have to put up
a whole ofrenda 
or anything,

but when you hear
Trio Los Panchos,
or when you get that
warm, full feeling
after you eat menudo,

think of me,
en Espanol, tambien.

Ok, that's all,
thanks, senor. 

Adios, ese."