Siren

The first time
she shared Julie London’s
smooth, rich siren,
that illicit thrill
drew me to
a world anew,
or maybe it was
just my ears
hearing a song
which I recognize
from before
I was born.

Offering her hand,
she led me into
an undiscovered
tropical paradise
hidden within my soul,
and while it all ended
without blood
or acrimony,
she forced me to see
how everything else
was colorless,
flavorless,
and I could never return
to the sad, impotent
monster I knew.

These days,
her visits are infrequent,
but when I hear that song
buried memories materialize,
so I keep that song
in abeyance
for when I need
reminding of the unexpected,
unanticipated good and surprise
in this world,

and how
sometimes it comes
in the form of a
warm cinnamon roll,
with middle Eastern eyes,
a lazy tongue
and a reflection
richer
than I could ever
make.

Staring Down the Mirror

I’m staring down the mirror
and neither of us
is blinking.

“I see through you”
I think.

I continue staring
half-hoping I’ll find
someone else
without the mundane imperfection
of moles and pores
stray gray hair
and engraved wrinkles
that stay long after the
laughter has died.

And what of this mouth
keeper of secrets and teller of lies
and those sad date eyes?

Suddenly I want to do away with him

and my rhinoceros nostrils flare
as I clench my jaw
and we begin the contest
to prove
who can hold his breath
the longest.

His face becomes red
but I push myself past slight fear
into gentle internal hysteria.

My suffocation from within
is taking its toll on my competitor
as his body starts quivering
and his face becomes an
unpleasant crimson.

I push myself more
more
and one more second
just one more
as I see him
clutch the bathroom basin
I hear the voice
“don’t give up,
one more second!

Don’t let him win!”

just one more…

Then
PFFFHHWWT!
out blasts
a mouthful of stale air
as my knees buckle
and my face changes
red to pink to brown.

I giggle
at my lightheadedness,

leaning forward
face to face with the mirror
still panting and laughing
I offer my vanquished foe
the only consolation
I can think of:

“Happy Birthday, Schmucko.”

[It's not my birthday, but I pulled an old writing out for https://dversepoets.com/2018/09/06/openlinknight-227/ ]

Squeamish (A Couplet)

I thought I was kinky
until she brought out the Slinky.

Beckoning Doorways

I’ve gotten to a point where
I don’t need to walk through
every beckoning doorway.

Most doorways really
do not offer
anything new anyways.

Should I leave the comforts
of my room just to
dance in some fiery meadow
merely because it is new
and looks exciting?

Going from room to room
I’ll never know more than
newness
and while newness
is its own intoxicant
it has also a built-in
obsolescence.

Still,
staying put
and never venturing out
into the throng of sticky and sweaty humanity,
I’ll never know who I am,
never see my reflection
in the faces of the weary and the hopeful.

This desire,
longing for connection
is proof of my humanity

and ultimately
I am a hostage
as we all are,

trapped somewhere between
peering through doorways
and yearning to enter
and moving quietly
in my room
among my books and things

content in my solitude,

as my mind
races on to the next thing

struggling to rest.

[Posted for Dverse Poets' Open Link Night.]

Do Not Fight It

It's not
scientific.

It's not even
profound,
but it is
the truth:

when your body
feels the rhythm,
starts moving along
with the beat,

jangling in time
with something bigger,
something more certain
and powerful
than you,

do not fight it,
even if you can,

give in,
indulge,
enjoy.

That is the presence,
that is the essence
of God.

Even if the sound
is but a memory
replaying on a
mental musical loop
and all you can do
is tap your finger,
or jiggle your foot,

do not fight it,
that is God
telling you
that all will be fine
all is good.

Listen
and believe

and
be alive.

[Written for D'Verse Poets at https://dversepoets.com/2018/08/07/unseen-things/ ]

His Simple and Wise Voice

Their dad moved to Montana
the weekend before
Father’s Day.

The two teenagers
acted like it was no big deal
but I knew the truth.

My Little Blonde Talking Monkey
reacted with her expected
shower of tears
and guilty anxiety.

She tells me
“Dad deserves to be happy too”
as I rock her crying heaving
body.

I suggested they each
pick out a Father’s Day
card for him
so he wouldn’t be forgotten
in Montana

(the reason he left:
“there was
nothing for him
in California”

uncomfortably long pause

“except you kids”).

The teenagers
were noncommittal
as they selected their
cards and then went about
dreaming of cell phones
and new clothes.

Sarah couldn’t decide
on a card so
I helped her
read the sentiments:

“Dad, you’ve helped me 
in so many ways…”

"I’ll never be able to thank you
for all that you’ve given me…”

each card flowing
with sentiment so undeserved

“Dad, you’re my best friend.”

I could tell Sarah
was getting bored by the search
but I wasn’t.

I was getting angry.

As I read each card
I kept thinking
Why isn’t my Pop here?

He deserves to be here
and I want to thank him
and I want to hear his laughter again
his simple and wise voice,

but each card tugged
and sometimes ripped
at my heart,

the injustice of it all
was taunting me:

here I am
eating my heart out
picking out Father’s Day cards
for an emotionally deadbeat dad
and I’ll have to
pay for the card too.

Why am I doing this?

Then I heard his voice:
“because you know
it’s the right thing to do, mijo.

That’s what I’d do.”

He was right.

So we left Target
and went home
and mailed off the cards.

Thanks, Pop,
I sure do miss your voice.

[Posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, written in 2007.  Legally, the children in this story were my stepchildren.  Emotionally, they're my children.]

Acting In (For Sarah)

She struggles,
a naked, electric nerve
looking for reassurance,
calming succor
that may never come.

Some days
she is braver
and walks onto
the battlefield of
self-hating bullets
and grenades
whizzing by,
landing,
close enough to destroy,
but luckily,
not quite yet.

When they're younger,
we discipline children
into reigning in
their acting out.

When they’re older,
with access to weapons,
booze,
manipulative hustlers and pimps,
I worry about her
acting in –
cutting and suicide –
and beg her to reach out.

On the plus,
she did not renew
the domain name
and website
where she chronicled
her erstwhile journey
to self-destruction.

Whatever tipped that
decision
in her favor,

whether it was
her beloved nephew Oliver,

or the promise of
things unbidden and unseen,

or she just
forgot about it,

good.

[For Real Toads  - Post and Read!]

MexiMensch

It’s inevitable,
I’m becoming
my old man.

That’s ok
he was the original.

He stood
in privileged rooms
but on the sidelines.

The inner circle
was for others
possessing the right pedigrees,
the right colleges degrees,
the right hair grease.

We both found ways
to sneak in,
to fit in
where we weren’t expected.

He was polite to a fault
and rarely traded in vulgarities,
unless there was
a conspiratorial laugh
to be harvested.

He had more
self-discipline,
but I went more places
he was afraid to go.

That fear kept him
from visiting doctors,
to avoid any bad news,
and he was finally seen
when he was in the morgue
undergoing an autopsy.

He was humble,
an outsider
a servant.

He made me laugh,
never excluded anyone
and was generous
beyond expectation.

I didn’t envy his
(now mine)
receding hair line
but I did covet
his prodigious genitalia.

Mostly,
I have his smile
and his kind heart.

He was the original
MexiMensch,
and I am but
a mere aspirant.


(For the longest time, this was our only family portrait. My Pop is the tall one on the left.  Poem written for Poets United.)

Kate and Anthony

Once again,
outside the cultural orbit,
I watch the world
mourning
Kate and Anthony.

I don't buy
designer bags,
and I rarely
travel abroad
but
I like
exotic food.

But,
strip away
all the fame,
the celebrity
stardust,
separate them
from all their
noisy, affected
followers,

and look at
their eyes,

human, weary
just like my
daughter's
when she
thankfully
failed at
doing herself in
at 11,

and I remember
my own fear,
discouraged sadness
and helplessness.

My heart weeps
for them
and those left behind,
with their
days ahead,

unwanted days
of angry rattling,
aimlessly plodding
through their souls
with unborn memories,
empty embraces,
and unanswerable questions.

[Mental illness is treatable and recovery is possible. 
If you need to talk to someone, call National Suicide Prevention Lifeline 1-800-273-8255.]

Yes, It's Me

Yes,
it’s me,
the one you’ve been
waiting for
but didn’t know
existed.

Yes,
I loved all
your songs
from the
open mike,
but I was even
more gobsmacked
that music
wasn’t your
first love,
but rather
your photos
that freeze
the truth,
the beauty,
the dream
simultaneously.

Yes,
let’s begin this
long courtship now,
wringing out
every new moment
until the anticipation
builds impossibly,
finally crashing over us
like a tidal wave
of butterfly orgasms
and warm electric pianos,
awakening days later
someplace safe and
alive.

Yes,
I want to consume
every inch of you,
inhale your
singular essence,
melt in
your embrace,
tingle privately
when you
whisper my name.

Yes, we can have
Thai coconut
chicken skewers in bed
and watch re-runs  of
“The Addams Family.”

Yes,
it’s me and
yes,
it’s you,
and yes
yes
yes
yes
a thousand times more

yes.

[Not sure if I understood this prompt, but here goes.]

She Cobbles a Placid Moment

With kids asleep,
hiding from
unfinished chores,
she cobbles
a placid moment,

exhaling smoke
from the bathroom window
into the cool,
unaccountable darkness.

Spying a distant,
familiar cluster
of red, white and blue
police lights,
muses,

 “I’m so glad
that’s not my life
anymore.”

[Written for de Jackson's prompt: cobble https://dversepoets.com/2018/06/04/quadrille-58-cobble-us-a-poem/]

Disoriented, Then Surprised

I look in the mirror
expecting a reflection,
but all I get is
programming.

I stare at the TV
expecting programming,
but all I get is
my reflection.

I close my eyes
and experience
this world
with my other senses,

and I am
instantly
disoriented,
then surprised,

and eventually
awakened.

Transcending the Gray (for Tony Peluso)

On this gray day,
this slow cement
and concrete
day,

I drove home
and the magic
lay waiting
somewhere,

in the notes
yet to be played.

Then,
two and a half verses in,

Tony Peluso

summons all
that is holy,
brings the tune,
brings the fuzz,
and transcends

and my life
is finally back
in color again.

 

Follow Me

Your lips are missed
as are the long weekends
we spent as one.

Replaying those old songs,
memories come back
stripped of any imperfection.

There was intrigue
in your kiss
and I became dizzy
with the possibilities.

I could spend an hour
holding your hand
and every moment
had the thrill
of finding
an undiscovered river.

Where there was once mystery
building a life together
has brought comfort
so I’m not asking for much,
except this:
slow down our
spinning planet of noisy obligation,
tear pages out of the calendar
and come away with me.

Let the world wonder
where we’ve run off to
because I’m still me
and you’re still you

and I was sent for you.

Follow me
into the deepest
most secret part of our garden
and we’ll find a mystery
as wondrous and exciting
as the first fire.

For D'Verse Poets Open Link Night!

All Blood is Red

The comforting illusion
is that each one of us
is separate

and the things that
separate you from me
are real.

Where my skin ends
and the air begins
and where the air ends
your skin begins
is an elaborate delusion.

Most of us see the world
as a collection of disparate
puzzle pieces,
but I’m trying
through prayer
compassion and forgiveness
to see the truth
we’ve been taught to
ignore:

from the moment
of our conception
in our mother’s womb
we are attached

we are connected;

to one another and
to all beings
and all things
at all times,
in all space.

Honoring this truly
inconvenient truth
means not looking away

at the poor babies
with swollen bellies
and hollow hope,

those disenfranchised
from the dream,

abandoned mothers

and homeless vets
with limbs stolen
in unpopular wars,

and we might need to burn
the flags and the bibles

and lay the walls down
sideways
until they become bridges,

and look not only
into the sky for our deliverance
but within
and at each other

until we know better.

It means seeing the myth,
nay, the lie
that we are each disconnected
and meeting it
head-on with prayer
compassion and
forgiveness.

It isn’t that hard.

Just remember
all blood is red
and
that is
the comforting reality.

Five Coitus

That first time
she took pity on me
but made me feel
like a king
by pouring champagne
and listening to me
babble about everything
before going again.

That midnight time
in the park
in the nose-cone
of that steel-framed
faux rocket ship
designed more for
a child's imagination
than adult coitus,
and how we had to
proceed quietly
as the cops
circled the parking lot
unaware.

That ugly time
when she was
breaking up
our marriage
to be with another man
and I pounded
angrily inside her,
hating that I still loved her
but loving that
I was hurting her
without leaving
a mark
or even caring.

That liberating time
in Seattle
after my father died,
and while I betrayed
my live-in partner,
and fell into
an impossible
secret love,
she unlocked
something
that ultimately
help free me
from my self-imposed
prison of guilt and obligation.

That last time
it was the first time
and even though
I couldn't see
the path forward
(or even the next day),
I wanted
more of her,
more of her
everyday,
and she is where
my heart has finally
landed.

We Sleep Together

We sleep together
deep through the winter
restlessly in summer.

We fall asleep holding hands,
sometimes curled like shrimp
sometimes we are a
human pretzel
of limbs
desire
dreams and exhaustion.

In between our sleeping
we nurture small triumphs,
we persevere,
we work through
misunderstanding
and unintentional hurt
but thankfully
we ripple with laughter too.

On nights
when I can’t sleep
I watch her sleeping
and smile so big
that I can almost hear it.

I study the
effortless elegance
that a thousand gifted sculptors
could never match
the inexpressible contour
and shadow
of the luminous moonlight
on her beautiful face.

Tonight makes five years
that we haven’t spent
a night apart

and that’s the plan
for the rest of my life.

That Lifetime Road

Every year
memories we made
get smaller
the details,
gauzier.

We didn't have much
but it was everything to
me.

If we had
gone down
that lifetime road
would we still be
together,
and
would you still be you
and would I still be me?

I don't talk about you
these days,
not because
you're a secret,

but rather,
you are a treasure
and I don't want
to break the spell,
the bubble our memories
live within.

Still, this time
of the year,
April
when the world
is alive and reborn,
is when I always
remember you.

My heart has beaten
a million, billion
times
since you set it
in motion,

but when it beat
for you,
it learned
what purpose meant,
what destiny felt like.

Those songs play
on the 80's channel
and I close my eyes
and surrender
my consciousness
to the memory
of our innocent,
undeniable love,

and feel thankful
to have known it,
and heartsick
as the pang
mercifully fades
like the sunset
we shared at
Hillcrest Park
that Friday long ago.

Your Weakness is My Strength

My superpower-
my gift from God-
is the ability to see
everyone else’s weaknesses.

Sometimes I spot it
immediately,
sometimes it takes a few words
or a telltale action
but sooner or later
everyone eventually slips.

I store all your weaknesses
and I wait for the
most opportune time
to cast them upon
my unsuspecting victims:

your vanity
and crushing self-doubt
your undersized genitalia
your neglected childhood
I immediately calculate
for later sinister use,

because I always need to know
when and where
to strike
because while I appear
modest and mild mannered
I have my moments
of black spinning evil
that overtake me,
when I’ll need to lay you out
cold
and I’ll consult
my mental Rolodex
and lookup your weakness
and strike with
dispassionate surgical precision.

Make no mistake
I’ll know just the right thing
to make you feel small and
worthless
to rob you of your
dignity.

I’ll pull down your pants
in front of everyone
or similarly humiliate you
with the perfectly chosen word,

but
in all honestly

I've
never employed
this superpower.

I always see
the scared and quivering humanity
in their eyes
standing before me
and I cannot bring myself
to destroy
that which I cannot repair.

I cannot be the cruel
barbarian
that is my birthright.

I always succumb to
their silent and invisible tears,
remembering
the sting of humiliation
and shame
and my own
silent and invisible tears

and I cannot bring myself to do it.

So, while I have the gift
I cannot use it
and thankfully,

that is my weakness.

Disappointed

I want to deny
we ever existed
but that is
giving us
a cachet that we
did not earn.

We can admit it now:

after six years of dating
neither of us
wanted to get married
but we went on with it
anyway because we didn’t
want to lose face or
our deposit.

Even our honeymoon
in romantic San Francisco
lost its steam after
the first day.

Being married to you
was the hardest
141 days of my life.

Even as it unraveled
and I asked you to fight
for our marriage
you just defaulted out
with silent, apathetic
shrugs.

I always wanted it
to be better than it
ever was
and I was always
disappointed.

Even today,
I gave in to curiosity
and paid 10 bucks
to an Internet company
to show me your addresses
and employment history
for the past 15 years,
and all that came up
was your parents’ address.

So,
after all these years,

Lan Anh,
you’re still a big disappointment.

Sunday Morning

The world is vacant
this early Sunday morning

except for the newspaper deliverer

and the liquor store
and the customer who waited for 6am.

Mostly people are inside
sleeping off hangovers

slumbering in a warm bed
of post-coital narcosis

lone desperation
passed out at a kitchen table
splayed with overdue bills
and trepidation.

Some greet the day with reluctance
some will ride bikes
and some will never know
Sunday morning exists.

As I drive my daughter
to the early church service
I pass stray tumbleweeds
the occasional roaming coyote
and a multitude of other
holy beings,
all unaware
that it is Sunday morning
or that it is January
or that it is 2009

but they are completely alive.

They are also ignorant
of their enviable

blissful

silent

existence.

Anger Island

Don’t look for me.

I’ve gone to Anger Island
and I’m not taking calls.

I hate coming here
because it’s never as good
as I think it’s going to be.

Rarely has it ever
been worth it,
but I am drawn to it
as some are drawn to
Israel or Mecca.

Anger is the bloody river
running through my soul,
separating me
from the higher aspect,
that divine sliver.

I’ve tried to resist
but the lizard brain
is in charge.

Sitting here
I try to reassemble
what this visit
has wrought.

I’ll be back
after I purchase
my return ticket
with regret.

Egg

As a former boy,
the shame impulse
returns
when I cry.

This false
Kevlar masculinity
now breaks
easier than
an egg.

I worked hard
to retrain
these dry,
stoic
eyes,

and
I don’t care
if it makes you
uneasy,

uncomfortable.

It makes me
human.

[Written for https://dversepoets.com/2018/03/26/quadrille-53-egg/]

Fire is the Best Teacher

It doesn’t waste time
with words or clucking tongues.

Fire beckons:
respect me,
use me,
warm your tired, rattling bones
by me.

The earliest memory
of my Mexican grandfather
who chain-smoked
Marlboros
was the accidental
cigarette burn
inflicted by
a tentative embrace.

I learned.

I watch wildfires
reduce drought-dry
California to crumbles
and check and double check
the burners on the stove,
the unattended curling iron.

It could all be over
just
like
that.

Fire
is passion
and force,
an overwhelming,
impossible to ignore
scream.

If you’ve only
been singed,
count yourself
lucky.

[Written for http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2018/03/poets-united-midweek-motif-scream.html]

The Last Hit

The temptation is to look back
and bask in the
two or three
positive
comments,

but that is not
what this is about.

Writing is
about moving onward,

trying to dive deeper
and scrape a little more
pyrite from the gulch.

My hero is Lenny Bruce
who felt he was a machine
if he did the same bit
night after night

in his quixotic quest
for the truth and
the uncorrupted
chuckle.

You're only as strong
as your last hit,

and that's what keeps me
going
on my quixotic quest
for the truth
and the uncorrupted
chuckle.

Unhealthy

When I do not ask
for what I want,
I feel bad,
guilty, ashamed.

When I ask
for what I want,
I also feel bad,
guilty, ashamed.

I just didn't think

I was so

unhealthy. 

I Let Her Sleep

In the chilly
pre-dawn February,
I hear her
gentle, soft breathing;

not quite a snore,
but a rumble
of blissful narcosis.

I curl up
with her,
our bodies
warm and soft
under a light
spread
of blankets.

This is intentional
so snuggling
and cuddling
is inevitable.

I hold her close
and let her sleep,
taking care
not to poke her,
prod her
with my insistent,
implacable
erection.

I let her sleep
because
that is more urgent,
more needed
and I love her
that much.

I Wait for the Moon

I wait for the moon;
she is holder my secrets,
holder of my dreams.

I sent many prayers
her way,
wishes and kisses
I've bounced off her
to lovers far away.

She bathes
the windowsill
as I gaze,
eyes glaze over
memories
and future plans.

I know
this cool, blue lady
does not belong
only to me,

but the essence
of this longing,
this incompleteness
in my soul

belongs only
to her.

I wait for the moon
and she never
forgets.

[For Poets United at http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2018/01/poet-united-midweek-motif-moon.html)

Phoenix, Arizona

We snuck away
on a business trip
and she really wanted
to be with me
as she had a fear of flying
and we met at the airport.

That evening
safely in another state,
we went straight
to the hotel
unpacked only desire
and made love
with all the lights on
as the tv flickered
it’s muted blue witness.

She let me eat
the ice cream sundae
we ordered from room service
right off her bare bottom.

She was my kind of girl.

The next morning we walked
and chanced upon
a tribal pow wow drumming festival.

It was strangest, most beautiful
music I ever heard,
and I knew it was no coincidence
she was there.

Providence smiled further
as we saw the Norman Rockwell
retrospective was also within
walking distance
and we marveled at the original print
of “The Marriage License”.

We stayed up talking
all that night
and somewhere in there
I realized
she was no longer some
causal hit-and-run.

I started thinking
in longer, broader strokes

and it awakened
something fiery
and powerful

that had been
asleep in me
for a thousand years.

For Open Link Night - read others and enjoy!

Another Great Artist

I looked up
and she was feeding
our first grandchild,

and I regretted
that I wasn't there
when our kids
were that little,
that helpless.

Then I realized
if this were my son,
instead of grandson,
I'd probably be
too worried,
too anxious
to soak up
this moment
of The Divine.

All great artists
have a natural skill,
an inborn passion
for what they do,
and as I watched her
soothe and tend to
this little person,

I thought of
Miles Davis,
Pablo Picasso,
Charlie Chaplin,
Michelangelo,
Mozart,
Mother Teresa.

She is
another great artist
who belongs in
the pantheon,

and her work
is on display
in Oliver.

Swing Out Sister in Heaven

I imagine,
(perhaps, dream)
that if there is a
Heaven,
Swing Out Sister
plays on a continuous,
comforting silky loop
for all eternity,

the warm synths
whooshing slowly,
the kettledrums
gently thundering,

and
since this is my
version of heaven,
I will not have
to explain why
Swing Out Sister
is playing
to anyone
there.

[For Friday 55 at Friday 55. Also, get Swing Out Sister's newest creation "Almost Persuaded" at http://www.swingoutsister.com.]

I (Take My Meds)

Inevitability
presses on this
growing pate
with the predictability
of gravity.

I see his
eyes squinting
in service
of his smile,
and I see him
looking back at me
in the mirror.

I hear him
repeating everything
twice,
just like I do,
like I do.

I'm a wee bit taller
than he was
but he was more lithe,
more trim
than his lazy glutton son.

I happily take
my chemicals
that sound like
foreign banana republics:

Simvastin,
Metformin,
Lisinopril.

I have one
advantage of him:

I know how old he was
when he suddenly
had that one
kick-ass strong
heart attack
that claimed him.

I am 54 and
he died at 64.

I can do math.

I take my meds.

[Written for Poets United:  http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2018/01/poets-united-midweek-motif-poetry-about.html]

Hey, Stupid, Wake Up (For Myself)

Hey, Stupid,
wake up.

So, let’s review:

if you’re not writing,
you’re not a writer.

If you’re not playing music
you’re not a musician.

So,
what are you?

Right,
I don’t know either.

But I do know this:
wake up.

Wake up!

There are roses to be admired,
sunsets to be dreamt upon,
napes to be kissed,

ice cream to melt
upon your tongue.

Wake up
because you can’t do
any of this
if you’re asleep.

Christmas on TV

The musical cues
are perfectly timed;
the actors, beautiful,
the Thomas Kincaid lighting.

TV houses remain
impeccably decorated,
with wadded-up
wrapping paper
strangely absent from
the living room floor.

Any tears shed
are because
the two principals
finally found
each other,
and (of course)
they found love,
their cynicism replaced
by a sentimental gesture
that reminds of them
of their lost innocence.

No, Christmas on TV
lacks the wailing, moaning
and unremitting sadness,
longing for loved ones
long passed over
passed by
or passed away.

Christmas on TV
proves no loneliness
goes unanswered,
and everyone
has someone looking in
on them.

But life isn’t TV
and there are
dark, lonely quiet
living rooms,
with lone strings
of half-burned out lights
and dusty, faded nativity scenes,
valiantly trying
to imbue festivity
with warmth.

Christmas on TV
isn’t anything sad,
it sticks around
playing and re-playing
familiar fantasias
that rarely happen
in real life.

For some,
Christmas on TV
is the only Christmas
they know
as they wait
for December 26,
when it will all
vanish,
seemingly overnight,

and everything,
for better or worse
or same,
goes back to normal.

Prowess

At the red light
a crow,
oil-slick black,
swooped in front
of my car,

laser-focused
on a dingy white
fast food
wrapper

that had blown
into the busy
charcoal
intersection,

snatched it
and flew
to places
unseen
with the
speed and grace
of a jungle
cheetah,

in the
sliver of time

before
the light
turned green

and his
athletic prowess
was forgotten

in the rush
of drive time traffic.

(not a crow, but you get the idea)

Anita (November 28, 2017)

So much
has changed;

the obvious:
hairstyles,
waistlines,
selfishness.

Less so:
contentment,
momentary peace,
blissful pleasure,
a security
deep inside
a shaky heart.

Kids are a constant:

with two kids gone,
one still here,
a new generation
starts with Oliver.

What hasn't changed:

she is singularly
the most beautiful,
breathtaking
woman I've ever seen,

and the love,
this mammoth adoration,
never dissipates.

Simply put:
she came into my life
and made everything

better.

Bra Straps Akimbo

The end of a Thursday,
she’s undressing
in the closet, and
I’m in the adjoining
bathroom
vaping, listening to
America Top 40 re-broadcasts
from 1981,
my senior year
in high school.

All Jarreau’s
“We’re in This Love Together”
comes up,
and I remember
wanting
so desperately
to have someone to love
back then.

I wanted to be able
to hear that song
and think of her –
whoever she was.

Instinctively,
I rise and
go to her
her blouse off,
bra straps
akimbo,

she is casually,
authentically
sexy.

I tell her,
“don’t fight me”
as we melt
into each others’ arms,
as we have
countless times
during the previous
decade and a half.

We close our eyes,
hold each other,
sway to the music.

Anita,
thank you for making
this dream come true,

a dream
I never had
before.

Glory HalleStoopid!

Glory hallestoopid!

Kick that nozzfoggle
monster
to the back
of the drearidome!

Someday she'll
wiggle the tiggle
the way you want her to,
all wet and slippery,
sticky as teriyoku sauce.

No,
the way forward
is strewn with
hibblefly mooklers
and they've not come
berating gifts.

So, try not to feel
all persnucka-reefal
just because
your yarblebarbles
are filling with
pus-like sploosherinka.

Your day with come,
little gonche-felber
and you'll ride
that flesh covered,
love masheeeen
late into that
silky, dark
milkimoonlight,

oinshkle-bobbing
and friztle-rippling
until Morpheus
drills the
sono-mushke
deep inside


and you finally
cum
literal buckets,
which has to
be seen
to be
bereaved.

The Indoctrination Begins

When it’s just
him and me,
with no one else
around,
he is my captive
audience,
the indoctrination
begins:

“Since I Met You Baby,
my whole life
has changed…”

“Only You
can make this world
seem right…”

“So darling, darling
Stand By Me…”

I perform
my private concert
complete with
doo-wop group
dance moves
for my grandson,

so he’ll know
what’s important
in this world.

My Little Friend, Oliver

Sometimes a Cigar

Freudians,

sometimes a cigar
is just a cigar.

It's not always
a penis.

Sometimes
it's an warm nipple
forever out of reach

everyday of our life.

Scenes From a Marriage, Part 62

(After the fight.)

Her: Have you seen my wedding ring?

Him: Yes, I put it right here.

Her: Why did you hide it?

Him: Why did you throw it?

(Silence.)

Stop Saying "God is Good"

When your Lotto numbers
come up,
the surgery was
a success,
your kid
was found alive,

stop saying
"God is Good."

You sound insipid,
immature and stupid
but moreover,
you belie any faith
you profess to have.

When your
beloved puppy
is hit by the car,
or the layoff comes
on the same day
as your kids
are sent home
with lice,
or when
you find that final
bit of corroborating
evidence
that confirms her
unfaithfulness,

that's when
you must say
"God is Good."

Faith without works
is dead,
but also
faith without adversity
is empty.

God doesn't just
love and defend me
only when I do
what God wants,

so we shouldn't
love and defend God
only when God does
what we want.

The Long Curved Blade Thingy

"Look at him,
that old fuck.
He sucks on
that vape pen like
he's a fucking baby
with a bottle.

What's he
trying to prove
anyway.

He's a Dean
at the college.
Not the University.
The community college.
No, the community college.

Right, not really college.

My favorite part is
about 4 songs in,
this lame ass
mother fucker
starts to dance.

It doesn't matter
the music,
could be rap,
heavy metal,
that shitty
country music,

he has one move:

grooving like
a fat 50 year old
trying to feel
young again.

He sees the skeleton,
the one with
that long curved blade thingy,
and he sees
his coming death,

with the certainty of gravity,
and he's trying to grab
a little fun before death.
His death.

And I also know
he can't get her off
either.

Yeah, I can hear him
snoring and
she's in the bathroom,
bzz
bzz
bzzzzz

late into the night."

I Am the Nostril Monster

I am
the Nostril Monster
and even though
I’ve a huge snout,
sharp, jagged teeth,
a mountainous girth,
and stink of
swamp water,
I still want,
no, need
love.

What I love most
are beautiful,
delicate flowers
with soft wisps
of fragrance,
and delicate petals
exuding all things
perfect and divine.

The problem is
because I am
the Nostril Monster,
my claws are rough,
and my grip
is crude,
my movement,
elephantine.

Mine is a
cruel fate:

everything I
try to love
I end up
unintentionally
destroying.

I am
The Nostril Monster
and I need love.

The Warehouse of Unanswered Prayers

The vapor,
white and slippery,
snakes its way
toward Heaven,
and with each exhale
I offer my petitions,
prayers and requests
for friends and family,
for problems
too big for these
mortal minds.

I see the fruit
of my
answered prayers
in this world,
but where do
the unanswered prayers
go?

The Warehouse
of Unanswered Prayers
is why the heavens
stretch into infinity.

No "Poem" Today

When
I
do
not
post
a
"poem"
am
I
giving
myself
a
break
or
am
I
actually
giving
you
one?

Thank You, Raechy

Thank you for being
the first one
to convince me
that becoming your father
might be a good,
no, great idea.

Thank you
for always asking
how I'm doing.

Thank you
for the memory
of you and me
getting our first
tattoos together.

Thank you
for teaching me how
to use a bong.

Thank you
for my beloved grandson.

Thank you
for every second, Raechy.

Happy birthday
and happier tomorrows,

love, Pop-o

The Sealed Box in My Closet

I have a sealed box
in my closet.

In it are emails,
greeting cards
with her
deceptive cursive
begging and pleading
for my love,
the initial police report,
the restraining order
granted against her husband,
for threatening to kill me
because she told him
I raped her.

She cheated
on her husband,
didn’t want to
take responsibility
for it,
and tried to make me
the Fuckboy Scapegoat.

She dropped the charges
when confronted
with all the
contradictory evidence
I’d saved.

I have a sealed box
in my closet,
it is labeled
“Shit”
and I’ll keep it
forever,

in case
I ever need it
to save me
again.

This Wine (for Anita)

Emerging from
the shower,
she wraps herself
in a warm towel.

I revel in
her soft skin,
the smell of
her wet hair,
our comfortable
years.

Before she
demurely
slips between
freshly laundered
sheets,
I kneel,
slowly tugging
the towel
toward me,

exposing
all that is perfect
on this
November night.

Starting at her ankles,
my lips tease
their way up
to her intoxicating
lubricity,

which reminds me
of the first time,

only now,
the years have made
this wine
sweeter
and much more
potent.

The Unworthy Victim Speaks

I still jump
when I hear
that phone ring,
unbidden, harsh.

I won’t turn down
the ringer,
nor change the ringtone
lest I forget this feeling.

“I know what you did
to my wife
and I’m going to kill you.”

Just because
my actions brought it on,
doesn’t make my
PTSD
any less crippling.

Fondly, Like a Pop Single

Whenever I hear
that song
“Walking On Sunshine”
I remember
she said it described
how loving me
made her feel.

Eventually,
she left
when she could no longer
tolerate and wait
for me to stop
sharing my life
with someone else.

Decades passed,
roads diverged,
different paths taken,
families sprouted.

I hope I am
remembered
fondly,
like a pop single

and not regretfully
as a shiny,
impermanent
impulse buy

made from the
“As Seen on TV” aisle
at the Walgreens.

To All My Loyal Readers

I apologize in advance
for the weakness
of the most recent offerings.

Life has been
throwing hell
at me
and I’ve been
waving a white flag.

Give me enough time
and I’ll try to turn this excrement
into gold
but I make no promises.

However,
to all my loyal readers
who see me
and steal my invisibility,
your slightest notice
sends me into a drug like high.

Merely being seen
keeps me going
when I cannot understand
the  point of any of it.

Nothing is better than
someone telling me
I have touched them.

It’s the ultimate triumph
of my spirituality over materialism.

I am transcendent
typing mad fury
these stray thoughts knowing
there is some understood
underlying code
in all this spilled blood.

I keep trying to make connections
because it doesn’t matter
if you’re in public library in New York
or a jail cell in Texas
a bakery in Oregon
a pub in Australia

for a moment
we are in the same place
and it feels good to me.

Skeletons

The skulls
the bones,
lie in the dirt
in the desert,
among lonely cacti
against hot,
unforgiving skies.

They were once
alive with ambition,
inflamed with passion,
wracked with worry.

Now,
they are but
silent reminders,
mute witnesses
to the sheer folly
of empty bluster
and shiny objects.

Skeletons
bring the wisdom
that even the richest
among us,
those most privileged,
will share
the same
exact fate
with the humble.

Who will leave
a richer legacy,
the humble
who shared freely
the fruit
of their grace

or those
who lived
in opulent vanity,
clutching every crumb
to their bosom
lest it be stolen?

Skeletons
remind me
of what is
important.

That Moon

The moon hung
big and buttery and
close to the Earth.

It didn't say
anything
or try to mean
anything.

It was just
there
to tug
at the tides,

to give lovers
something
to make promises
upon,

to be witnessed.

I wanted to
pull over
and savor it,

but there was
a reason
I didn't,

something
I thought was
more important
to do.

So,
like a fool,
I pressed on.

I can't remember
why I passed
that moment by,

but I'll never
forget
that moon.

[This wasn't it, but it was like this.]

The Siren Décolletage Mocks Me

Don’t confuse
their ubiquity
with mundanity.

Sadly,
in the employ
of marketing,
they are profaned,
on slick,
air-brushed
magazine covers.

Different hues,
fingerprint creases
and folds
and curves
curves
curves
in magical, mystical
sacred geometric
shapes.

“Save the Ta-Tas.”
“Squeeze your Boobies.”
Change your avi
for the month
and flash them
to the world.

Self-exploitation
for the greater good
is advocacy.

Still,
the mystery
of that delicate skin
upon the breastbone,

the hint of
shadows falling
in between,

still cast their spell
on me,

as I remain
in perpetual
outstretched
hunger

for connection,
for communion,
for restoration.

My lifelong desire
for embrace
to the eternally
warm, soft
female bosom,

to correct the deficiency
of a non-breastfeeding
mother,

remains unrequited,

as the magazine cover
silently mocks “no”
and you’re just
too tired.

[Written for Fireblossom's Challenge at http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2017/10/fireblossom-friday-i-put-spell-on-you.html.]

Death Will Not Be a Surprise

It is the only reliable thing
in this world.

When armed
with the right lens,
the specter of Death
does not hide:

the opossum frozen
with the shriek of death
on its face in a tidy
pool of dried blood,

empty wrappers
littering the streets,
reminders of
everything that was taken
so that we the living
could be nourished,

the putty-colored
misshaped used condoms
employed to halt
or at least delay
the continuum of life,

even these modest
and ill-conceived ramblings
are written so that
when Death comes
to redeem my ticket
I will have
somehow
beat the game.

But any fool knows
that’s another losing
proposition.

Death will not be a surprise
and it will not take
“No” for an answer.

Until that day,
drink in the roses
dive into the orgasm
with eyes wide open

swim in the melody.

My Father's Pearls

"Everybody wants to be
a musician
but how many actually
get a job doing it?"

"I really want
to read more books
but it hurts my eyes."

"Nah, it doesn't
matter to me if
you don't wanna
have kids.
You can't miss
what you've never
had."

"Sure, I believe
in God but
I just don't want
to go to church.
I did all that
stuff when I was
a kid."

"If you're gonna
get married
you have to know
how to take
a punch."

"To apologize
to your mother
is the biggest
mistake you can
ever make."

"One of these days
you're gonna meet
a pretty little girl
and you're gonna
start dating her
and before you know it
she's gonna be
pregnant and then
how're you gonna
pay for it all?"

"Go into electronics.
I know about that
field and there's all
kinds of jobs there."

"Do you know why I
bought this carpet colored
gold?
Because I want you
to treat it like
gold!"

"Don't waste your vote,
Vote for Perot!"

"What you eat in private
shows in public."

"Thank you, mijo,
your reward will be
in Heaven."

[Actual quotes from my father. Posted for https://dversepoets.com/2017/09/21/open-link-night-204/ ]

Cherubs

We sleep together
face to face,
like the cherubs atop
the Ark of the Covenant.

However,
I lay my head
closer to
her breast,
eyes closed
my sleeping gaze
pointed up
to her placid face,

a telling distillation
of our relationship:

me,
ever worshipful,
her,
ever deserving.

Hands Digging Into This Earth

Cool Saturday mornings
in spring
I weed the planter
in blissful silence.

It’s simple,
tactile.

I break the
cold hard ground
and sift the dirt
through my fingers
plucking the weeds
as though they were
errant gray hairs.

The same ground
worked and farmed by
my Mexican ancestors
and the Mestizos before them
and the Indios before them
and the Aztecs…

I am connected
to that eternal continuum
of hands digging
into this Earth.

It is almost
a mindless activity,
peaceful,
this private haven
that I own

and I smile
at my self-deception
and audacity:

to think
I own this land
that was here
long before
all my ancestors

and will outlast us all.

My name’s just
on the deed

for now.

Untethered

When you’re free,
you become
weightlessly untethered
from the ground.

Though I am
a willing slave
to gravity,
I remain
a wisp,
a scent,
a flavor on the breeze.

May you
catch me
in your hair
and hear
my whispering plea:

“Go,
be free!”

First Poem Published, Fullerton Daily Tribune, 1972

I was eight years old
and my local newspaper
solicited
a variety of
student submissions.

Here is what I sent in,
inspired by
an late night sermonette
on KTTV channel 11:

"God made
people to love
and things to use.

Some chefs
use people
and love
beef stews.

But God
made us to love,
with the love
from Above,

So, remember,
God made
people to love
and things to use."

Not bad
for a third-grader.

I forgot about it,
until it was found
in my Grandmother's purse
after she died in 1994.

Spark Joy

I bought her
the book
on tidying
your house,
your mind,
your life.

"Look at every
object
and determine

if it
doesn't
spark joy,

throw it out."

I'm trying
not to read
too much
into her decision
to sleep
downstairs
last night.

My Greatest Challenge (for Oliver)

I can’t
smell that
“New Baby”
smell,

but there is
overwhelming peace,
warm, breathing bliss
in holding him,
my grandson.

This is my greatest
challenge:

to be
completely present,
and enjoy him
now

instead of
dreaming of
all the times
we have
to come.

    Pop-o Moskowitz shares fine literature with Oliver.

[Written for https://dversepoets.com/2017/08/28/quadrille-39/ - Bliss]

It's Still Magic

I've studied
Burt Bacharach's
"Bond Street"
for 40 years -

the quirky, uptempo
funky saxntrumpet
Hammond B-3 riff
that strange Eastern
flavor and the
soaring orchestra
representing
aural transcendence
- even the Gypsy
tambourine

and it's only
two minutes long.

I've played it
a million times
since I first heard it
when I was 7
and it still makes me

stop everything
and surrender
to its mystery.

If you know how
a magician
does the trick,
does it make it
any less magical?

No,-
it's still magic.

Night

Night used to be cells of
unsolicited solitude
but I put the time
to good use.

I read,
wrote songs
and practiced
all the clever things
I would say
extemporaneously,
if I were ever lucky enough
to get a date.

I stayed up
late into the night
beside a static-filled
AM radio
and I imagined
I was the only one
tuned into this
distant AM station
playing old country and western tunes.

Night always told me
"Someday.
Someday, man, it'll
all be different.

Better."

Now
at the end of the day
filled with
my family
who have no hesitation
in claiming
my every waking hour,

I revel in my solitude,
as I troubleshoot computers,
listen to old C&W songs over
the internet,
write the occasional poem,
and sink deeper
into some library book,

I look out
at the blue purple sky

and realize night
was right.

VHS Seventh Heaven

Some people went to
The Rocky Horror Picture Show
and memorized it.

I was always too timid
to venture out that late
among all the self-congratulatory
freaks.

But when VHS came about
I was in seventh heaven:

memorizing the rhythm
the cadence of
Groucho and Chico
bantering in “Duck Soup”

William Holden
leaving Faye Dunaway
with pithy eloquence in
“Network”

Dustin Hoffman’s
grand deception
unraveling with
masterful despair
in“Tootsie”

Richard Dreyfuss
and Marsha Mason sparring
and falling in “The Goodbye Girl”
set an ideal for dialogue
rarely encountered
in real-life,

almost every Woody Allen
film,
(pre-Soon-Yi)
schlmiel neurosis
giving a defiant voice
to this misfit teenager

Ray Liotta as
the amoral narrator
in “Goodfellas”

Bert Lahr in “The Wizard of Oz”

Zero in “The Producers”

Linus explaining
the true meaning
of Christmas

I’ve lived in
and through
these movies
more than five times
each

and now I want
to see them
all
again.

[Posted for http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2017/08/the-tuesday-platform_15.html .]

I'll Take Reality

I do not believe
in happy endings
or dreams coming true,
because nothing
ever really ends
and dreams
are not real.

However,
I believe in
spontaneous music,
idiomatic orgasms,
laughing pizza,
trusting puppies,
falling asleep
beside her,
her soft, sweet exhale:
these are real.

[Written for https://dversepoets.com/2017/08/14/quadrille-38/]

Sublime

Outside in the dark,
warm summer night breeze
streaming Don Rickles
on YouTube,

high as a kite
from year-old
bubbled
Lemon drop;

we're both laughing,
God
and me.

Agency

A flurry of activity

will not make up

for a life unfulfilled.

This moment

came unbidden

and will leave

unnoticed,

unless you

decide

to matter,

to count,

to touch,

to hold,

to love. 

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.