Ahead of Our Time (Prompt: Leader and/or Follower Poem)

1977 -

In junior high school PE,

I was one of those boys

who wasn’t a great athlete

and I didn’t aspire to be one.

I liked talking to girls

and reading

and listening to records

and daydreaming

and watching

Heckle and Jeckle cartoons.

I dreaded the miscreant sadists

we called “Coach,”

and their misguided attempts

to make men of

"sissy boys" like me

and Armando,

the other overweight Mexican

kid in the group.

Our skinny white classmates

ran like grinning idiots

at these coaches’ command,

but Armando and I

protested as we

walked the track

far behind the pack.

I never understood

why all my classmates

loved this -

even as a kid

I knew it was sweaty,

messy

and not conducive to

learning.

Maybe they were

acting out some homoerotic

army man fantasy

as they bobbed in anticipation

and divided themselves into

teams.

One day, Coach Perez,

the only other Mexican in class

(imagine our  betrayal!)

had enough of our apathy,

so he had us lay on our backs

on the blacktop

and do leg lifts,

at 30 degrees

then 60 degrees,

then 90 degree angles

for the entire period.

Our guts burned

but we didn’t

say a word to complain.

We just took it,

silent and stoic –

like men.

For the remainder of the year

we had an unspoken compact

with Coach Perez,

where we would half-try

and he would half leave us alone.

And now, as I see the fattening

of middle school boys

2011

texting girls

plugged into their iPods

and playing Call of Duty

and not wanting to get sweaty,

I smile

at how Armando and I were

ahead of our time.

Cosmic Banana Peel (Prompt: Falling Poem)

Falling is the reminder

to keep myself humble.

When I try to present myself

as perfect,

flawless

or more simply,

merely balanced,

the rug slips from under my foot,

the shower floor becomes slicker,

the height of the curb, higher.

The challenge is not

how quickly I can right myself

and regain dignity,

but rather,

how happily can I accept

this indignity

that I did not want.

I do not deserve

smooth, unwrinkled perfection,

none of us do,

and the minute I think otherwise,

I slow down

and check myself

for I know

there must be a

cosmic banana peel

somewhere out there

with my name on it.

Prayer for Just Enough (prompt: Prayer Poem)

Lord,

please bring us world peace
but just enough to keep things
tranquil 
without becoming boring.

Please bring us good health
but just enough 
so that our own occasional
ache and pain 
will remind us to have compassion
for others’ hardships.

Bring us prosperity
but just enough
so that no one ever goes to bed
hungry
and that no one ever becomes 
possessed 
by their possessions.

Let us be sure 
of your infinite forgiveness
but just enough 
so that we never cheapen
your grace 
by taking it 
for granted. 

Lord, 
let us love one another
and take care of one another
just enough
to eventually
replace this list 
of petitions
with an endless psalm
of thanksgiving.

Baruch Hashem Adonai.

The Plea (Prompt: Quit Doing That Poem)

Of the multitude of sins
you commit:

from dishonoring our mothers and fathers 
for comedic effect,
to encouraging the coveting of all
things material and shiny,
to violating the Sabbath 
to attend the early bird sale,

I implore you, 
Madison avenue:

please stop co-opting
the soundtrack of 
our collective 
culture and memory 

to sell more
beer,
cell phones
and SUVs.

No Separation (Prompt: Only One in the World Poem)

There is more to this world

than can be seen

by the untrained eye.

If you accept this

then also know

that the line where

my body ends

and where the space

around me begins

is

continuous:

no separation.

The air that touches me

touches you

and the idea

that there is any

distinction

between

me and you and

anything else

is a shared illusion.

The differences

we think

we see,

are just things

we think.

If one looks

very closely

and sees everything

as holy

there is no separation
from anything

including God

and this is

good news

indeed. 

First Thought, Second Thought (Prompt: Second Thought Poem)

I’ve never read Kerouac

but I’ve heard his motto was

“First thought, best thought.”

I guess that’s why

he’s a genius.

Often I set my ideas

up on the high dive

only to find

    - splat!-

no water in the pool.

I own my mistakes

because

at the time

I never

made the

second best decision:

every mistake

seemed like

a good idea

at the time.

My first thoughts

are rude and messy,

combustible and inelegant.

The second thoughts

are the polite ones,

the properly socialized

and educated ones.

The first thought

may be me,

but the second thought

is Me.

Message in the Bottle (Prompt: Message in a bottle poem)

I drained the first bottle

looking for the message.

It was fun,

but I didn’t see any message,

so, thinking I had

a defective one,

I drained a second bottle.

The second one felt good

right away,

so I didn’t mind

draining a third

in search of that

ever elusive message.

Years passed,

bottles fell,

and nights wasted.

I don’t remember

when it stopped

being fun,

but I realized if there

was a message waiting

at the bottom of the bottle,

I was too damned drunk

to see it.

When I drained

the last bottle

just before midnight

February 10, 1990,

a message finally made it

through:

“you can’t handle this.”

It wasn’t profound,

but it was honest,

and, thankfully,

I haven’t handled it

since.

Doesn’t Look like Love, But Is (Prompt: Love Poem) and Looks Like Love, But Isn’t (Prompt: Anti-Love Poem)

Doesn’t Look like Love, But Is (Love Poem)

The place reeked of sweat 
and insecurity,
there was a twisted honor
in this verbal mosh pit,
as insult upon insult 
piled higher and cut deeper.

Nothing was sacred;
one’s skin eruptions
the size of one’s genitalia
the supposed sexual performance
of one’s mother,

the more stinging,
the better.

Years in the future
the women in our lives
would never understand
this humor,
this camaraderie,
this test.

“It just sounds 
so mean, so negative.”

We tempered each other
in the nastiest, most vicious
remarks
because the last thing 
we wanted was 
to see your pal 
completely devastated
the day his boss called him 
a fuck up
or his girlfriend
tried to impugn his 
manhood.

We were in training,
toughening each other up
for the struggle 
that seemed as inevitable
as our fathers’ 
quiet exhaustion.
-------------------
Looks Like Love, But Isn’t (Anti-Love Poem)

Completely unbound
by desire and passion
they shamelessly explored,
unaware, unconcerned
with anything or anyone else.

The surgical perfection
in his oiled Olympian musculature
glistened,
and every inch of her skin 
had been powdered, 
waxed and painted 
to superhuman effect.

His rigid, oversized and 
camera-ready member
didn’t fail owing to
off-camera doses 
of Viagra and amphetamine,
and she accepted him 
into every pulsating, waiting,
pre-lubricated orifice with breathless
adoration and acquiescence.

Over and over, 
with random, alternating camera angles,
anything human sounding
was drowned out by music 
designed to mirror the repetition 
and presumed excitement of the scene.

Long ago, the makers dispensed with
the pretense of exposition 
or dialogue – it just got 
fast forwarded past anyways.

Having seen what felt like
hundreds of these loops,
in retrospect,
I resent how they 
hijacked my sense of who I was 
and what I wanted,

because while I still had my virginity,
I let them steal my holiness,
and I wish I could get it back. 

Like In The Old Days (Prompt: Like ____)

Yesterday

we walked through

the furniture warehouse,

past rows of cast-off,

refugee surroundings,

and amused ourselves

with their garish,

outdated style.

These dusty pieces

reminded us of pasts

where we grew up

unaware of each other.

I tried

to make you laugh

like in the old days,

when you were

the most important audience

that I ever wanted to win over.

And now,

even though we fall asleep and

wake up next to each other everyday,

I still want to entertain you,

to make your day lighter,

to bring forth

your honeyed laughter,

which I have always

translated

as proof of

your love and approval,

which I still need

just like in the old days.

The Big Picture, IMHO (Prompt: The Big Picture")

“The Big Picture, IMHO”

No dogma,

no apologetics,

no complicated legalism:

only Love,

and if that’s too abstract,

then try Jesus,

not the Bible,

not the church,

just Jesus.

Genetics Don't Lie (Prompt: Snapshot)

I always thought I was adopted

and for a long time felt

there was a silent conspiracy

to keep the real truth from me.

Then I saw the snapshot.

I was in my teens

and I was wearing

an Air force Dress uniform.

I couldn't remember

this yellowed and bent

photograph

taken at an

unrecognizable angle

and venue.

Was it in a school play?

Was it a costume party?

Upon closer inspection

it was my father taken

when he was serving

in 1955.

That monstrous nose,

wide forehead

friendly smile,

genetics don't lie,

Mystery solved.

David [name withheld] (Prompt: Profile Poem)

His hubris is such

that he often says

his six-word story is

“God created,

and so must I.”

In everything he does

he tries a creative approach.

While this is not

always successful

(as evidenced by his previous

failed love relationships),

he relies upon

the element of surprise

to compensate for

true talent and competence.

He is most proud

of his second marriage

and how seamlessly

he became a husband

and assumed the paternal role

to Anita’s pre-existing

family.

In his free time

he is a voracious reader

of nonfiction,

with his favorite genres being

show business biographies,

theological treatises

and reference books.

He loves all forms

of music,

and his favorite all-time band

is the New York Dolls.

He started writing

when he was 15,

and while there have been

long periods of inactivity

in the intervening 33 years,

writing is the single

most gratifying work

he’s ever done.

When he writes

he is no longer

overweight or

Mexican or

awkward or

unwanted or

lonesome.

True to his credo,

when he writes

he creates himself,

and it amuses him,

and thankfully,

he amuses easily.

Mr. Secret Keeper (Prompt: Ain't None of My Business)

I’m Mr. Secret Keeper,

and I’ve heard it all,

from the time you went down

on your own fraternity brother

when you were drunk

and tried to tell me it was hazing,

or the abortion

that you pretend

never happened,

or that laptop computer

that your boss still thinks

was stolen out of your office

but is actually hidden

in your apartment

in the bookcase

by your “Employee of the Month”

certificate,

and how you tell all those kids

at the church youth group

to wait until they’re married,

but they don’t know

that you’re really

just a Born Again Virgin.

I didn’t tell about

that Chinese kid

you said you adopted

but you confessed

you purchased,

and I just listened

when you told me

how your prick of a spouse

made you participate in

a threesome with

his meth’d out whore

to “save your marriage.”

I’ve heard it all

and I’ve kept your secrets,  

because I know

in times of my weakness

and failure

I've confessed my secrets

my sins

but I can’t always remember

to whom.

So,

out of mutual cosmic respect

for privacy,

discretion,

and decency,

we’ll not speak of these things

anymore.

Lynda Warren, Ph.D. (Prompt: An Old Relationship)

During our first session
she took copious notes
of everything I said,

I counted fourteen pages.

“How many pages 
do you normally take
on a new client?”

She smiled,
“Four.”

This tall, unpretentious 
woman
with a friendly,
comforting smile

helped me through 
so many of my darkest 
hours.

I often remember 
what she said
about leading
a balanced
and authentic life,
true to her gentle Buddhist
nature.

I still hear her voice,
part-maternal
part-rabbinical
telling me
it’s not about making a 
right or wrong choice, 
but rather 
a skillful choice.

She retired three years ago
and I have stopped looking
for her successor:

there is none worthy.

So, wherever you are
in your peaceful,
verdant 
retirement,

I send you loving thoughts 
prayers
and sincere gratitude

for your wisdom
and compassion

as I changed from 
a thinking machine 
into a feeling person.

Namaste, 
Dr. Warren.

Lies and Me (Prompt: Form Poem- Blitz)

Don’t give me rules

don’t give me lies

lies and secrets

lies and mystery

mystery is good

mystery loves company

company policy

company man

man oh man

man that’s gross

gross me out

gross minus net

net that flounder

net that man

man is the problem

man is the oppressor

oppressor wears a badge

oppressor lacks compassion

compassion is love

compassion is temporary

temporary happiness

temporary substitute

substitute teacher

substitutions are extra

extra extra read all about it

extra papers given away

away with the wind

away with my youth

youth that is forgotten

youth that is despised

despised like a Nazi

despised and spoiled

spoiled child

spoiled milk

milk of human kindness

milk and honey

honey hair

honey in her kiss

kiss her there

kiss her goodnight

goodnight, my love

goodnight and God bless

bless you in all your glory

bless this mess

mess around with me

mess up the bed with me

me minus you is such a lonely ride

me love me some you

you

ride

Maybe Tomorrow (for Sarah) (Prompt: Maybe ____)

Maybe tomorrow

things will look different,

no, they will look different

if only because you’ll be seeing them

with eyeballs that are

one day older.

Maybe tomorrow

everyone you thought

was ignoring you

will come around

slapping you

on the back asking

“where’ve you been?”

Maybe tomorrow

whatever dark mood

that’s intruded upon you

will instantly vanish

because of 

something as simple

and random as

the dog dancing wildly

when you come home,

or a freshly baked

chocolate chip and M&M cookie,

or your favorite

song playing on the radio.

Sometimes

when you’re feeling

low and blue,

and it feels like nothing

will ever change,

remember this:

the only thing we can

predict in this world

is change!

The darkness won’t last forever,

it’ll change too.

Until then,

be good to yourself,

take care of yourself

and if you have to,

sneak away to a private place

and give yourself a

big ,

long

hug

until I can give you one

myself.

Love, Pop-o

Discipline (Prompt: Never Again Poem)

It was a typical spring afternoon

in 1977

and my younger brother and I

were bickering 

the way teenage brothers do,

the way fathers hate.

Some fathers spent all day

listening to other peoples’

bickering and sniping,

and my father must’ve had

a particularly crappy day

because it was the same 

picking and bitching 

we always did

but this time,

Pop snapped.

He wasn’t huge,

but he was fierce

and pained

like a Chihuahua with

a tortured pitbull psyche.

He roared into our room,

I don’t remember 

what he said

but within a second

I was in the middle of a

violent fantasia

of screaming and

veins pulsing

and his thick belt

coming down on me

again and again,

sheets of black leather pain

against my forearms

me cowering in

the corner of the couch.

Before he could get to my

younger brother

my mother interceded,

she protected him.

I don’t remember how

I got to the bathroom,

but I locked myself in there,

wondering how would I hide

or worse, explain

the bright pink welts

now forming on my arms

to the kids at school the next day.

Sitting there on the toilet

gasping and sucking in for breath,

I remember thinking

through my boiling tears

“I don’t care what I have to do,

how I have to be,

but he will never ever

hit me again”

and he never did,

and that was my first lesson

in self-discipline.

8:57 (Prompt: Time is Title)

Tonight at 8:57

on the stage at

the Pechanga Casino

in Temecula, California

Tony Bennett

launched into

“The Way You Look Tonight”

and immediately

we were taken back

to that first moment

when our friendship

shifted into

something eternal.

Heavenly Father,

thank you for the wondrous

gift of music,

for the sweetness

of shared memories

and, of course,

for Tony Bennett.

Communion (Prompt: Celebration Poem)

My favorite moment
of the celebration
is the communion.

With lights lowered
and only the sound of
a solo piano

I begin
my silent prayer
in Hebrew
“Baruch Hashem”
and soon am lost
in an sea
of exhales
and petitions

but I never feel
that I am
asking for too much.

Unexpectedly,
I feel safe.

Can You Imagine That? (Prompt: What If Poem)

Can you picture him

without his tumbleweed hair,

his aging, overweight torso

and the gray purple bags

under his eyes?

If you could strip him

of his inferiority complex

and make him

taller

thinner and

whiter,

wouldn’t that be

something?

Could you picture a world

where he was loved

and accepted

for who he was

and not for what

he brought?

Dig if you will

a picture

of him

completely at peace

and content in his

own skin.

And what if he didn’t

have the gnawing

relentless need

to always entertain

or serve someone

because

otherwise he felt like

he didn’t deserve

to be there?

Can you imagine that?

Well, neither can I,

and so I write.