Moskowitz Vital Statistics

Marriage #1:

Length of Courtship: 260 weeks

Length of Engagement: 63 weeks

Length of Marriage: 21 weeks

Age at wedding: 30 years

Children: 0

Regrets: Too many to count.

Marriage #2:

Length of Courtship: 30 weeks

Length of Engagement: 9 weeks

Length of Marriage: 467 weeks (as of November, 11, 2011)

Age at wedding: 39 years

Children: 3 (from spouse’s previous marriage)

Regrets: 1 (not marrying Anita sooner).

Uncle Tom's Plea (Prompt: Different Perspective)

C’mon guys,

we’ve had it pretty good.

That farmer and his family

they treat us pretty good,

and we get fed regular.

Why,

I’ve never been so full!

Look at your feathers!

They’ve never had

a sheen like

this.

And your wattles,

they haven’t bounced that much

in years!

You gotta admit,

it’s been a pretty sweet

so far.

Don’t listen to them

young upstarts,

they’re just trying

to upset the apple cart.

Those stories about the

Fall Holocaust,

they’re just trying

to scare you.

No,

we’ve taken and taken

and now it’s our turn

to give.

Remember,

the humans

have treated us well,

be should be honored

they make us

the centerpiece

of their holiday.

Wait or Chase (Prompt: ____ or ____ poem)

I didn’t have

the requisite confidence

to wait

for the pretty girls

to flock around me

so I could

take my pick

of any of them

just like

my mother

told me

they eventually

would.

No,

I had a mirror

and perfect eyesight.

So, I began the chase

and I learned to charm,

gently cajole,

listen for clues

and win their hearts.

I got very good

at 

it.

The formula was

finding out their likes

their secret dreams

unspoken passions

and then

fulfilling them,

with brazen,

unflappable

creativity.

Yes,

I could’ve and

would’ve

loved every one

of them.

l won many, many hearts

but I rarely got laid,

because while they all

desired someone

who acted like me,

they didn’t want someone

who looked like me.

(Again, that infernal mirror.)

I still chase

my beautiful

muse,

baring my soul

and my skin,

laying it all

at her feet.

I earn her approval

as she giggles

and the poem

blooms before her

and she breathes in

its rose-like scent,

smiles

and pats

her seeing eye dog.

But to Whom? (Prompt: Paranormal Poem)

One day

all I saw was a leafy tall tree

against the cloudless sky,

and off in the distance

birds sang purposefully

in another language

and the brook giggled

past my feet

and it was a tangible

empirical reality,

then

something turned over

in my heart,

and it wasn’t enough

just to observe it all,

I had to express

my thanks

for all this wondrous

mysterious beauty,

but to whom?

So,

now you know

how I took

my first steps

on this walk. 

Now Won’t Wait (Prompt: Won't Wait Poem)

As insistent and selfish

as a puppy wanting to

be let out,

Now

crowds around me

and messes up

my well-laid plans,

for every decision

is a pivot point,

and I’m smart enough

to know

that the moments

cling to one another

as randomly

as a chain

made of figures

from the Barrel of Monkeys game,

I played forty years ago

which appeared instantly

in the very front

of my Now

right now.

A Predictable Headache (prompt: addiction)

She is a beautiful,

tragic corpse

these days,

but I can recall

halcyon days

just her and me

riding the highways

no map

no empty pockets.

We just kept calling

out to each other

and we kept answering

“sure, why not?’

It was only after

many, many nights

did I sense her

disenchantment

and the part of her

that came alive

from my touch

became perfunctory

a dull routine

a predictable

headache.

Impulsively

I said goodbye

and divorced her

very publicly

to help gird my decision

and while some doubted

her sway over me,

I knew the truth,

and I still visit her

in the liquor aisle

of the grocery

almost smug

at my 21 years

of sobriety,

but still

afraid to

step back into

her embrace.

Broken Peace (Prompt: Broken)

Sarah and I

can be sitting watching “Glee”

and something will slip

from a shelf

or my breathing will be too loud

or a sad thought will enter,

and she will explode

in a rage usually reserved

for life threatening traffic maneuvers

and the peace is broken,

the illusion of normalcy

is shattered.

Most days

 it’s an hourly occurrence,

whatever this is

in her dysfunctional cerebellum

that catches afire

and causes her to become

an angry flamethrower

and when its run its course

burned  to the ash

she comes back somewhat contrite

pitiful and apologetic,

and there is no medicine

to fix this,

no surgery,

only time,

occupational therapy

and love,

the only antidote that ever restores

broken peace.

Rachel (November 4, 2011) (Prompt: Something Unexpected)

When we first met

I thought I’d play

the wise old sage

and you’d

be my eager pupil.

Even in those early days

you were always teaching me

about kindness

about self- sacrifice

about faithfulness.

Your laughter is among

my favorite sounds in this

whole wide world

and I will always remember

that you were

the first of the kids

to make me consider

that there might be

something valuable

in (step)fatherhood

waiting for me.

So,

I thank you

for prying open a door

I thought

was sealed forever.

Happy Birthday, Rachel

Love,

Pop-o

Sort of Famous (Prompt: Sort of...)

I Google Buddah Moskowitz

and am immediately

second-guessed.

“Did you mean

Buddha Moskowitz?”

in that snotty italicized font

with its implied superiority.

No, I intentionally misspell it

like the 1970’s record label.

Then I see

all the sites where I have

scattered my “poetry”

to the winds,

my mutant seed spread

in the hope

they’ll find forgiving

and fertile land.

I tell myself

it doesn’t matter if I’m “famous.”

I’ve followers

from all walks of life,

and some even part

with their hard earned money

to buy my “poems”.

So what do I want?

An Oscar?

A Pulitzer Prize?

The respect and admiration

from some obscure

“poetry” “journal” publisher?

Nope.

I just want one of those

seemingly in-depth

interviews

like I’ve seen in

Rolling Stone,

where they try to discover

what drives me

what excites me

what disgusts me

what inspires me.

They’d make me sound

important

relevant

and essential.

But,

I know the odds

of that ever happening

so,

I keep adding

to the interview

I am conducting on myself

one poem at a time.

Two Lessons, Too Late (Prompt: epigram)

“The way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.” – Oscar Wilde

I knew it was wrong

when I did it

but I did it anyway

because she promised me

“no one will ever know.”

Being an ethical contortionist

I trusted my logic

and believed my rationale,

but when he called me

at my office

screaming

that he knew what I did,

where I lived

and that he was going

to shoot off my testicles

with his shotgun,

I learned two lessons:

first,

it is impossible

to talk your way out of

a problem with a party

unwilling to listen,

and

second,

never sleep with

another man’s wife,

schmuck.

Now! (Prompt:Pro-Active Poem)

There is no later,

the time is now!

Tomorrow is an illusion

and yesterday is one collective

implanted memory,

so roll on,

breathe in the air

dance in the sun

and lose yourself

now!

Even if

you’re just planning

for tomorrow,

you’ve got to do it

now!

Sure, the Mona Lisa was painted

way back then,

but she does not become relevant

until you see her now!

That big meal you’re planning

for the end of the month

is only a collection of passed-down recipes

and unbought groceries,

and only becomes Thanksgiving

when you’re eating it

now!

That great vast

afterlife

some of us cling to

is also a mirage

for there is no Heaven

waiting off

in the foggy, cloud-strewn

future,

but rather

Heaven is in this moment

now!

So,

knowing the primacy

and the urgency of

now! ,

I ask you

my dear reader,

without irony,

was it worth it?

Carpe Diem, Catch and Release

Carpe diem,

and then
let it go.

Often I’ll replay
the most recent interaction
I had with anyone
and judge it
like a glass of wine.

Sometimes I’m satisfied
with its perfection, it’s profundity,
but often I wish
it had gone better.

This dissatisfaction
keeps me alive,
digging deeper into this
mucky human soil
to find hidden treasures
and cherish them,
but not
to possess them,

which is,
of course,
the whole point
of the lesson.

A Predictable Terror

It works a predictable terror

every time I see it

and I know all the behind the scenes

of how George Romero made it

how they couldn’t afford

real paid actors

or even color film stock

and it’s in the public domain

and you can download free copies

from archive.com

but something about those zombies

plodding forward

relentless

unassailable

irrational

inevitable

busting through that the walls

and doors of that rickety old house

headed for the cellar

that doomed cul-de-sac,

where everyone is hiding…

I never watch it

with all the lights

turned

off.

Grandpa Dracula

He used to be sexy

with his slim figure and

sharpened fangs.

His cool demeanor

and sartorial elegance

mesmerized women

into breathlessly

offering up their necks

as prelude to

their pulsating

sweet

essence.

Flowers with

thick eyelashes

shiny red lips

and pendulous curves

would avoid his gaze

for fear they’d be tempted

past the point

of redemption.

But now,

he’s Grandpa Dracula,

fat, toothless

and domesticated.

They look

straight into his eyes,

and chat with him easily,

and it is

worse

than being invisible:

he is deemed

cute and harmless.

The eternal life

he coveted,

remains forever elusive,

as he replays his memories,

which mock him

like an endless stream

of Viagra commercials.

Between Teal and the Blues

The name

Sensory Processing Disorder

doesn’t do justice

to the confusion

disorganization and

chaos inside her.

Her problems are so subtle

that describing them

sounds like I am grasping at

a ghost,

a fantasy diagnosis

that doesn’t really exist.

I’m sure some see her

as a demon

as a freak

as a misfit.

If she could perceive

the world clearly

then she would see

there is more to the world

than rules and unsolvable puzzles,

and

if the world could

perceive her clearly

then they would see

there is more to her

than anger and misery.

How do you describe

to a colorblind person

the difference in hue

between teal and the blues?

October in Southern California

In So Cal it’s always summer

until the second weekend in October

when everyone stops wearing cutoffs

and the beaches get emptier.

The same violent Santa Ana winds

that sweep brushfires through

the canyons

also blows the summer smog away.

The leaves find their way

off the branch

exploding in vibrant splashes

of orange, umber and ochre.

Walgreens becomes schizophrenic

as nativity scenes bump up against

displays of Zombie makeup

and costumes.

Everything slows down,

it gets darker faster

and the kids come inside earlier.

The night air

brisk and frisky

brings forth sweaters and jackets

and memories of new love,

smelling her perfume

in the early evening sky,

and we still sleep

with the windows open

but now it’s cold enough to

curl up together,

lost in the warm

narcotic sweetness.

Fortune Cookie Poems

#1

Regret is Desire

sitting on the sideline

never attempted.

#2

Every kindness

no matter how small

advances world peace.

#3

The path of the butterfly

only seems random

if you’re not a butterfly.

Formatted for Mobile Devices

The smart phone

the iPad

the iPod

(the iGod?)

the laptop

bought from

the big box

crap shop

and Bluetooth

is not the

new truth

and last decade’s

PDA

is DOA

and unless your

USB

is version 3

don’t talk to me.

Technology dictates

how we think

and create

and share

and sync

and I don’t want any scrapple

from the fanboys at Apple

and I’m kind of frugal

so I roll with Google

and in principle

I like things open source

but only when they work

of course,

still, all these

gidgets and gazmos

polluting the cosmos

obscure the reality

they don’t want us to see:

that we do not possess them

they possess us

we are their slaves

and in them

we all trust.

and if this thought

causes you to frown

then

power down

and repeat this

not once

nor twice

but rather, thrice

“I am not a mobile device.”


[NOTE: Submitted for Meeting The Bar at http://dversepoets.com/ , May 10, 2012]

The Businessman Speaks Yet Again

The technology is

smart enough and

fast enough

to envision that

perfect product:

a sleek, sexy pad

with infinitely expandable memory

and perpetually updating software

designed to give us

more

faster

everything,

compressed

in a handheld destiny.

Imagine

every song

every book

every film

every painting

every sculpture

and all poetry

formatted for

mobile devices.

Everyone will know

that intoxicating feeling

of owing every work

of the Beatles

Michelangelo

Dorothy Parker

Aeschylus

Gustav Klimt

Mozart

Charlie Chaplin

William Shakespeare

Aesop

Beyonce

Salvador Dali

The Dalai Lama.

No longer

will we seek out

these rare artifacts

these books

those dusty albums,

or travel to lonely museums

to experience this world,

we’ll bring it to you

wherever you are.

All the centuries

of civilizing innovation,

those lines that separated

artist from patron

rich from poor

ignorant from wise

and sacred from profane

forever blurred

and portable.

And, if the device dies

(or if it accidentally

goes through the wash),

we’ve partnered with

Best Buy

Amazon.com

and participating Wal-Mart Superstores

to be the exclusive providers

of replacement

“MyCulture 2.0” modules.

Yes, I agree,

we’ll have marketing

come up with a better name.

Early Education

In Mrs. Brown’s

first grade class

we had to learn

two-place addition.

Adding one-place numbers

vertically

like

3

+

5

_

8

was easy enough

but

11 +

22

__

well, that was

from another

planet.

I didn’t understand

and I was kept

after school

struggling with this puzzle

until

the light finally

came on.

I arrived home

late,

scared as hell

because I knew

the fate

awaiting me,

because

according to my father

only bums and

miscreants

stayed after school.

I was summarily

beat

with the thick leather belt

and, in time,

I became an

overachiever,

an anxious, nervous-stomached

overachiever.

Today I am

a dean

at a college

my father could only

dream of attending,

and

as my 14 year old daughter

struggles to complete

her homework

saddled with

cerebellar dysfunction

dysarthria

dysgraphethesia

dysstereognosis

dyspraxia

obsessive compulsive disorder

general anxiety disorder

and sensory integration dysfunction

I remind her

that while I like that she’s smart,

I love her

when she’s kind.