The Best Advice Ever (Prompt: Best Ever Poem)

Scanlon,

the obese TV writing instructor

who insisted upon being addressed

as “Dr.”and then didn’t return

the manuscript I sent him

which was my final grade in the course,

gave me the best advice I ever got:

I don’t even recall

the exact question,

but I always remember

the answer.

With admirable passion

and eloquence,

he exploded

“Bullshit!

Don’t be

a second-best someone else!

Be the first-best You!”

I still

quote

him.

The God that Made the Platypus (Prompt: Suspicious)

I’m not sure

what I have to offer you

but it  must be something

for you to

say love me.

I will not believe you

until I convince myself

of my lovability,

for surely,

I cannot be worthy

of love

just because I exist.

So I trust that

the God that made

the platypus,

flatulent giggling,

and other

mysterious,

silly

phenomena

loves me too

because in my own

strange, confused way

I think

I must amuse Him.

Market Research Information for Poets (Prompt: It's Too Late Poem)

Egotists!

Narcissists!

Poets!

(Forgive the redundancy.)

After a thorough analysis

of the activity

of this website,

I offer the following

analysis to aid you

in your writing endeavors:

First,

if you want

to maximize

the comment count

for your postings,

make sure that your poems

are no longer

than 22 lines,

which seems to be

the tipping point

for inattention.

Second,

and more important,

please ensure

your submissions

occur before 3pm EST.

This will allow

ample opportunity

for the majority

of site traffic

to view / comment

on your work.

Further analysis exists

to support the hypothesis

that contributors/readers

who visit earlier

in the day

typically do not

revisit the site

later in the day

to read /comment.

Third,

if you are only posting

so that someone

will stroke your ego

and validate your worth

as a writer,

then the previous comment

about time of submission

is irrelevant:

it is already too late.

My Invisibility Switch (Prompt: Revelation)

I possess the ability

to make myself invisible

at will.

I can disappear

if there are chores to be done,

or when solitude is preferred,

and I can re-materialize

when I need help with heavy lifting

or when I’m feeling especially lonesome.

Unlike the magician,

I’ll reveal my secret:

the default value for

my invisibility switch

is always “ON”

it’s only when

I do something

designed with an

audience in mind,

any audience,

that I’m actually switching it

“OFF”.

So,

I can make myself

invisible at will

as long as I

do not will

myself

to perform

for anyone.

Ta-da.

Once Upon a Fitting Room (Prompt: Once Upon a _____)

At first,

we were strangers,

trying on each other.

While some parts fit

perfectly,

others needed

immediate alteration.

I always wear her

with pride,

and to her credit

when she wears me,

she stares down

anyone who dares

question her style.

Through these years

though styles have changed,

she still wears my coat

with its food stains

and frayed cuffs and collar,

and for the first time

in my tortured life

as a hideous self-dresser,

I am proud

to be seen in what I wear.

There is No Cure for the Hole in My Soul (Prompt: Love Poem)

There is no cure

for the hole

in my soul

for when I keep trying

to fill it,

it still remains empty.

God hasn’t filled it,

nor has Anita,

the same for my kids

and my beloved animals.

The writing

sure as hell doesn’t help,

often it makes it worse.

The only thing

resembling a cure

appears

when I lose myself

in loving others.

I know

this doesn’t cure

the hole in my soul,

but it keeps me

from obsessing

over

my incompleteness. 

“Funny What Goes Through One’s Mind” (Prompt: Deadly and dangerous poem)

On that sweaty August afternoon

after I committed adultery with

the married psychobitch,

I was driving her back

to where she left her car

and I was in

the fast lane of the freeway,

trying to get this day

over with as soon as possible.

She was still trying

to convince me to ask her

to leave her husband,

but I wasn’t giving in.

Then she did this thing

I only read about

in “Penthouse” magazine

and saw alluded to

in the movies.

Let’s just say

the others drivers

thought I was alone.

I was smug,

then aroused,

and then immediately

panicked

as I realized

the accelerator

in my Honda

was revving

but not speeding up.

I instantly broke out

in a cold sweat

and I heard her

just giggling cluelessly

as she continued

making her case.

“Kim…”

“Kim...”

Then I saw it-

her chest had knocked

the gear shift

out of drive

and into neutral.

I shifted back

and half-sighed

until I saw

the taillights of

the cars ahead

of me

getting closer

faster and faster

and piling up.

Simultaneously,

I slam on the brakes

grab her by the hair

and throw her head back

into the passenger’s seat.

She laughed

with that wicked uncontainable

cackle of the truly

insane,

barely catching her breath,

“OHHH, YES!

THAT WAS GREAT!”

and there I was

parked in the fast lane

on the freeway

drenched in sweat

and jangling from adrenaline,

and the first thing that

came to mind was

“How would I have

explained that to

Allstate?”

Kindness Poem (Prompt: kindness)

If you seek me out

from the googol of

websites

self-aggrandizing blogs

cobwebbed social media,

I am so thankful

for your devotion.

If you leave a note

then I know you’ve seen me

and you’ve invalidated

my presumed invisibility

and most days

that is the kindest thing

of all.

Gluttony (prompt: excess)

I looked I the pantry

and the only thing there

was self-discipline.

It needed something.

So I dusted it in powdered sugar

deep-fried it until it was brown

walloped a dollop of whipped cream

smeared some French dressing

dashed in salt and pepper

dipped it in Belgian chocolate,

then let it marinade in a

mixture of balsamic vinegar

and peanut M&Ms.

Then I baked it in ginger

chopped it into squares

butterscotch fondued it

and after it hardened

I glazed it in Devil’s Spit

barbeque sauce

and sprinkled it with

brown sugar

and once it cooled

I popped it in my mouth

and it was ambrosial,

so I went back and

ate the whole

disgusting

mess.

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?