For the One Who Stayed

I lost count
of how many woman
I said “I love you” to.

I had written
miles of poetry,
dedicated songs on the radio,
made mix tapes,
when they actually were
cassette tapes.

But they didn't stay.

I could transform a
$40 budget motel room
into a romantic boudoir
complete with candlelight
and roses
with only 20 minutes’ notice
on the off-chance
that I got the green light.

But they wouldn’t stay.

I knew all the in-spots,
had tickets
to the latest shows,
and I freshened up my
ad-libbed small talk
every week,

and this was all
before the advent
of the internet
so it really took some
time and effort
and real legwork
to be the King of Romance.

But still…

I kept hoping that
an all-encompassing,
heart-exploding,
landscape-changing
love
would somehow
float by my window
and finally
just stay.

I used to joke
that I was going to get
a tattoo on my chest,
over my heart that said
“YOUR NAME HERE.”

I’m so glad
the only tattoo I have now
just says
“Anita.”

(Written for #OpenLinkNight at http://dversepoets.com/ - the best poetry site in the world!)

November 2010.  (Could I possibly have a less muscular tone than this?)

Room Service (Prompt: Dessert)

New love,

and in

the afterglow,

she let me

savor

the hot fudge sundae

off her

bare

bottom,

and I have been

hers

ever since.

[Note: I purposely wrote this using 25 words or less. Is that a recognized form?  If not, I'd like to claim it. :) ]

Buddah Moskowitz, [name redacted], and the Venn Diagram

I Google
“Buddah Moskowitz” and
“[name redacted]”
and smile at the result:

“Your search did not
match any documents.”

Most of my immediate
and extended family,
my brothers and sisters in
Christian fellowship,
and fellow academicians
with whom I’ve worked
for almost two decades,
have no idea
who Moskowitz is.

Also,
there are many readers
in the far-flung nether
of the ether
who regularly visit
and are sweeter to me,
kinder to me,
more appreciative,
and know me better
from the inside out
than most who
only know me
face-to-face.

One whole circle of
the Venn diagram
doesn’t  know
the other circle of
the Venn diagram
even exists.

Buddah Moskowitz
writes all the things
that [name redacted]
is too timid to admit,
and [name redacted]
knows how to keep
keep his head
and hold his tongue
so that he can afford
to keep Moskowitz
on the payroll.

So,
it’s purely a business
arrangement:

Moskowitz explores
[name redacted]
and [name redacted] supports
Moskowitz,
and so on and so forth.

There is only
one person standing
in the Venn diagram
where the circles
overlap,

but I’m damned
if I can tell
who it is.

(Written for #OpenLinkNight at http://dversepoets.com/ - the best poetry site in the world. Come on in!)

As the Bible Clearly Says

Thousands of
bible colleges
crank out
millions of
amateur theologians
and future pastoral staff
who will plant
new churches
(or take over
the payments
on others).

Hundreds of translations
over two thousand years,
with countless misspellings
endless interpretations,
and more re-interpretations,
cynical willful omissions
and unintentional mistakes
all lead to a document of
dubious
empirical
reference.

Presently,
there are hundreds of versions
inspiring thousands
of small home group bible studies
led by well-meaning believers
who have never read
much less translated
the original texts
in classic Greek
or Hebrew
or Latin
or Aramaic

but will dutiful try
to guess what
the Book of Revelation
means

and some might try
to calculate His return
(despite Jesus’ admonition
not to do that).

The only phrase
that might actually be
an accurate translation is

“Jesus wept”

only because it’s
two words,
with less room
for interpretational error.

So
if you ever hear
a supposed bible expert say:

“As the Bible clearly says”

as though the meaning
and truth of the Bible
were self-evident
and obvious,

please know,

that person
cannot
be trusted.

Detached From Inhibition

An out-of-town
business trip to
New Orleans and
a dying marriage
is a bad combination.

I was surrounded by
shouts and laughter
attached to people
who drank enough
to become
detached from inhibition.

Every few steps
a new flyer was
thrust in my hand,
guaranteeing
sensual delights
at reasonable rates.

(Anything extra
to be negotiated later.)

The pain was heavy
and dull, and
all the unanswered
calls home
just dragged the blade
slowly
across my heart.

Of course,
the weakness won.

I found myself
skulking down
a slick, black alley
looking for an address.

The muffled bass
from a party inside boomed,
and from the shadow
a teenage voice offered:
“You looking for a massage
girl, man?”

I nodded, and he gestured
to an unlit stairwell,
save for a red glow
up at the landing.

The wooden stairs
creaked and groaned,
“don’t do it”
“turn around”
with each step.

At the top of the stairs,
a locked screen door
let me peer into
the empty space,
lit red,
with loud music pumping
from an unseen speaker.

I rang the bell.
Rang again.

Heart racing
and I almost left,
but I rang again
and an older Filipina
with steely eyes
and flawless skin
came to the door:
“You want massage?”

“Yeah, but how much?”

“I give you good massage. Come in.”

“No, but first, how much does it cost?
Are you the only woman here?”

“It’s okay, I give you good massage.”

“But, are you the only one here
who gives the massages?”

Either I confused her
or pissed her off
as she left me
standing there
on the landing.

Did I insult her?
Was she going to get
her boss to come
and kick my ass?
What if I got naked
and they stole my wallet?
Or just took my clothes and
threw me out into the street?
Or worse, what if they
held me down
and raped me
and filmed it and sold it
overseas?

Whatever strange impulse
that sent me up those stairs
also sent me flying
back down,
out of the alley
and back onto the crass
vulgar sensuality
of Bourbon Street,

where I never felt
so safe and
so grateful.

(Written for #OpenLinkNight at dversepoets.com, where only the best poets are online now!  Go join the fun!)

Reckless Eyeballs

I learned early on
to keep my eyes
to myself:

a stare can be misinterpreted.

I don’t want to fight you.
I’m not trying to scare you.
I’m not trying to make you.

It’s just too reckless
any other way.

I know these rules,
so what is this drive
that compels me
to break this rule?

Something inside me
is looking in
your eyes
for reflection,
for approval,
for connection.

But in the split second
before that unknown
consequence
materializes,

I avert my eyes.

I just don’t want
to start something
that I can’t finish.

Hell Reigned in Los Angeles (April 29, 1992)

We all saw the tapes:
peace officers beating,
maybe even taunting
this crumpled mound
of humanity.

We knew this
wasn’t supposed
to happen
in our system,
we knew justice
would be served.

The verdict that afternoon
was Not Guilty,
and Los Angeles
awoke
to the most visceral,
public episode of
mass cognitive dissonance
it had never dared to dream.

The verdict meant
the system was broken,
and anger was righteous,
the fires were unapologetic,
and every drop of blood
spilled was red.

The city broke
free of its moorings,
rocketing to places
uncharted,
and the reaction
was frightening,
mesmerizing
and unprecedented.

The institution entrusted
with providing justice
was tampered and rigged,
and the resulting chaos
rained Hell
in Los Angeles.

For three days,
anarchy,
stray bullets whizzed
like lethal mosquitoes,
and there were
so many fires raging
that water pressure
in the city
reduced firehoses
to water pistols.

I remember
driving home from work
crouched down
almost eye-level
with the dash board
because the violence
was so random.

The flashpoint
eventually lost its flame,
and the TV stations
stopped covering
the lawlessness.

Even two decades later,
I still remember
looking at the police
as they stood by
watching the rioters,
and being scared
knowing that the cops too
were nervous, powerless
and very, very
outnumbered.

(Written for #OpenLinkNight at dversepoets.com , the Internet's Premiere Poetry website- come join us!)

Everybody Plays (Prompt: Fade Away)

Step right up,
try your hand!
Take a breath
and outwit Death!

It’s the only
game of chance
where everybody plays
and everybody loses!

Spin the wheel
and try to outwit
Father Death
and he plucks
fathers from children
leaders from countries
husbands from wives.

Will your beneficiary
get to cash in on
your term-life insurance?

Can you beat
that train
to the crossing?

Should you risk taking
your chippie
to the motel
when you’re also taking
high blood pressure meds,
high cholesterol meds,
and Viagra?

If you’re lucky,
you’ll get a warning.
Some of you
will overstay your welcome.
Most of you
won’t know what
hit ya!

Haven’t entered yet?
Don’t worry,
you’re already in!

The Last Lottery!
The Final Round-Up!
The Happy Hunting Grounds!
The Great Beyond!

The trip of a lifetime
is just waiting for you!

Who’ll be today’s lucky
winner?

Maybe,
it’ll be

you!

A New Holiness (Prompt: Re-use a previously used phrase)

There’s no point
in doing this
if you’re just
going to lie.

So, the truth is
you’re going to fail at this
most of the time,
but contrary to logic
you mustn’t stop.

The best you can hope for
is that every now and then
you feel it –
the holiness
the wholeness,

but beware,
for when it seems
that you’re certain
you’ve glimpsed
the face of The Eternal One,
an egotistical,
self-congratulatory
amnesia
will wipe the holiness
away faster than
a shaken Etch-a-Sketch.
It’s not about being
being holy just one time
and making it last forever.

It’s about making
each new moment
a new holiness,
completely alive
and serving that which
lives in all things.

It may appear to be
interconnectedness,
but it is the awareness
of your place
and your sacredness
in the continuum.

Problems (Prompt: Problem)

We are born
tabula rasa
on all six sides.

Without trial,
without trouble,
we remain
blank,
untouched
smooth,
too smooth.

The failures
the angst
the shortcomings,
the problems
all chip away
at those smooth sides

making us
interesting,
instructive
perhaps even inspiring.

Knowing this,

I strive
to reinterpret
each problem
as yet another
teacher.

If I am
successful and wise
the problems
will not cease,
but rather
will make me
smarter,
more grateful
and more alive.

The Problem is That It’s a Perfect April Afternoon (Prompt: The Problem is...)

The problem is that it’s
a perfect April afternoon,
and that bright blue
cloudless sky,
looks even prettier
because it’s dressing up
a Friday afternoon

which means it’s only
a few more hours
until I get to
be with you again,
because I have missed you
so much this week
(but I always miss you),

but since you’re in one city
and I’m in another
(and since neither of us
is independently wealthy),

instead asking you
to meet me for
a quick, private picnic,
I’ll go back to my office,
and hope that
you had
the same thought of me
upon seeing
this perfect
and problematic
April afternoon.

The Codebook’s Finished

In this poem

the daybreak represents
morning
and the tree
is knowledge.

The babbling brook
is supposed to be
the mocking voices
of a vacuous
culture.

The snail
on the stone
represents the perseverance
of the protagonist

while the dew
is meant
to conjure doubt.

The aging windmill
in the distance
represents
Man’s ultimate
mortal demise,

whereas the frog
represents the most
noble of
all human endeavors.


OK,
now that
the codebook’s finished,
on to

the poem.

(Written for Meeting the Bar: Allegory at dversepoets.com . As usual, when I can't do what's expected of me, I make fun of the situation.)

There But For the Grace of Four Percent (Prompt: Animal)

“Scientists have sequenced the genome 
of the chimpanzee and found 
that humans are 96 percent similar 
to the great ape species.” – 
Stefan Lovgren
for National Geographic News
August 31, 2005

I squint
as I look
in the mirror.

I see the wrinkles,
the smile,
the imposing eyebrow ridge
over soulful, searching eyes,

and think,
there but for the
grace of four percent
is the great ape.

While this majestic beast
possesses inherent dignity,
the most successful ones
are those who have been
trained to amuse
by riding bikes,
smoking cigars,
and wearing tuxedoes.

Complex and unpredictable,
they can submit
to each other
for intensely personal grooming,
but can also mobilize
for the violent
overthrow of
a designated enemy.

Victims of circumstance,
they move to where
the food is
and they learn
the unwritten rules
of their hierarchical society.

They hunt,
they share,
they nurture,
they rape,
they invent,
they ruminate,
they try,
they fail.

So
I’m starting think that
the four percent difference
consists mostly of
cosmetic appearance,
differential acrobatic skills,
and self-serving statements
of perceived
moral superiority.

Exercise (Prompt: Sports)

As an overweight child,
I hated playing sports,
but I did so
mostly because if I didn't play
the teams were uneven.

I would rather spend
my time
in my parents’ living room,
lost in a pair of
plastic over-the-ear
headphones
plugged into the
stereo (as it was called then),
playing records
I borrowed from the
public library.

Music was my earliest
passion.

When I was 13,
for Christmas,
my parents gave me
a pair of headphones
that had an AM radio
built-in to them!
They even had
telescoping rabbit ears
antenna for
improved reception.

(Remember, this was 1976.)

So,
on Sunday mornings
I would take my headphones
and ride my crummy little
two-wheeler up and down
the eight block
section of neighborhood
where I was allowed,
and listen to Casey Kasem’s
American Top 40,
and dream of making music
that he would
someday introduce.

It was the only time
I ever liked
exercise.

Gracia (Prompt: love)

Her family moved in
across the street
from mine,
and my 19 year old
head was turned.
I was curious.

I moved slowly,
the only speed
my timid, virgin
heart knew.

She was dark haired,
dark-eyed,
peach-cheeked,
with a wide,
friendly smile.

Fittingly,
her name was Gracia.

Where I was a nervous
dervish of insecurity,
she was calm,
comforting
and laughed when needed,
and took me seriously
when needed.

She was beautiful
and she was my friend
and I loved her.

Moments together
were warm and they glowed.
We were chaste,
perhaps even naive,
and we both happily explored
the previously uncharted regions
of each others' heart.

We taught each other
how to kiss,
and nothing more.

There was no need for more:
it was an exquisite time,
and that was enough.

But, like a haunting melody
on a worn-out 45,
somewhere deep down
we both knew
our summer of 1983
would come to an end.

The next year
she started dating
Alex,
and I tried not to watch
from my bedroom window
as he gently guided her
into his car,
in a most gentlemanly
and enviable fashion.

He was older (which I wasn’t),
he was Christian (which I wasn’t),
he had a plan for his life
(which I didn’t).

Within two years
she married Alex,
and I attended their wedding,
which her family
inexplicably and regrettably
decided to boycott.

I used to wonder
about my place
in her memories,
until I found out
years later
that her
first son’s name
is
the same as mine.

(Posted for #OpenLinkNight at dversepoets.com, the best poetry website on the whole damned Internet.)

My Morning Ritual (Prompt: Morning)

The ritual starts the same way:

My first thoughts
are always scrambled:
part disappearing dream,
part beeping alarm clock,
and part soundtrack
to whatever tv show
is playing on the set
that was left on
as a lazy night light.

I hear the tip-tip-tip
of Yorkie claws scratching
on the laminate floor
as Sadie the cat
drags her paw
across our closed bedroom door,
and makes
a slow, torturous scrape,
her mute petition
for admission.

The dogs want out
and the cat wants in,

I’m barely awake
and I’m already playing
zookeeper.

I escort the dogs
out to the backyard
and I breathe in the
sweet and sharp
cold morning.

God hears
my silent prayers
of gratitude,
and my mind scans
the coming day:
it thinks in terms of
appointment blocks
in Microsoft Outlook.

I ask
“please help me be
a good man, and
please watch over
my wife and children
and bring them all
home
safely.”

I dwell in this
quiet and slow moment,
until clarity materializes.

Then, the barking begins

shallow and soft,
ruff-ruff

ruff
then louder

yike-yike-yike!

which signals the
end of my morning
ritual.

Stones (prompt: Judging)

Long story short:
it didn’t go down.

No, it was all set to happen,
we were all there,
we had our stones ready to go.

We had this whore
dead to rights.

We had her surrounded,
and there she was,
whimpering like the
adulterous bitch
that she was,

and then I see Jesus
in the crowd
and I figure
I’m gonna outfox this bum
once and for all,
and say

“Hey, Jesus,
we caught this woman
in the act with some guy
who wasn’t her husband,
 so we’re going to stone her
like the Mosaic law says,
or do you have a problem with that?”

So, what does Jesus do?
He crouches down
scratches something
in the dirt,
wipes it away
and says

“Let he who is
without sin
cast the first stone.”

So, what could I do?

Since I was the one
she was doing it with,
I had to put my stone down
and walk away.

The Search for Truth (Prompt: Under the Microscope)

Under the microscope
the empiricists
search for evidence
that confirms or denies
what
the mystics
already know.

Blankety-Blank

All night I worshipped her blankety-blank
without a single thankety-thank

so I called her a middle-aged blankety-blank
(to give her collar a yankety-yank)

then I pinched her on the blankety-blank
(it was really just a prankety-prank)

she hissed "don't you touch my blankety-blank!"
(I was hoping she'd give me a spankety-spank)

but she just covered up her blankety-blank
and asked how much I drankety-drank

and then my heart just sankety-sank
when she declared

"never again, will you
blankety-blank my blankety-blank!"

(NOTE: This was the only thing I could think of that had a couplet.  It's from 2008, and written for a laugh.  Hope you had one. Posted for http://dversepoets.com/ #FormForAll.)

Let’s Get Away for a While (Prompt: Let's)

Let’s get away for a while
wander back
to our genesis,
before we became
two ringmasters
in charge of a circus
where the animals have
outgrown their cages and
aren’t listening to reason.

Let’s just get away
and be like those couples
who meet for lunch
on these bright sunny days
when you are miles away,
as I envy their wide-eyed
mutual adoration.

Let’s remember who we were
when we met
and how grateful
and valued we made
each other feel,
how this love shined
so obviously
for all to see.

Let’s go back
to who we were
before those stupid,
disfiguring fights,
and those perfectly
rehearsed barbs
forever took
the stars
from our eyes.

This love
was never
somewhere else,

it was always
inside of us,

but now it's
covered with unpaid bills,
doctor appointments,
mounds of dirty laundry,
and perpetual servitude
to our children
and our parents.

It’s time
to shove
those distractions aside
and lift up
the hidden gold
that first
drew us together,

polish it up and
make it glow again.

It’s time.