Ernest Becker’s “The Denial of Death”

The lifelong bibliophile,
some of my favorite hours
were spent reading
thousands of books,
mostly-nonfiction.

As I inhale
their stale paper smell,
and I stack them
on nightstands,
in bookcases,
the trunk of my car,
I know acquiring books
is not an addiction,
but rather,
it’s a superstition:

as long as I have
books yet to read,
I cannot die.
I must persevere.

The collection grows
from theology
to show business memoir
to outlaw poetry.

When I graduated from high school
in 1981
I bought Ernest Becker’s
“The Denial of Death.”
I saw it in a Woody Allen movie
and thought it represented
the intellectual gravitas
that I would need
as cultural currency
when I attended the university.

I have never finished the book,
reaching only page 36
on my latest attempt,
but
I still have the book.

Perhaps keeping it around
still unread
after all these years
is my own
quiet and persistent
denial of death.

(Submitted for #OpenLinkNight @ dversepoets.com )

This is the book I bought in 1981 for $2.95. Presently, it's in the backseat of my car.

Very Inspirational Blogger Award (Amended)

Well, hot diggity dog!  I’ve been nominated for a Very Inspirational Blogger Award!  Thanks to the one and only Amy Jo Sprague, who has the powerful "Difficult Degrees" blog at http://amyjosprague.wordpress.com/!

Her writing is strong, powerful, curative and life-affirming, and I am so grateful to have found it.

So now the rules: thank who nominated you/link to them; write seven things about yourself; choose ten to fifteen blogs you feel deserve this award; and comment on their blog to let them know.  Cheers.

Here's my seven:

1. I was born in Glendale, California on the hottest day of the year in 1963.
2. My first ambition was to be a vaudeville comic, until I learned vaudeville didn't exist anymore.
3. My major in college was theatre, but I eventually earned two degrees in sociology.
4. Haven't had an alcoholic drink since February 10, 1990.
5. Can recite the entire movie "Network."
6. My favorite rock and roll band is the New York Dolls.
7. My religious beliefs are best described as Christian-Humanist-Universalist

Here's 9 Inspiring Blogs:

Shay's Word Garden
whimsygizmo
First Pages
Sharp Little Pencil
The Tashtoo Parlour
Bird's Eye Gemini
Deb's Blog
Daydreamer Too
WaystationOne

In Deference to the Chemicals

In deference to the chemicals,
I’m waiting on the pill
that will take
the years from my face,
the rolls from my waist,
restore steam to the engine,
return steel to my thighs.

We need smart chemicals
to access the ganglia of synapses
when everything about us was new,
and we would explore
our unhidden bodies
with complete
trust and surrender.

I’m just longing for
a gentle, incomplete amnesia
that will erase
all my missteps
and all the lovers
of your youth,
so when you sense my presence
you spring
into breathless impatience,
as it was
when my caress was like
a key unlocking everything
that had been denied
for so long,
unsticking the dam,
overflowing with
slick and sweet abandon.

I recognize this behavior,
chasing those ever-elusive
primal moments of
euphoria and climax
because I am an addict,

but since she is what I need
I’ll feed this addiction,
as long as my chemicals
will allow.

(For #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com - Happy 1 Year Anniversary!)

Polishing My Sestina

Were I a tenured faculty member
in the English Language department
at an unnamed Ivy League college,

I’d sit in my bookcase-lined office
hour upon hour
polishing my sestina.

Poring over my thesauri
and assorted dictionaria,
I’d find the perfect six words
to end each of my perfect six lines
in my perfect six stanzas
and then tie up the final three lines
and I would make all
colleagues
breathlessly, righteously jealous.

But that’s not me.

I write
on the back of bill envelopes
during extended traffic lights,
in the margins
of board meeting agendas,
in walk-in closets
and in the ignored corners
of garrulous parties.

In a day full of
familial responsibilities
workplace obligations
and personal sacrifices
my writing is my leash
loosening,
the permission I give myself
to wander without direction
sans wristwatch.

Gently I drift
from anger to peace
memory to dream
here to
somewhere
not here.

I’ve enough rules
in my life
and I haven’t the time
the inclination
nor the energy

to write a damned
sestina.

(Republished for Ars Poetica at dversepoets.com  - go play!)

No Better Than a Deadbeat Dad

“It’s tragic.”

Why?
Because he was following
his beautiful young wife
and kids home
from their weekend camping trip
on his motorcycle?

Why?
Because he just had
to do it?

He used to say,
“five minutes on this thing
is more alive
than most people know
in a lifetime.”

He lost his balance
and tried to lay
the bike down
as it slid out
from under him,

but the truck behind him
didn’t see
or couldn’t
react fast enough,

and then he was
just a crumpled
bloody mess.

And I’m supposed
to feel bad
and sorry
for the whole situation?

Bullshit.
Could’ve been avoided.

Listen,
when you become a husband
and then a father,
your life is no longer
your own.

You are the cornerstone
of the family,
the unseen provider
who’s supposed to make
it all look easy.

You don’t get to do
everything you want.

You don’t get
the privilege of racing your bike,
jumping out of airplanes,
or fucking all the women
you want,
because you’re supposed to be past
all that juvenile
macho bullshit.

You put on the ring,
and you make a deal,

and if you’re not going to respect that,
then don’t tell her
you love her.
Don’t impregnate her,
and then leave your kids
with unanswered questions
about the ghost
you’ll become.

You’ll be no better
than a Deadbeat Dad,
and twice as selfish.

And that life insurance policy
will be cold comfort
to your wife’s eternal loneliness,
as your son looks desperately
anywhere
for your
absent approval

and someone
who is not you
walks your daughter
down the aisle.

(For #OpenLinkNight at http://dversepoets.com/ - come in and play!)

That Lonesome Flag

That lonesome flag
flaps in the night
unseen,
red and white stripes
long faded to
pink and gray.

There were rules,
standards,
for its care,
but they’ve been
long forgotten.

Not having served,
I don’t have the
blinding, undying allegiance
to its preservation.

I understand
the political and
emotional reasons why
some reserve the right
to
burn it.

However,
just because I understand
the motivation
doesn’t mean that I support its
desecration
through negligence,
indolence,
or smug patriotism.

(For #OpenLinkNight at http://www.dversepoets.com.)

500 Weeks (for Anita)

In 500 weeks
there’s over
3,500 goodnight kisses,

hundreds of miles
of dog-walking,

over 10,000
shared meals.

Thousands of doses
of necessary laughter,
some tiny,
some enormous,

over 20,000
digital photographs,

a bucket of tears,
containing both happy
and sad.

A few
sleepless nights,

a thousand songs

connecting to
to ten thousand memories,

a multitude
of misunderstandings
and slightly
more apologies.

Innumerable heartbeats
bouncing off one another,

at least
20 coats of paint,

one quietly
spectacular woman
to lean upon
and look up to.

Wedding Day, November 29, 2002, Newport Beach, California

[On Friday June 29, we will have been married 500 weeks.]

David, Then Buster, Then David Again (Prompt: Someone Famous)

I first read about his band
in a New York
rock critic’s anthology,
and when I saw them,
I was spooked,
then intrigued,
then amused.

His was a voice
bigger than
his hair,
with a rock star persona
that verged on self-parody
and a NooYawk accent
that belied his literary wit.

Predictably,
that didn’t last long.

Years later, he materialized
as Buster
channeling the soul of Charles Brown
and the showbiz of Al Jolson
at New York Tramps’
as Ethnomusicologist-in-Residence.

He was witty, suave
artistically unpredictable,
and ultimately confident:
everything I wanted to be.

After he and the World tired
of “Hot Hot Hot”,
he took on different guises,
and he’s presently
settled back with that group
from long ago,

sans the drug abuse and
youthful idiocy.

Never mind what the
rock history books say:
this is his prime.

He’s still my epitome of cool,
always been,
always will be.

Thanks, David,
then Buster,
then David again.

David,

Then Buster,

Then David Again.

(Submitted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Shay Caroline edition, http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2012/06/fireblossom-friday-get-famous.html)

Coyote Blood Orgy (Sunday Night)

Every night
sometimes early,
sometime late,
the ritual begins with
a single ominous yelp,
then builds to a chorus
of cruel mockery,
a rapacious death chant.

At the center
of this spectacle,
a stray dog
unfortunate housecat,
or a field rabbit
cowers,
eyes darting,
calculating the
inevitable conclusion,
as this pitiless pack
savors this moment
of anticipation.

Circling and taunting
their prey,
it resembles
an amoral schoolyard,
as the wailing swirls
overhead,
and their bacchanal
of chaos and viciousness
echoes across the valley.

The macabre singing
of the band rises
as the terrified victim
sees his last moment
of life
approach
and
leave.

Just as quickly
as it started,
a lone cry signals
the end of the savagery.

It is both
sinister and banal.

Then the
coyote blood orgy
becomes eerily silent,

not from guilt
but rather
temporary satiety.

(audio of coyote - turn up your speakers)

(Posted for #OpenLinkNight at http://dversepoets.com/ - come on and post your poem!)

A Somewhere Else (Adultery Suite, Part Two, 1999)

When she met me
in Seattle
that Saturday
it was paradise.

Isolated,
unreal
dreamlike,
we walked and talked
and got lost in
a somewhere else;
a somewhere that seemed
blissfully unaware
of all the realities
awaiting my return.

On Wednesday
the drive back to
the airport was terrible.
Every song played on
the rental car radio
underlined the impossibility
of this immature,
demanding love.

Once I was safely on the plane
with my heart in my throat,
I wrote every detail
of the weekend
and then shut the book
and held it tightly
to my chest,

hoping that my writing
would exorcise
the yearnings and guilt
long before I got home.

But, the yearning and the guilt
remained with me
and reminded me
of my scarlet adultery
every time I walked
back through that door

to a place
I would go back to
many times in the
next two years

but never really return.

(For #MeetingTheBar  at http://dversepoets.com/)

The Shortest Distance (Prompt: Straight)

The
shortest
distance
between
two
points
is
a
straight
line,
unless
the
points
are
on
our
lips,
in
which
case,
stop
thinking
and
kiss
me.

(Poetic Form: Soupy Sales, 25 Words or Less)

Not Tonight

“Uh oh.
Not tonight.

When he kisses me
more than once,
I know he’s warming up
to something.

Maybe if I give him
a few tight-lipped
kisses…

no,
he’s not stopping.

Great,
he’s positioning
his whale-like frame over me.

Perhaps he doesn’t realize
he’s gained 40 pounds
in the last ten years,
but I do.

C’mon, let me leave
my shirt on.
I’m too tired to make this
a whole big production.

No,
I didn’t shower,
so there’s no way you’re doing
that.

I’ll suck his tongue,
that always does the trick.

Ow, you’re on my hair!

If he wasn’t so out of shape
he wouldn’t need the meds
for the high blood pressure,
the high cholesterol,
the diabetes,
and then
maybe he wouldn’t need the
Viagra,
which takes too long to work
anyway.

Finally.

He’s semi-hard,
like the mozzarella cheese stick
I put in the kid’s lunch.

This is
kind of
how I remember
it feeling.

If I turn over,
it gets in deeper
and he finishes faster.

I knew it.

I shouldn’t have moved.

Now it’s gone.

Shit.
This is frustrating.

Let me reassure him.
Again.

No, it’s ok.
That’s ok, really.

And now,
here come the
inevitable
apology.

Please
whatever you do,
don’t cry.”

(For #OpenLinkNight at http://dversepoets.com/ - come join the fun!)

“You’re Always Gonna Be My Baby”

He introduced me
to many things
I still love
to this day:

the Marx Brothers,
Little Richard
and movie musicals.
He had a great voice
and would sing
along with the soundtracks
“Oklahoma!” and
“West Side Story” on nights
when my mom
went to ceramics
as he washed
and put away the dishes.

I never saw him
without his wedding ring
and he never stayed out
after work having beers
with his buddies:
his place was home
with my mom,
and he liked it.

When I was nine,
I wanted to build a scooter
so we scoured garage sales
just to find some old skates
to use as wheels,
because anyone could buy
new wheels, but
it took real talent to recycle.
Plus, it was cheaper.

He’d always put me on his team
when we played two-on-two
anything with my two brothers
because I was the chunky,
unathletic one,
and all my cousins loved Uncle Dan
because he always included everyone
and never left anyone out
when we played games.

He had an undeniable sweetness,
an unpretentious, inviting smile,
but he was nobody’s fool.

He taught me about
taking care of my tools,
doing hard work, and
making sure you finish your jobs.

His sense of humor
is what I miss the most:
he made me laugh
without bitterness
without irony.

He wasn’t cool,
but he didn’t have to be.

I didn’t know
he was going to die
so young.

Favorite memory:
when I was 30
he bailed me out
of an awful jam.
It was an embarrassing
humiliating spot,
and all I could say was
“I’m sorry,
but I feel like such a baby, Pop.”

With mock seriousness
he answered:
“I don’t care if
you’re 100 years old,
you’re always gonna
be my baby.”

I still miss you
every single day.

Thanks for everything, Pop.

(Written for #OpenLinkNight at http://dversepoets.com/ - the best source for poetry on the internet.)

The Spaceship Georgia Peach

From the first
drop of the needle

the world stopped

and was held captive
by the weird beauty

of the chugging backbeat
over which was the howl
heralding a welcome mutant
a new strain

"A-WOP-BOMP-A-LULA-A-WOP-BAM-BOOM!"

They had sent their leader
and he blazed a trail
with a wild bouffant
crazed eyes
and the scream
of a White woman in church.

He traveled
50 zillion light years
bringing this evangel
and a rollicking piano.

He invited us
on his spaceship
The Georgia Peach
and with every
involuntary jerk
of our bodies
we assented

"Yes, Little Richard,
take us with you."

(Ok, it's an old poem, but I wanted to play in this weeks #MeetingTheBar at http://dversepoets.com/ - go and prepare to be thrilled!)

I’m Not Camping (Prompt: Camping)

I’ll drive my hybrid vehicle
over well-paved
highways
to experience
the majesty and power
of the evergreen forest,

and I’ll capture the sights
on my 13 megapixel HDR
digital camera,

and record the sound of
the singing wetlands frogs
and placid lake loons
with my digital mp3
field recorder

and to capture the scent,
I’ll even bring back
a pine cone or two
in an airtight freezer bag
available at any corner market,

but I’m not going to
live in the forest
in a temporary campsite.

That would be
an insult,
a slap in the face
to our inventive ancestors
who devoted their lives
to mastering this
chaotic frontier,
to provide a legacy of
comfort, security and
self-determination.

If ever
I am overcome by
romanticized atavism,

I’ll return to those things
that technology
has not improved upon:

writing poetry
and making love,

but
I’m not
camping.

Floating Candy

The hummingbird

defied gravity,

and zipped up

beside my third floor

office window.

He was beautiful,

with a splash of red

in a smooth green wrapper,

like a piece of floating candy.

I thought,

“you’re so far away

from where you’re supposed to be,

50 feet high in the air,

searching in vain

for something resembling

sugary nectar.”

He looked at me,

and I’m sure

he was thinking

the very same thing

of me.

However,

where I looked upon him

with misunderstanding,

he looked upon me

with pity,

and then he

zoomed away.

(Submitted for #OpenLinkNight at http://dversepoets.com/ - my favorite poetry site on the internet.)

The Small Lie (Prompt: Small)

Restraining a giggle
at the moment of truth,
she told me
“you’re not small,”
and after that
I never trusted
anything she said
ever again.

(In the Soupy Sales Format: 25 words or less.)

The Remains

After the end,

when the landscape’s been reduced

to a smoking ball of glowing rubble,

there’ll be no witnesses,

save for the boxes

some simple

some elaborate,

housing the bones,

the remains.

Skeletons

and skulls frozen in

macabre eternal smiles,

some arms folded,

some at their sides

as custom permits.

Lying unceremoniously

at the bottom of these

caskets

will be the piles of stuff

that outlasted us,

the detritus once deemed

important, nay

life-changing:

multicolored

military badges,

deflated plastic sacs

where silicone and saline

once jiggled,

stray jewelry,

the rings and necklaces

of varying levels of

sentiment and

temporal value,

hard plastic

prosthetics

that prolonged abilities

and kept stigma

at bay.

Still, all of these things

over eons

will eventually dissolve to

dust,

easily blown away

by the spinning

of the earth.

So,

if you do not

cremate me

and return me

to the dust,

as I’ve suggested,

then please bury me

with something

permanent:

bury me with

some nuclear waste,

something that’ll last

a couple million years

or so.

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

Deathbed Confession (Stream of Consciousness Poem)

I used to fall asleep
imagining I could fly.

I’d walk to the cliff
shift my weight
my limbs became wings
and it was simple,
just gliding down
to the valley
and I’d be asleep long before
I reach the bottom,

but that trick doesn’t work
any more.

There is ever
a beat,
a rhythm
carrying on
like an acid drum loop

boom boom-shakalala
chaka-che-boo-che-leh

and I think
I must capture this
and attach my name to it -

I’m invisible
most of the day
so when I sense something
will reveal me
I wrap myself in it
and hope it will
freak out the squares
and incite the freaks
to wave their flags for me.

I want to be
the rebel outsider
who made it past the
boundaries of convention
but still is
paradoxically
loved.

Just give me
a supercomputer,
all the creative software available,
and time enough,
and I’ll create
an argument
why you should love me.

And you just might,

but now I’m going to ruin it
with the deathbed
confession:

I’m about carnality.

From the first conscious sensation
-that nagging erection what wakes me
as I muse about places he’s been-
to counting the hours until
I get to eat again,
and how should I spend my calories
because I’m fat
fat
obese and fat,
and that makes me instantly
unloveable,

I am just trying
to satiate my appetite.

So point me to
that pizza buffet
that always says
“I love you,”
to that sugar glazed anything
that coos
“lick me into submission
and swallow me whole
and let the crumbs fall
light and fun
on your lip and chin.”

The food never denies me,
food has never let me down.

I recognize it
as love in it’s purest,
most self-sacrificial form:

consumable.

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

The Stray Blonde Hair (Prompt: Hair)

I do not remove
the stray, blonde hair
stuck to my
black dress shirt,
as she sings
her impudent,
implied immodesty
to envious onlookers
everywhere.

[NOTE: This is in my own form that I’ve dubbed the “Soupy Sales” – to wit, a poem in 25 words or less.]