The First Record I Ever Bought

September 28, 1973,
a day after my 10th birthday,
I bought my first 45
for 79 cents.

It began with her
dusky whisper
against a lone piano:

“No one in the world
ever had a love
as sweet as 
my love...”

and as the song
tumbled forth,
I surrendered
to her secret confession,
dreaming that I
was the object
of her longing.

Drums slowly emerge,
a harp glissando strikes
and violins obscure
the kettle drums
masterfully laid
under this luscious,
dramatic declaration,

“We go on
hurting each other
without ever knowing 
why.”

By the middle of
the second verse,
I am swept away
by her voice
hopeful and vulnerable,

“All your life 
you could love 
only me...”

from here
the record keeps spinning,
imploring its incessant
refrain,

and as the
two minutes, 45 seconds
winds down,
I go to my grave,
my love
for Karen Carpenter
forever unrequited,

and the piquant flavor,
the bittersweet yearning
that animates this
magic piece
of black vinyl,

I will try to emulate
and insert
into virtually
every poem
or song
or story
I will ever come
to write.

[Written for #OpenLinkNight at @dversepoets.com - a poetic wonderland for you!]

The Myth of Geography

Moreno Valley
(literally “Brown Valley”)
was in such need
of rebranding
they actually voted
and renamed
my zip code area
92555 to
“Rancho Belago.”

It’s not fooling anyone.

It’s still Moreno Valley,
and to the outside world
it’s a ghetto of Browns
and Blacks
and poor Whites.

It’s where you live
if you can’t afford
Riverside or Redlands.

I didn't come here
with such prejudices:
my wife has lived
her whole life,
and when she
and the kids
became
my whole life,
I moved here too.

In this hyperconnected world
where statuses update
unceasingly
and Google Earth
can show you a bird’s eye view
of Uzbekistan
in a split second,
the primacy of geography
is a myth.

Surely, no place is better,
no place is worse,
as we all share
the glorious sun,
the dolorous moon.

As I sit on the backyard swing
watching the sunset,
in a house where I make love
to the most beautiful woman
in the world,
and watch my children prosper,
and chuckle at
Magnolia and Mona Lisa
terrier-romping and tumbling
around my feet,

I've no doubt
I’m in the best place
in the world,

inside this lucky skin,
humbly inhabiting

this grateful soul.

[Written for #MeetingTheBar at dversepoets.com, come and share a poem!]

(View from my backyard in Moreno Valley, California, 92555.)

Not Alone at the Bible Study (a haiku)

The time came to pray,
there is no mate for my grasp,
breathe in her spirit.

Why I Probably Won’t Cry at Paige’s Funeral

Tears flowed
in abundance
last December
when I thought
of all the joyfully
purchased and wrapped
Christmas presents
that would go unopened.

Tears flow
when my soul witnesses
true altruism
and selfless love,
unmooring my cynicism
and restoring my faith
in innate human
goodness
for a little while.

Tears rained down
when my father’s
undiagnosed heart disease
made its appearance
and claimed him
only two days after
his own mother died.

Tears gracefully appear
when art
finally captures
and articulates
the formless echo
that signifies truth
and it cannot be denied.

Tears bullied
their way in
when the world
came off its axis
temporarily
in September 2001.

Tears
occasionally override
their self-restraining
autopilot
and I have learned
to surrender to their
temporary sovereignty,

but
when a beautiful
20 year-old woman
whose life promised
so much goodness
and happiness
goes into cardiac arrest
from a potassium deficiency
and never awakens
after a 21 day sleep,

I don’t have tears.

I have only
muted anger,
silent confusion,
and a modest prayer
that God
will guide and comfort
those grieving
through this inexplicable
tragedy.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com - come and share your poems!]

An Open Letter to My Younger Self (inspired by Shay Fireblossom)

First off,
stop worrying that
you’re too fat.
You aren’t.

Remember
that most things your parents
are going to tell you
have been rinsed in fear:
they just don’t want you
to live like they had to.

When they tell you
forget about the music,
don’t try to be a comedian,
they’re not trying
to discourage you,
they’re just scared
you’re going to be
homeless,
living in a car.

But here’s a little secret:
like so many grown-ups
in this world,
they mean well,
but they’re wrong.

I see your creative spark,
your recessive gene of madness
and no,
I don’t think
you don’t talk too much.

You crack me up.

To be who you really are,
sometimes
you’ll have to be
against the wall
and alone.

It’s perfectly fine
that you’d rather
stay inside and read
and listen to Beatles records
than go outside
and play football.

Don’t let people
who are afraid to sing
keep you from singing
and writing your song.

Don’t work too hard
to fit into this world:
be yourself
and make the world
come around to you.

It’s not always
going to be this
gray and flavorless.

Remember
those roses
Mom planted
out back?

Well,
those didn’t bloom
overnight,

and neither will

you.

Moskowitz, circa 1965

Turn the Telescope Around [based on Amy Jo Sprague’s prompt: self-contradiction]

I love the caustic fire
of the 1980’s
Dead Kennedys
and
I love the 101 Strings.

I love the explosion
Spicy Cashew Chicken
at the Best Thai Cuisine
and
I love those dusty
cellophane packaged
cinnamon buns
with the congealed white frosting
sold at anonymous roadside
gas stations.

I love how Christians
cannot convince me
that the
Eternal Conscious Torment
of Hell exists
and
I love how everyone
will come
to see Jesus as God
of their own volition,
(just don’t ask me how).

I love how atheists
require proof
and
I love that
they cannot
reduce the splendor of life
to mathematical formulae.

I love peacefulness
and
I love upsetting
complacency.

I love that
I frequently see
my deceased father
in the mirror
and
I love that his baldness gene
hasn’t kicked in yet.

I love
that I don’t
fight correction
like I used to
and
I love being
provably right
every now and then.

I love art
that comforts me
and
I love art
that outrages me.

Look at me
through the strong end
of the telescope,
and my inconsistencies
are glaring,
threatening to tear me
into two,

but turn the telescope
around,

and from a
distant,
less threatening
perspective,

and all you see
is one
self-contained
dot
with infinitesimal
self-contradictions,

that is me.

[Posted at ##OpenLinkNight at dversepoets.com - a poetry lovefest online!]

White-Feathered Pirates

Against
bruised cotton clouds,
the seagulls circled
in a pattern that
I couldn't explain
but existed,
mysterious and ominous.

If they possessed
a greater intellect
and these damned
opposable thumbs,
they might converge
upon me,
stealing my groceries
like noisy
white-feathered pirates,
pecking at my eyes
and skull
just for atavistic laughs.

“That’ll teach you
to be one of them,”
they’d mock,
meting out their rough justice,
their entertainment,
against me,
guilty of humanity.

They’d be as arbitrary
and dispassionate
as evolution,
as natural selection.

After the attack,
they’d flap away
in drunken, loopy circles,
laughing their way
to their next victim.

Thankfully,
they've only
the gift of flight
and not anything
resembling
human intelligence.

[Written for #OpenLinkNight at dversepoets.com - the swingingest place for poets on the ‘net!]

Valentine's Eve

1986: Darra

Wet Thursday morning.
My senior year of college;
we didn't use protection
so we were fixing the problem,
The nurse called for her,
I waited
pretending to study.
She returned
forcing a reassuring smile.
As she got in the car
she vomited
before we sped away.


1988: Stacia

Bright Saturday afternoon.
Tomorrow I'd be introduced
to her family
but I didn't love her
(even though I said I did
so I could sleep with her).
We met at the park
I told her there was someone else
(which there was).
Her green eyes went gray:
"then I'll just disregard that
Valentine you sent me, right?"


1994: Lan Anh

Black Sunday afternoon.
I whistled in the dark
and vowed a naive "I Do,"
unaware she was still
in love with him.
I resisted the impulse to run
as our two-tiered
wedding cake fell
during our first dance,
just before she told me
to stop kissing her
so much.

Another Day Laborer

It’s 6:15am
at the coffee kiosk
in the AM/PM 
with the other day laborers,
dirty orange shirts
and dark almond faces,
fueling up,
some with coffee
some get the
2 for $2.29 hot dogs
and slather them
with every possible condiment,
for reasons I suspect
are part culinary
and part budgetary.

They talk and laugh,
a quasi-fraternity,
in fluid Spanish to protect
their privacy,
their dignity.
I view and respect them
from a distance
because even though 
we are all Mexicans,
I don’t fit in with them.

I arrive at the college
where my title is Dean,
and sit in sterile conference rooms
among the academicians
each holding an iPad,
properly groomed
in blazers and ties,
except me in my
rolled-up shirtsleeves,
sans neckwear,
listening to
esoteric rhetoric
about pedagogy
and student access.

Around the conference table
the array of fleshtones
(mostly pink)
possessing impressive titles
(mostly ceremonial)
congratulate me
on my latest
whatever-it-is
and never suspect
that I work double time
to banish any suspicion
that I am just
a misplaced day laborer,
and I realize that
though I’ve been here
twenty years,
I still don’t fit in here either.

Returning to
my quiet office
I hunt and peck,
wrestling
with feelings of doubt
and inferiority,
trying to shape
something poetic,
redeeming,
maybe even heroic,

tap tap
tap
tap
backspace
backspace
backspace
backspace
backspace

but finally
fitting in.

[Written for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.org - a poetic oasis in the internet desert.]

Doubt Awakens

We meet in the fog,
cool and soft.

Lost in
embraces
and glances anew,

doubt awakens:

will I still be
beautiful
once the fog
lifts?

[Written for #OpenLinkNight @dversepoets.com - home for wayward internet poems. Written in the Soupy Sales Format (in 25 words or less).]

Baby, I'm a Star! (Sort of...)

Thanks to the great Kimolisa, for featuring an interview of me at her blog:

http://kimolisa.blogspot.com/2013/02/the-poets-corner-buddah-moskowitz.html

If you like my writing, then do yourself a favor and check out her website!

Thanks again, Kimolisa!

Disgrace / Grace

“Lord,
You see what
I’m going through.

The constant fighting,
the yelling,
the threats.

Such a miserable,
rotten
ingrate
this kid is.

I know because of
the Chiari malformation
and the cerebral palsy
that her brain
ain’t quite right,
but damn it,
what did I ever do
to deserve this?”

[pause]

“Of course I see.

I see that you have
many treasured
happy memories
where she is the star.

I see
you have been given
the opportunity
to receive the greatest
of all blessings:

remember when I said,
whatever you do
to the least of these,
you do to Me?

And I see
she loves you
as a true daughter does,
even though there’s not
a drop of your blood
in her.

So,
I ask you:
what did you ever do
to deserve that?”

Watching "Quadrophenia"

How I am transformed

into a Brighton Beach mod

trying to find his place?

It was before I was born

and somewhere I’d not been,

yet I know this alienation

like I know my secret dreams

to fly away.

I am not the only one;

we all feel

our collective soul spark

as the guitars collide

with drums,

soothing our ache

and confusion.

We sing it together,

a mass healing

for pernicious teenage wounds

that never completely heal:

Can you see the real me,

can you?

Can you?

I marvel as

I am taken somewhere

I’ve  never been

to know a person

I’ve never met

who is singing

pain which my soul

cannot articulate.

The scenes keep shifting

and I don’t even know

what all of it means

but that’s okay

as I don’t know what

all of me means,

and I keep

rocking back and forth,

mesmerized

closing my eyes,

feeling a Zen connection

to Pete onstage,

standing as a beacon

saying

“I climbed out with just

a guitar and pen,

how ‘bout you?”

and a wave of forgiveness

and hope

and love reigning over him

over me,

cleanses

and renews me

and all great art does this,

and I know better

than attempt to unravel it,

so

I’ll just be thankful

for my place

way in the back

in the upper balcony

watching “Quadrophenia”.

[For #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com, still high after seeing The Who in Anaheim, California last night.]

Head Down, Keep Punching

Never, never, never

title the work before

it’s done,

it’ll doom you.

I just start

wherever I am

and go

but I don’t

look at the screen.

I look at the keys

and I keep typing.

If I look up

I’ll immediately get stuck

on the errors,

and the whether

it looks like

a poem.

Sometimes it’s a rant,

or a deathbed confession,

or an impossible seduction

but I don’t think about it.

Just keep that head down

and keep punching those keys.

To the outside world

it probably looks

like I’m having

brutal and angry

computer sex,

but I don’t care.

I just keep following,

giving the ideas free rein

because I know

they’ll take me

somewhere.

If I keep my mind

and my hands busy,

then my thoughts

can get out of the way

and I can keep dancing

and singing,

looking for the spotlight,

or maybe that cliff

to fling myself from

and then marvel

as I glide down

like a beautiful flying squirrel.

Finally

when I lose my steam,

I stop,

and look up

and wonder

what the hell

I was saying.

Now,

comes the rewrite.

[Written for #MeetingTheBar for www.dversepoets.com a warm place in the cold, cold internet.]

Sweet Sixteen (for Sarah)

You’re 16 today,
and I've been here for 12 of them,
(that’s 75% -I know how
you hate anything with numbers,
thinking its math).

We share a love of language
and arcane vocabulary,
and I’m sorry I gave you
my flashpoint anger
with its unfortunate
attendant profanities.

We share a sense
of the dramatic
and an affection
for the absurd.

By question and answer
I've tried to teach you
how to think critically,
and I love it most
when you cut through
pious hypocrisy
like a buzzsaw
through a lemon meringue pie.

We both like fast food
and memorizing lines from
“The Office.”

We both soothe ourselves
with music.

The only thing we don’t share
is DNA.

Very few know you
the way I know you,
and even fewer still
have added
my last name to theirs,

which is proof to me
that at the core
of your soul,

you are sweet.

Ok,
you can roll your eyes
now.

    Sarah (at 15)

Guilty

The “ I've never had anything
near as horrible
as her rape” guilt
kept me in a
doomed relationship.

The “wanting to leave”guilt
kept me there
twice as long
as I should have.

The “I want someone else” guilt
made me secretive
and conspiratorial.

The “I’m having an affair”
guilt led me to crying jags
in my car at the far end
of the Target parking lot.

The “I can’t leave
my primary relationship,
but I also can’t commit
to my paramour and
that’s preventing her
from finding true love” guilt
helped me let her go.

The “I’m trying to be a good
repentant partner but failing
miserably at it” guilt dragged on.

The “I can’t believe I’m starting
another affair” guilt crept
into my life.

The “this new woman
deserves better than being
the other woman” guilt
jolted me into decisiveness.

The “pretending to go into
couples’ therapy as a ruse
to break up with her” guilt
played out.

The “she went through
my things and found all
the evidence of
my scarlet adultery” guilt
baptized me in shame.

The “Yes, I admit
I did you wrong
and I’m a scumbag
confession” guilt monologue
tumbled out of me.

She sent me the
“this is not personal,
but I need $1,000
for house repairs
because I didn’t have
any warning
that you were planning
on leaving me...”
guilt invoice,

which I remitted
in two payments
of $500 each,
thinking I’d be free.

12 years later,
the guilt still remains.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at dversepoets.com - come on along and bleed a little poetry along with us!]

God Isn't

God isn't
the steady hang of the clouds
inching across the sky

or the moment changing
from fearful to forgiven

or pink smiling lips
stealing a bit of chocolate

or the concentric rings
of a pebble splash in a pond

or the instinct that
feeds and comforts the weak

or the sacrifice of
a convicted criminal on a cross

or the mysterious melody
of the birds a capella at dawn

or a warm and soft pillow
to rest your head upon

or the sweet fragrance
of a perfectly cultivated rose.

God isn't
any one of these things,
but all these things,

et cetera,
ad infinitum,
amen.

[Written for http://dversepoets.com/2013/01/10/the-medium-is-the-message-dverse-meeting-the-bar/  and God.]

After (for Sarah)

When doctor after doctor
shrugs their white-coated
shoulders

and all they
can produce is
misdiagnosis after misdiagnosis,

and after they've prescribed
drug after drug
which don’t do anything
except make you groggy
and fat,

and all the distractions
that used to help
(like writing and music)
no longer work,
and it’s become
a mocking
frustration after frustration,

and it seems like every
hope after hope
only brings
inevitable
disappointment,

remember
there are rainbows
after every storm,
and sunrises
after every night,

and there will be
something else
after this dark period.

So, hold on, Sarah,
there will be better days
after these bitter days
have vanished.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com, a poetic oasis in the arid internet wasteland.]

The Christmas Show

Roll up the tents,
shut off the lights,
The Christmas Show
has left the planet again.

Don’t worry folks,
it’ll be back next year,
unless the Birthday Boy
returns
and takes us all with Him,
or the Iranians
or the North Koreans
or the Christian dispensationalists
blow us all to smithereens
with one impulsive
fanatical, self-righteous
push of The Button.

No, Virginia,
Santa Claus ain't been seen
since his marathon night
of slipping down chimneys,
taking perfunctory bites
of homemade cookies
of varying quality,
and navigating uncooperative
union reindeer.
No wonder he goes on
a three-day drunk
and hibernates until August.

It’s just one great big
international extravaganza
with garish green and red costumes
didactic sitcom narratives,
and musical adaptations
in every genre
wafting through every open space,
and you haven’t lived
until you've heard Tiny Tim’s
version of “Silent Night.”

Even the topless bars
are strung out
with Tinsel and Holly,
appearing nightly
at 8 and 11.

From His perch in Heaven
I imagine God squinting
searching His profaned,
cigarette-butted landscape

looking for
homeless teenage mothers
and the souls
who invite them in,

and the robbed,
bloody ones
(presumably unseen)
left for dead,
and the Samaritans
who carry them to safety,

because He knows
they are there,
and we know
they are there,

they’re just hard to find
amid the hustle and bustle
of The Christmas Show.

The Endless Detective

I admire
the puzzle solvers,
for they've more stamina
for the finite
than I.

Puzzles are solvable,
but mysteries
are not.

Curiosity
fuels the search,
and many soon tire
of the journey,
the plodding dedication,
the following
of false leads
into sometimes mocking
cul-de-sacs,
but it is our duty
to persist,
undeterred.

I am
the endless detective,
and everything
is a mystery,
and each revelation
leads to an even more
compelling mystery,

and thankfully,
I've nothing but time
as I dive in
deeper and deeper
exploring
the infinite
blue abyss,

chasing truth and beauty,
hour after hour,
day after day,
lifetime after lifetime.