Death Came

Death came

and was ready to pluck

another bloom,

but She saw that I was

overwhelmed,

entangled

with tentacled tasks,

crying daughters,

numbers that wouldn’t

reconcile.

I saw Her

out of the corner of my eye,

but immediately turned back

to the problems

at hand.

I remembered

all these details

during my evening shower,

wondering if Death

had taken pity upon me,

or if I had scared her

away

for now.

The Big Reset (For KC, Rachel and Sarah)

No one escapes
The Big Reset.

Everyday we arise
and take our places
on the field of play,

running and falling,
laughing and flailing,
completely caught up
in the game.

Then,
a whistle blows
and you are called
off the field,
without regard to
your performance,
or how close you are
until you score again.

It doesn’t matter.

Death always
hangs around
claiming his
inevitable,
anonymous victories,

but when it’s someone
important to you,

then you have to
sit out the game,
watch others play,
laugh,
and score points

and all you get to do
is cry,
grieve and
learn
a new way to be.

It usually only lasts
a season,
but there’s no specific rule
about the length
of a season,
so it can be a month
(probably not),
a year
(if you’re lucky),
or longer
(most likely).

The death
of a loved one
is like taking a leg
off a chair -
you can still
sit,
but you’ll have to find
a new way to do it,

a new balance.

Mexicality FAQ

I am an American
of Mexican descent.

My family didn’t come
to this country,
this country came to us;
we were your hosts.

“No, actually,
the Native Americans
were here first.”

Well, we were
the product of
Spanish conquistadores
conquistadoring
the indigenous peoples.

“So, you’re actually European?”

Ask President Obama
since he’s half White,
which parent he claims?

“But you don’t look
Mexican.”

Thanks,
is that supposed to be
a compliment?

“Great, you can be
our translator!”

No, I only know about
50 words of Spanish,
and while that may qualify
you as being bilingual,
it brands me as
pathetic traitor to my culture
by Mexicans
from Mexico.

“So, were your parents
born here?”

Where, planet Earth?
Yes, specifically
in California and Colorado.

“So, do you celebrate
Cinco de Mayo?”

No, because I’m not
Mexican,
see first question.

“I admire Mexican culture
because they are
so family-oriented.”

Yes, we all come
from families,
and many of us practice
responsible birth control,
and haven’t brought
any children
into this world,
like myself and my brothers
Danny and Paul,
all three of us
college-educated
by the way.

“So you’re probably
for illegal immigration,
or some kind of amnesty.”

Sure,
but to be fair,
make it
retroactive to 1492.

“Why are you
so angry
about your Mexicality?”

I’m sorry,
I’m just tired.

Time for me to curl up
against a lone smooth cactus,
pull the brim of my sombrero
down over my eyes,
and take my siesta.

[This poem was inspired by the Cinco de Mayo display for Corona beer found in my local Southern California grocery story-pictured above.  If you weren't lucky enough to be born Mexican, here's your chance!  Posted for #OpenLinkNight @ dversepoets.com - my favorite site for poets!]

I Am Loved Because

Social exchange theory
helps me to understand

the motivation

for others loving me:

I am loved because

I provide a kitchen full of food,

an infrastructure for living

that includes

health insurance,

a paid up mortgage,

disposable income

and hi-speed wi-fi.

I am loved because

I can amuse,

clean up after myself,

say comforting things,

and make sure

the alarm is set

so everyone can sleep

safely.

I am loved because

I married her

and provided a stable,

sober male role model

for the kids,

and I remember every

gift-giving occasion,

pay my life insurance premium

on time

and hold my tongue

to not anger

our narrow-minded

friends from church.

I am loved

because

I perform,

I share,

I sacrifice.

I understand and accept

these truths

as I have my whole life,

but when I am told

that God loves me

just for who I am

and not for what I do,

I don’t even have

the schema,

the grammatical framework

for interpreting that.

This explains

why our relationship

with God is set up

like another exchange:

if you give your life

to God,

then God will give you

everything you need:

but an exchange

by another other name,

is still an exchange.

A sinless garden paradise,

a talking, burning bush,

a virgin birth,

life after death:

these are manageable

compared to

the greatest act of faith:

believing that

God loves me

because.

These Days Like Water

These days
we spend like water,

some we squander,
some we cherish.

However,
like all things
these days are finite
and our judgment will be
whether we watered the plants,
tended to the thirsty,
washed their feet.

Choose wisely
because some droughts
have been known
to last
for years.

On the Whore of Babylon Arriving at the Temple Sunday Morning (Six Word Story)

She enters,
cold eyes,
unseen embrace.

Crow Talk

Two slick black crows
high up in the tree,
trade flat, nasally
calls:

not gossiping,
not sharing,
no mindless chatter,

just squawking enough
to hop to
the next branch,
confirm their plans
and zoom away,

confident
in their silent flight.

Kiss Me (a cinquain)

Kiss me
now, everyday,
just before I drift off,
each one pales compared to the
next one.

Coitus Vitae (Nine Haikus)

Darra was older,
iconoclastic mentor,
regretted leaving.

Nicki was younger,
wished I were her absent Dad,
left me for Jesus.

Katy was a friend,
engaged to another man,
we made a poor choice.

Rebound with Stacia,
lots of passion, little depth,
not a Valentine.

Tried to save LanAnh,
my Vietnamese war bride,
she napalmed my heart.

Kim tried to win me
with breasts and fellatio,
not a good loser.

Teresa needed,
I tried to be her Jesus,
ended up Judas.

Cyndie shined a light
and walked me through the darkness,
but I still hurt her.

Then came Anita,
my sexy paradigm shift,
this heart, now reborn.

[https://dversepoets.com/2021/04/01/oh-my-its-april-fools-day/]

The Ballet of Desperation and Low Expectations

We keep waiting
for someone
who is
not coming home,
rather than accept
the woman
who keeps walking
in the door.

No one
was expecting her
to stay a little girl
in a photo album
forever,
but her morph
from a faun
to a lizard
is a bite
slimy and foreign,
an offense for me
to swallow.

Her arms
are now tagged
with permanent
graffiti tattoos,
her legs
are wrapped around
a 30 year old teenager
who makes punk rock
records,
and her actions
are the ballet of
desperation and
low-expectations.

Rachel,
despite what
every pornified
marketplace
tells you,
you are sacred,
not profane.

But she won’t
hear it from us.

Perhaps we’re wrong,
but if we’re not,

please
let the heartbreak
be painful,
excruciating,
but not fatal.

Sometimes
the best lesson,
the only one that
will work,
is an unsentimental
kick in the ass

from someone
other than
her mother and me.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com, where poets are rock stars with less vomiting and better lyrics.  Also for #nationalpoetrymonth - whoopie.]

Unprompted (The Next Butterfly)

The impulse arrives

and I hardly notice

its genesis,

–is it heavenly and noble

or is it of yetzer hara?-

but it demands

recognition,

attention and honor.

So I set out

to bring it forth,

coaxing it out

with pretty words

and ugly truths

and my rest won’t come,

the comfort of resolution

will elude me

until I capture

that wisp,

that whisper,

and pin it

like a mutant butterfly

added to my collection.

My satiation

(like everything else)

is only temporary,

until she

tickles my ear again

and turns my head

to another vista,

and sets

this beating heart

in search of

the next butterfly.

I Thought I Saw Jesus

I thought I saw Jesus
at the freeway offramp

but it was just

a homeless man

with a crudely written

cardboard sign

reading “Please help”

and since the light

turned green,

I kept driving.

I thought I saw Jesus

standing in front

of the Circle K

convenience store

but it was just

a toothless meth crone

asking for a buck

and since I had no change

I moved on.

I thought I saw Jesus

in the intensive care unit

at the UCLA medical center

but it was just

a middle aged man

dying of brain cancer

and since I wasn’t

an oncologist

I silently walked on.

I thought I saw Jesus

standing by the side

of the freeway

but it was just

a black-haired toddler

holding her mom’s hand,

waiting for someone

to rescue them,

and since I was

two lanes over

I couldn’t reach them

and I turned my mind

to my destination.

I thought I saw Jesus

hanging from a tree

but upon closer inspection

his arms weren’t outstretched,

they hung lifelessly

and I thought

this must be Judas,

and as I came closer

I squinted up

at the blue

and puckered face

and saw

it was me.

[Written for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com - a home for wayward poets.]

Just Friends

For a young man

who never made 

women swoon,

never caused

the blush of blood

in a woman’s breast,

her stories were,

at first, titillating.

In her many

business travels

she would arrange

to meet men

in foreign cities,

and with only 

the slightest wisps

of personal data,

she would

offer herself

in anonymous hotel rooms

as a submissive,

to be tied up,

beaten,

swatted and flagellated,

her ample plump frame,

objectified

for a crumb of attention.

Distance demanded

that nothing would ever come

from our email friendship,

so I just listened

without judgement,

trying to understand.

She had an estranged father,

a mother dying from cancer,

and it wasn’t my place

to do anything but

be a friend.

So I just listened

as the phone calls mounted,

laughing and mirroring

each other,

each call affirming

each other.

Months later,

one spring afternoon,

she cc’d me on

a mass mailing

that she sent

to the dozens of partners

she’d met along

her loneliness,

and she told them

she decided

she wasn’t

doing that anymore.

She decided

she didn’t want

that

anymore.

In a separate note,

she credited me

with giving her the strength

to move into

the next phase of her life,

where she eventually

fell in love,

got married

and had a son.

So,

to all you women

who weren’t

attracted to me

and I either had to learn

to be “just friends”

with you

or lose your friendship,

thank you.

Public Service Poem #3

When ranting in writing be mindful,
as pride always precedes the fall,
careers and affairs can be ruined
if you err and click “Reply All”.

[Written for a colleague who just made this error.  Posted for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com - come along and share your song!]

Parking Structure

I drove past

the old parking

structure

to find it

had been

torn down

and my heart let

out a little gasp

and a silent

sigh.

In our early days,

when we couldn’t

go to her place

or my place

(because

other obligations

were there),

for a brief

intoxicating

moment

we’d park in a

structure

and we’d kiss and

caress and

make love

hiding in plain sight.

The best parking structures

were the busy ones

at the courthouse,

where you had

to pay to get in.

In those, everyone was

too consumed with

trying to find a space

and get on

with their business

and they had

no time to waste

looking for

pulled down pants

breasts exposed

tongues darting

closed eyes.

We’d pay our 50 cents

find a spot

and go at it.

50 cents,

the cheapest motel

of all.

But times have changed

and we now have

the privacy of our

marital bedroom

and it is

a different excitement

but still,

there’s nothing quite like

making love in public

as cars drive by

knowing that

each one of them

is too busy

to notice

young new

wet slippery

nervous awkward

love.

They were in their

businesslike hurry

to quickly park

make their deals

cash their checks

make their transactions

and get richer,

but I’m sure

every one of them

would’ve traded places

with me

in a heartbeat.

Personal Revisionist History (a cinquain)

Virgin,
threw it away,
now she pees on the stick,
hoping she can recast him as
perfect.

[Written for #FormForAll at www.dversepoets.com - my 2nd favorite poetry site, after my own.]

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!]