The Free Will Sales Pitch (Jesus Never Said This)

“Before you decide,
let me remind you
that after you die
you will either go
to Heaven or to Hell.

Heaven’s great,
because that’s where God is
and it’s always clean,
everyone gets their own mansion,
and you’re never hungry,
and you live forever.

Hell is a place
disconnected from God,
you also get to live forever,
but there fires burn eternally,
and you will suffer
and be tormented
eternally
by Satan and his minions.

So,
those are your choices.

Choose freely.”

Three Songs for the Rain

When the clouds 

are dark like dirty cotton,

and the air

is heavy with moisture,

in my mind I hear 

that tikki-tikki-teek-teek

of the raindrops

and I hear

Tina Turner's voice

"I can't stand the rain

against my window,

bringing back sweet memories."

As the rain gets stronger

and the sheets are

purposeful and unrelenting,

I remember seeing

Prince and The Revolution

in 1985 

and I remember hearing them

from the cheap seats singing

"let the rain come down,

let the rain come down"

Being a 

southern California native,

after an hour

I've had enough,

and I am taken back 

to a Terence Trent D'Arby concert 

in 1988 

when he sang

"rain, rain,

go away, go way,

rain, rain,

come back again 

some other day."

Humble Bumble

When I read
Moses was
the most humble man
in the whole world,
and that he had
God's favor,

I knew I wanted
to be
even more humble
than that.

The sin of
prideful folly
must be
in my DNA.

No Poem Today Haiku

Be honest with me,
did you quietly rejoice
at your good fortune?

What Has Changed

I used to walk
the streets of
the foreign city,
window shopping,
dreaming and
observing,
touching different
cultures,
new media because
it inspired me.

I looked for
strange inspiration,
the latest stimulant
because there was
something in my
soul, wanting.

Now
I walk the streets, 
and it is not
the same.

I no longer have
the same drive.

What has changed?

I have changed.

The streets
are still there,
all the stimulants
still there,
but now I am
missing you.

What happened to me
was you.

I think
I am looking
for inspiration,
but I am
only
missing you.

Probabilities

It's tempting

to wrap yourself up

in statistics,

but if you remember 

that they're only

probabilities,

you won't be 

as surprised.

Some people think

Death comes 

like a royal flush 

or a twenty in the gutter: 

once it comes, 

it'll be awhile 

before it comes again.

On Saturday,

February 27, 1999 

my long-suffering grandma 

Trini, 

took her rightful place 

among the angels.

She was 96 

and we silently figured 

we'd have some time 

before Death would re-appear 

and compel 

another family reunion 

via funeral.

Two days later, 

March 1, 1999 

my father, 

(Trini's son)

who never had 

a bad medical report 

(because he never went 

to the doctor) 

died quickly and quietly 

from an undiagnosed 

clogged artery.

I used to be angry, 

now I'm just amused, 

but I'm rarely ever 

surprised 

anymore.

Ritual and Artifact

Power on
and flip some switches,
open up that envelope
and turn down
that filter.

Hear that
digital buzz and zwerp,
as I dial
the resonance up
and down.

Really listen,
hone in on the vibration,
and let my body feel it.

Groove to
the low frequency oscillator
tripping down the timbre
and let that bass
bubble and wash
over you.

Nee-wruh-ruh-op
and shee-oouhuhooo
sheeeee- wah.

My mouth mimics
the sound wave shape,
my hips swaying
naturally,
like the sagging belly
on Sadie the Cat
as she slips by
to get more food.

I am alive
and connected
via headphones
to the Everlasting Now,
to the Great O(h)m,
to the Alpha and the Omega,
to the divine itself.

This is my religious ritual.
This is my holy artifact.
This is my synthesizer.

I Almost Walked Away

There was a melody,
a sad, plaintive tune
that I followed
all my life,

and it brought me
to the doorstep
of the true love
I thought lived there,

but when the door
opened,
you weren't there
and I thought
I'd made a mistake

and I almost walked away

but I could smell
something warm
simmering
in the kitchen,

and she invited me in
and we sat
on the couch,
disregarding boundaries,

time melted and
years fell away,
and I found myself
17 again,

and she told me
all the ways
I was told
I was wrong
were wrong indeed,

and though
I'd never been
there before,
everything fit
as though it were
custom made for me,

so I stopped searching
for you
when I found her,

and,
if you're still waiting,
sorry,
but I'm off
the market now.

The Fan Letter

Dear Buddha,

First off,
I'm a real big fan
of your writing.

I especially like
how you don't use
words that are too big.

I don't usually read
poetry,
but I can understand
yours,
so I think
it's pretty good. 

I think I know why
you don't put your picture
on your site.

From your poems,
I figure you're pretty
insecure
about your body
and face.

I understand: I'm an
uggo too.

I also like
that your poems
are funny,
especially the ones
about your first marriage

(like the one when
your ex wife asked you
not to kiss her so much
during your
wedding reception!)

I need to
confess something to you:

for the past three months
I've been taking
your love poems
and giving them
to my girlfriend,
telling her that
I wrote them for her.

Guess what?
I've gotten more pussy
with your poems
than I did with Axe body spray,
and that's saying something.

So you'll understand why
I don't publicize your site.

Anyways thanks, bro,
David

The Longing

Those beautiful
mid-century homes
I grew up walking past,
dreaming of
are still there.

My longing to know
how life is
within those walls
still lingers. 

I resist the urge
to peer inside,
enjoying the mystique
and fantasy,

knowing the reality
will never measure up
to a lifetime
of delicious wondering.

I Kill Myself Nightly

I do not count on
being reborn everyday,

so I kill myself nightly,
and collect the days' missteps,
wipe away the unnecessary
ugly sentiments,
the emotional fecal matter
from the bung hole
of my self.

I cherry pick
the two or three
good moments
of my day,
the divine reminders
of charity and grace
and take their snapshot,

and in my evening
prayers,
I place them on the pyre
of impermanence
of regret
and light that holy mess
on fire.

The evil ashes
float to heaven
for forgiveness,
and the near gold
is heated in the hope,
that it will become
purified,

and I take these
few shiny nuggets
and start again
upon awakening.

The time is at hand
for my nightly sacrifice
of self-destruction.

See you in the morning.

The Nineties

There were still
payphones

and you could watch tv
over the air
for free
with a bent coat hanger
for an antenna,

and there were
countless chat lines offering
respite from loneliness
for $3 a minute,

and his name was still
Prince,

and OJ was not guilty
of murder,
but then he was responsible
for Nicole and Ron’s death,

and there were still
bookstores
and record stores
and video stores,

and I was still
young and single
and spent money
like time,
and days
like water,

and everything
I thought was
so fast,
now moves slowly
through my mind
as a lumbering dinosaur,
bathing my memories
in a romantic,
dreamlike patina,

or so it seems
from the vantage point
of this on-demand culture
I find myself
running alongside
just to stay current.

I Pray

It's not my business
where the prayer goes
after it’s released.

Still
I find myself
searching for a place
outside
of my ego
to send
my thanks
and modest petitions.

When the smoke
clears away,
at the end of play
at the end of the day,
I pray,

and take my place
among the strivers,
the jivers,
the connivers,
the late arrivers,
and the stay alivers.

Counter-Terrorism Strategy

[The tv goes click]

“What’s that?

Human madness
running through
the smoke and confusion,
blood and anguish,
screams and cries.

Another attack?
A suicide bomber?
Hm.

They found an
un-detonated belt?
Well,
that’s something new.

It matters
less and less.

I was wondering when
the latest threat
was due.

No,
if they’re trying to scare us,
a random explosion
in an airport
a thousand miles away
won’t do.

Hell, they shot up
a Christmas party
20 miles away
and that barely held our attention
until December 17th.

Sure,
I’m angry and
I’m outraged,
but I won’t let them
see my tears,
my fears.

I cannot.

I watch
from a distance
and keep hidden
these wounds,
refusing to let them see
what  it’s doing to me.

If I let them
kill my soul,
my body will
surely follow.”

If I Could Fly, I'd Find You (for Anita)

The sky is bright
yellow and blue
and if  I could fly
I’d find you,

and we’d glide high
over the freeway,
past all the traffic
in the beach
parking lot,
to find that spot
that’s too far away
for people to walk to,

and I’d be the
richest bird
in all the world,
our basket
full of insect snacks
and sugar water,

and we'd share this
private shoreline,
just you,
my fine feathered
lovebird
and me.

It’d be
the one gift
that everyone
would covet:

time alone,
all alone,
watching
the infinite waves

crash and retreat
crash and retreat,

content to breathe in
the ocean spray,

and you’d still
love me,
even if I were
only a cuckoo.

Are You Really Experienced?

I saw her
in the bookstore
but she didn’t see me.

We went
to junior high school
together
but she fell off
the radar screen.

It was four years later
and I was
a high school graduate.

I knew a thing
or two
and I was going
to the university
next fall.

I won
a national
student journalism award
and gave the commencement address
at my high school graduation.

Most importantly,
I lost 50 pounds
and I started dating
and maybe even
broke a heart or two.

Yes, the world
was my oyster
back in that
summer of 1981.

So,
I stealthily
snuck up
behind her
and said

“Teri?”

She turned around
and smiled
“Hi”
crooking her head
in an inexplicably
cute way.

The conversation flowed
and I knew
she’d say yes,
so I looked
for an open window
to toss my invitation
into

and just as I was
about to ask her out,
she said

“Would you like
to meet
my son?”

As if on cue,
like a perfectly planned
prank,
a brown-headed
preschooler came ambling
around the corner,
holding a book out
to his Mom.

Dumbstruck,
my words stumbled,
I stammered out
a compliment or two,
and made a graceless,
hasty retreat.

Suddenly,
I didn’t feel
as sophisticated
or experienced
anymore,

but on the other hand,
I wasn’t
so embarrassed
that I was still
a virgin.

[For Open Link Night at D'verse Poets at http://dversepoets.com/2016/03/17/openlinknight-168/]

Driving Through the Fog (for Sarah)

All fog
does not come in
on little cat feet,
resting on silent haunches
over dark, picturesque harbors.

Some fog is
unforgiving, maddening,
dangerous and dense.

When driving through
such fog,
slow down.

So much
unintentional damage
can be done
with one wrong reflex,
to one unseen victim,
especially to yourself.

If you can’t witness
the fog
safely and serenely
from a distance,
pull over
and let it pass.

No,
all fog does not
come in
on little cat feet.

Sometimes
it masquerades
as anger
or depression
or relentless pain.

Don’t let it
drive you
into the side
of a mountain.

Roar/Shock

Serious business,
this Christianity.

Willingly,
I traded
my skepticism
for the Holy Trinity,
and gambled
that I'd find
something that
I could not find
any
other
way.

I was new,
hungry 
to find my answer,
my place
in this family.

Flash forward
nine years:

I read the entire bible
(took seven years),
countless tracts,
books, blogs
trying to
untie the mystery.

The mystery
still exists, but
this I believe:

God is neither
frightening
nor boring
nor grim.

God is a metaphor,
(or perhaps an
extended allegory),
not intended for
literal interpretation,
pointing the way
to something,
someplace
wordless and inspiring.

Like the movie
"Eraserhead",
or a Jackson Pollack
action painting,
or any breathtaking art,
God is a Rorschach test,

a outward projection
of our inner selves:

So, then
my God must be
beautiful,
funky,
explosive,
funny,
creative,
loving,
forgiving
and alive.

Nines

I look for
nines
everywhere.

My birth month,
my birth date
a multiple thereof,
my year in the century,
yet another multiple
of nine.

The highest digit
to stand on its own.

Perfect multiples
18, 1+8;
27, 2+7,
36, 3+6,
you get it.

Even 9 times 564,821=5,083,389,
which breaks down to
5+0+8+3+3+8+9=36
36 becomes 3+6,
it's damned near magic.

Just before
the odometer
clicks over
into a milestone,
the nine holds on
for just
one
more
moment.

The whole nine yards.
Picking up
a nine-pin spare.
Lennon's #9 Dream.

Thesis, antithesis, synthesis
(count the syllables).

Is there any number
better than nine?

Nein!

[Written for http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2016/03/kerry-says-lets-count-on-our-fingers.html ]

Holy Communion

Everywhere I look
I see the flock
lost in their prayers:

young and old
rich and poor
Jew and Gentile.

Each in holy communion
huddled around
their electronic beads,
their mutant rosaries.

Speaking in tongues
to unseen companions,

each believer
in holy solitude
connected
to something greater
than themselves.

In gratitude
they offer
the abstract sacrifice
of their time.

At last,
the world is of one accord.

Bridging the gap
between human loneliness
and cosmic emptiness
is this
God With a Hundred Names:

Verizon.
AT&T.
T-Mobile.
Sprint.

[Posted for http://dversepoets.com/2016/03/03/open-link-night-167/ ]