Do That (for Erica Falk)

In the 11th grade
he wanted to be loved
or invisible
but he was stuck
somewhere in between.

He failed another
algebra II test
and stood there
in the stairwell
as the flood of students
rushed around him.

He dreaded his fate:
“Pop’s going to be mad.
He’ll think I’m a bum.
How am I ever going
to get anywhere in life?
And what the hell’s
the square root
of -1?”

A disembodied voice
came up from behind:
“Don’t worry about that.
That’s not who you are,
a numbers guy.
You’re a writer.”

It was Erica.
They were just friends
as she was too tall
to be anything else.
She must’ve seen his grade.

“I remember that poem
you showed me.
You’re a writer.
Do that.”

Continuing down the stairs
she passed by
and out of sight
unaware of the fire
she’d lit.

Right there
he rearranged everything
in his life
and set out to be a writer.

He wrote
plays
songs
jokes
poems
screenplays
articles
love letters

and it comforted wounds
preserved victories
reified dreams
and it gave him
a place in this world.

So,
Erica Falk
if you Googled
your name,
and found this poem

please know

David says
“Thank you.”

Long-Ass Days

Long-ass days
as my father
used to call them,

days full of
graceful sunclouds
boiling tears
serving others
and undeserved laughter,

and every night
I lay myself down
to recharge my batteries,
but as with
all batteries
as they age,
my batteries aren’t
holding their
charge so long.

So
in between
the morning alarm
and the last
consciousness
there is so much
to do –
more than can be done
or even listed
in a day.

So, it’s not a
complaint
but rather just a note
of gratitude
for the privilege
of another
long-ass day,
as my supply
of them
sadly and
predictably
dwindles.



Now,
to add to my exhaustion
I must post this poem
before
midnight.

Draw More Blood

Here I go again,

secretly picking up
my favorite blade
and cutting myself.

I don't know
what I'm chasing
but sometimes
I find it.

Perhaps someday
I'll no longer need
to pick at the scab
and feel the sting
as I tear
my beautiful brown skin open
to provide a canvas
for all this pain.

Sometimes,
if the skin is intact
I will swallow it
in a shameful communion

"this is my body
broken by everyone"

and as the full rich red
slowly drips
down my forearm,
I taste it
and am not surprised
that it is flavorless.

"This is my blood
drink this in remembrance of me."

I replace my bandage
and roll down
my long sleeve shirt
and rejoin the party.

Afterglow

After I shoot it inside her
I float on a morphine cloud
and I swim with dolphins
through banana pudding
and I am warmed and soothed
by her warm and sticky skin
as her breathing lulls me
into a lucid dream where
everything moves slowly
and nothing is in focus
it's blissfully soft
with every sense engaged
and I do not exist
because there is no place
I am needed right now
and I peer over a cliff
spread my arms and shove off
and fearlessly glide
back to the meadows
of green marshmallow clover
where pan flute breezes
guide me to the only
person who wouldn’t ruin
this moment and I
close my eyes as we embrace
and open them only briefly
to find the blankets
to cover ourselves
and complete the cocoon
we started with a kiss.

Her Moaning Assent

The memory of
her moaning assent
echoes forever.

The echo bounces
off one block
of memories,
onto another,
ad infinitum.

However,
they do not decay
as naturally occurring
sounds do.

No,
they loop
at full-volume,

a supernatural siren
ever distracting me
into lustful dizziness.

[Written for De Jackson's quadrille prompt.]

Raindrops Applauding

In the
flash rain storm,

I sit on the swing,
under the patio cover

listening to 

millions of raindrops
applauding my decision

to sit outside
and enjoy it.

Pang

This hunger
doesn’t sate.

I drink in
her sweet skin,
my private treasure,
face down
and naked
in our bed,

perfect in hue
and contour,
spilling like silk,
smooth
and cool
and luxurious.

She looks
over her shoulder
in my direction
giving that
unforced
beaming smile,
a lustful mix
of consent
and encouragement.

My eyes glide
downward
to her feminine curves,
as I
fit myself in
perfectly snug,
mounted skin to skin,
rocking and swaying
to the rhythm
of the cosmos.

I grab
sumptuous handfuls
of her thick
honeyhair,
and pull myself down
on her,
front to back,
sticky warm
skin to skin.

I proceed,
faster and deeper,

part of me
fearing I may have
a heart attack

and part of me
hoping I do,

as this is
the best moment
of my life.

Afterward,
a momentary
heavy silent bliss
hangs over us,

until I feel
another hunger
pang.

Trance

Nightly
I sit in the cool spring air,
rocking back and forth
on the patio swing,
trying to put myself
into a trance.

I inhale
the cannabis vape,
and play the recording
of Liz Damon’s Oriental Express
singing “1900 Yesterday.”

I am drawn
to this hopelessly dated
recording,
anachronistic for 1971,
it must seem positively
prehistoric now.

“Where's the love 
that we knew, 
is it gone, 
or have you 
thrown it away?”

Something about
those voices,
that 1960’s Hollywood sound,
takes me back
to my earliest memories
of something beautiful,
someone unblemished.

I perform this ritual
hoping one day
it will be
the key
that unlocks
who I really am,

who I really was
before the crash.

[Written and posted for the Tuesday Platform at the Real Toads.]

Still (A Quadrille)

Still,
I believe you’ll triumph
even though
the torture
still
continues unabated.

What are
the magic words,
the black market
black magic
to still
your raging wildfire
of sadness
and wholesale
emotional immolation?

I just wish
your plans
for your
threatened suicide
would
still.

[Written for today's challenge at DversePoets.]

Life's Job and My Job

You can only do
so much,
so
stop killing yourself.

That’s life’s job.

In the meantime,
find some meaning
and don’t be mean.

That’s my job.

The Enemy of God

"Fear not,
we have God
on our side."

Realize how
ridiculous
that statement is.

Show me someplace
where God doesn't
exist.

You can't tell
a believer
"show me the
enemy"
and believe what
they tell you.

Show me the
enemy of God?

Well,
there's a mirror
over there.

Glide

I stand on
the precipice,
looks like
a cliff,
but I choose
to see it
as a launching pad,
a runway.

I peer over
the toes of my shoes,
shifting my
body weight
ever so slightly,
and
gravity takes over.

I do not
fall.

I do not
fly.

I extend my arms,
as if on a cross,
and I glide,
carried on
the currents of
the wind,
trusting that I will
land

precisely
where I am
supposed to be.

Groovin'

At the moment
when it all kicks in,
and I follow
the natural rhythm

I dance
to whatever is on
the tv,
most likely old sitcoms.

It's not quite
a dance,
but rather, a sway-

back and forth
like a backup singer
in a black and white
kinescope loop -

forever groovin'.

Be Here Now

This world
doesn't stop
or even slow.

To keep up
I must run
alongside it,
as catching a streetcar,
running with guilt,
knowing I am late.

However,
there is no timetable
that says I am late,
but I have agreed
to the world's sense
of time,
and forgot
that this time is neither
fleeting nor dripping.

This time
is my only possession
and even that
is an illusion.

To be here now
is the only appointment
I have to keep.

Now,
what is now?

Blank Pages

All my dreams
began with paper
because as a kid
that's all I had,
and some pencils.

Once I embraced
the freedom,
this uncensored liberty,
the world was mine
and there was nothing
but potential,
tantalizing potential.

Now I have
computers,
cell phones,
unlimited space
in the cloud,
but in my mind,
it's still
just a blank sheet
of possibilities.

May the excitement
and the thrill
of a blank sheet
of paper
never diminish
in my soul.

Unraveling

Show me
your most private places,

where you dream
and where
the unfinished surfaces
of your soul
await your touch.

Loosed from these bodies,
we can float and dance
like the essences we are,
light and graceful
as smoke
snaking upward
to Heaven.

I am not what I seem.
None of us are.

Each one is
part-mystery
and part-illusion
to the other.

Let’s spend
the rest of our lives
unraveling
each other,

until
there is no you
and no me,
only us.

Grace

A day of grace
during
National Poetry Writing Month

means
a day off for me

and
a day off for you.

You got
the better
of the deal.

Flowerbreeze

Vapor-soft
and berry-sweet,
the essence of you
is not possessed
by any embrace,
but rather
in memories,
some cherished,
some embarrassed.

I don’t know
where your
Earthly home
is today,
but I know where
I can always find
you:
in the first scent
of spring,
wafting on the
flowerbreeze,
with the saxophone intro
to “What’s Going On”
reverb-filtered
playing under
my memory
of you,

in an image
that all great
romantic movies
attempt,
in vain,
to emulate.

Hope and Optimism

"OK, so the
neurologist
didn’t have
the answer.

Don’t worry,
we’ll find
the answer
somewhere.

I know we’ll find
the answer
because if we don’t,
you’ll die,
simple as that.

So, do you think
we’re going
to just let you die
just because
you want to?

It’s just
a problem,
a puzzle,
which implies
it has a solution.

Besides,
you know
how Mom is
with puzzles.

She doesn’t stop
until it’s solved.

Me?

I’m selfish
and I just want
to keep hanging out
with you.

So,
I know
you're tired
of holding up
all the necessary
hope and optimism,

so you can
put down
the hope and optimism
for today,

but we
won’t."

Quality Time: Vaping in the Early Spring Twilight

We vaped
in the early spring
twilight,

my adult daughter
and I.

Later
I opined,

"This is
quality time:
me talking to you
and you texting
on your phone."

In spite of
her treatment-resistant
depression,

she smiled
said "Yup,"

yielding
a drizzle of laughter.

[posted for https://dversepoets.com/2017/04/10/quadrille-30/]