To All My Loyal Readers

I apologize in advance
for the weakness
of the most recent offerings.

Life has been
throwing hell
at me
and I’ve been
waving a white flag.

Give me enough time
and I’ll try to turn this excrement
into gold
but I make no promises.

However,
to all my loyal readers
who see me
and steal my invisibility,
your slightest notice
sends me into a drug like high.

Merely being seen
keeps me going
when I cannot understand
the  point of any of it.

Nothing is better than
someone telling me
I have touched them.

It’s the ultimate triumph
of my spirituality over materialism.

I am transcendent
typing mad fury
these stray thoughts knowing
there is some understood
underlying code
in all this spilled blood.

I keep trying to make connections
because it doesn’t matter
if you’re in public library in New York
or a jail cell in Texas
a bakery in Oregon
a pub in Australia

for a moment
we are in the same place
and it feels good to me.

Skeletons

The skulls
the bones,
lie in the dirt
in the desert,
among lonely cacti
against hot,
unforgiving skies.

They were once
alive with ambition,
inflamed with passion,
wracked with worry.

Now,
they are but
silent reminders,
mute witnesses
to the sheer folly
of empty bluster
and shiny objects.

Skeletons
bring the wisdom
that even the richest
among us,
those most privileged,
will share
the same
exact fate
with the humble.

Who will leave
a richer legacy,
the humble
who shared freely
the fruit
of their grace

or those
who lived
in opulent vanity,
clutching every crumb
to their bosom
lest it be stolen?

Skeletons
remind me
of what is
important.

That Moon

The moon hung
big and buttery and
close to the Earth.

It didn't say
anything
or try to mean
anything.

It was just
there
to tug
at the tides,

to give lovers
something
to make promises
upon,

to be witnessed.

I wanted to
pull over
and savor it,

but there was
a reason
I didn't,

something
I thought was
more important
to do.

So,
like a fool,
I pressed on.

I can't remember
why I passed
that moment by,

but I'll never
forget
that moon.

[This wasn't it, but it was like this.]

The Siren Décolletage Mocks Me

Don’t confuse
their ubiquity
with mundanity.

Sadly,
in the employ
of marketing,
they are profaned,
on slick,
air-brushed
magazine covers.

Different hues,
fingerprint creases
and folds
and curves
curves
curves
in magical, mystical
sacred geometric
shapes.

“Save the Ta-Tas.”
“Squeeze your Boobies.”
Change your avi
for the month
and flash them
to the world.

Self-exploitation
for the greater good
is advocacy.

Still,
the mystery
of that delicate skin
upon the breastbone,

the hint of
shadows falling
in between,

still cast their spell
on me,

as I remain
in perpetual
outstretched
hunger

for connection,
for communion,
for restoration.

My lifelong desire
for embrace
to the eternally
warm, soft
female bosom,

to correct the deficiency
of a non-breastfeeding
mother,

remains unrequited,

as the magazine cover
silently mocks “no”
and you’re just
too tired.

[Written for Fireblossom's Challenge at http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2017/10/fireblossom-friday-i-put-spell-on-you.html.]

Death Will Not Be a Surprise

It is the only reliable thing
in this world.

When armed
with the right lens,
the specter of Death
does not hide:

the opossum frozen
with the shriek of death
on its face in a tidy
pool of dried blood,

empty wrappers
littering the streets,
reminders of
everything that was taken
so that we the living
could be nourished,

the putty-colored
misshaped used condoms
employed to halt
or at least delay
the continuum of life,

even these modest
and ill-conceived ramblings
are written so that
when Death comes
to redeem my ticket
I will have
somehow
beat the game.

But any fool knows
that’s another losing
proposition.

Death will not be a surprise
and it will not take
“No” for an answer.

Until that day,
drink in the roses
dive into the orgasm
with eyes wide open

swim in the melody.

My Father's Pearls

"Everybody wants to be
a musician
but how many actually
get a job doing it?"

"I really want
to read more books
but it hurts my eyes."

"Nah, it doesn't
matter to me if
you don't wanna
have kids.
You can't miss
what you've never
had."

"Sure, I believe
in God but
I just don't want
to go to church.
I did all that
stuff when I was
a kid."

"If you're gonna
get married
you have to know
how to take
a punch."

"To apologize
to your mother
is the biggest
mistake you can
ever make."

"One of these days
you're gonna meet
a pretty little girl
and you're gonna
start dating her
and before you know it
she's gonna be
pregnant and then
how're you gonna
pay for it all?"

"Go into electronics.
I know about that
field and there's all
kinds of jobs there."

"Do you know why I
bought this carpet colored
gold?
Because I want you
to treat it like
gold!"

"Don't waste your vote,
Vote for Perot!"

"What you eat in private
shows in public."

"Thank you, mijo,
your reward will be
in Heaven."

[Actual quotes from my father. Posted for https://dversepoets.com/2017/09/21/open-link-night-204/ ]

Cherubs

We sleep together
face to face,
like the cherubs atop
the Ark of the Covenant.

However,
I lay my head
closer to
her breast,
eyes closed
my sleeping gaze
pointed up
to her placid face,

a telling distillation
of our relationship:

me,
ever worshipful,
her,
ever deserving.

Hands Digging Into This Earth

Cool Saturday mornings
in spring
I weed the planter
in blissful silence.

It’s simple,
tactile.

I break the
cold hard ground
and sift the dirt
through my fingers
plucking the weeds
as though they were
errant gray hairs.

The same ground
worked and farmed by
my Mexican ancestors
and the Mestizos before them
and the Indios before them
and the Aztecs…

I am connected
to that eternal continuum
of hands digging
into this Earth.

It is almost
a mindless activity,
peaceful,
this private haven
that I own

and I smile
at my self-deception
and audacity:

to think
I own this land
that was here
long before
all my ancestors

and will outlast us all.

My name’s just
on the deed

for now.

Untethered

When you’re free,
you become
weightlessly untethered
from the ground.

Though I am
a willing slave
to gravity,
I remain
a wisp,
a scent,
a flavor on the breeze.

May you
catch me
in your hair
and hear
my whispering plea:

“Go,
be free!”

First Poem Published, Fullerton Daily Tribune, 1972

I was eight years old
and my local newspaper
solicited
a variety of
student submissions.

Here is what I sent in,
inspired by
an late night sermonette
on KTTV channel 11:

"God made
people to love
and things to use.

Some chefs
use people
and love
beef stews.

But God
made us to love,
with the love
from Above,

So, remember,
God made
people to love
and things to use."

Not bad
for a third-grader.

I forgot about it,
until it was found
in my Grandmother's purse
after she died in 1994.

Spark Joy

I bought her
the book
on tidying
your house,
your mind,
your life.

"Look at every
object
and determine

if it
doesn't
spark joy,

throw it out."

I'm trying
not to read
too much
into her decision
to sleep
downstairs
last night.

My Greatest Challenge (for Oliver)

I can’t
smell that
“New Baby”
smell,

but there is
overwhelming peace,
warm, breathing bliss
in holding him,
my grandson.

This is my greatest
challenge:

to be
completely present,
and enjoy him
now

instead of
dreaming of
all the times
we have
to come.

    Pop-o Moskowitz shares fine literature with Oliver.

[Written for https://dversepoets.com/2017/08/28/quadrille-39/ - Bliss]

It's Still Magic

I've studied
Burt Bacharach's
"Bond Street"
for 40 years -

the quirky, uptempo
funky saxntrumpet
Hammond B-3 riff
that strange Eastern
flavor and the
soaring orchestra
representing
aural transcendence
- even the Gypsy
tambourine

and it's only
two minutes long.

I've played it
a million times
since I first heard it
when I was 7
and it still makes me

stop everything
and surrender
to its mystery.

If you know how
a magician
does the trick,
does it make it
any less magical?

No,-
it's still magic.

Night

Night used to be cells of
unsolicited solitude
but I put the time
to good use.

I read,
wrote songs
and practiced
all the clever things
I would say
extemporaneously,
if I were ever lucky enough
to get a date.

I stayed up
late into the night
beside a static-filled
AM radio
and I imagined
I was the only one
tuned into this
distant AM station
playing old country and western tunes.

Night always told me
"Someday.
Someday, man, it'll
all be different.

Better."

Now
at the end of the day
filled with
my family
who have no hesitation
in claiming
my every waking hour,

I revel in my solitude,
as I troubleshoot computers,
listen to old C&W songs over
the internet,
write the occasional poem,
and sink deeper
into some library book,

I look out
at the blue purple sky

and realize night
was right.

VHS Seventh Heaven

Some people went to
The Rocky Horror Picture Show
and memorized it.

I was always too timid
to venture out that late
among all the self-congratulatory
freaks.

But when VHS came about
I was in seventh heaven:

memorizing the rhythm
the cadence of
Groucho and Chico
bantering in “Duck Soup”

William Holden
leaving Faye Dunaway
with pithy eloquence in
“Network”

Dustin Hoffman’s
grand deception
unraveling with
masterful despair
in“Tootsie”

Richard Dreyfuss
and Marsha Mason sparring
and falling in “The Goodbye Girl”
set an ideal for dialogue
rarely encountered
in real-life,

almost every Woody Allen
film,
(pre-Soon-Yi)
schlmiel neurosis
giving a defiant voice
to this misfit teenager

Ray Liotta as
the amoral narrator
in “Goodfellas”

Bert Lahr in “The Wizard of Oz”

Zero in “The Producers”

Linus explaining
the true meaning
of Christmas

I’ve lived in
and through
these movies
more than five times
each

and now I want
to see them
all
again.

[Posted for http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2017/08/the-tuesday-platform_15.html .]

I'll Take Reality

I do not believe
in happy endings
or dreams coming true,
because nothing
ever really ends
and dreams
are not real.

However,
I believe in
spontaneous music,
idiomatic orgasms,
laughing pizza,
trusting puppies,
falling asleep
beside her,
her soft, sweet exhale:
these are real.

[Written for https://dversepoets.com/2017/08/14/quadrille-38/]

Sublime

Outside in the dark,
warm summer night breeze
streaming Don Rickles
on YouTube,

high as a kite
from year-old
bubbled
Lemon drop;

we're both laughing,
God
and me.

Agency

A flurry of activity

will not make up

for a life unfulfilled.

This moment

came unbidden

and will leave

unnoticed,

unless you

decide

to matter,

to count,

to touch,

to hold,

to love. 

Hey, Pimp

"Hey, pimp,
I ain't fooled.

You ain't never
been cool
despite your
shiny, freezer burnt
ensemble
and the badass
persona
you wear like
a shitty prison
tattoo.

You're the
manifestation
of all the worst
impulses
of amoral capitalism
and atavistic masculinity.

You're nothing but
a goddamned slave owner,

and shame on
anyone attempting
to glorify that
wretched ugliness."

[For
http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2017/08/poets-united-midweek-motif-human.html]

Two Promises (for Oliver)

I was gifted
with two grandfathers.

One I saw regularly
but never spoke with
because he spoke
only Spanish
and I didn't.

The other grandfather,
because he
divorced my grandmother,
I saw less than
10 times in my life
Including his funeral

Where I gave a eulogy.

Oliver,
I promise these two things:

whatever language
you end up speaking,
I will learn it,

and,

I will never divorce
your grandma.

Welcome to the world, and
welcome to our familia, mijo.