The Best Birthday Present I Ever Got

Friday afternoon
(my favorite time of the week),
September 27, 2002.

It took forever
to get the kids out the door
and into the custody
of their dad
for the weekend.

We sat on the couch
and I told her that
I had something
for her to wear.

Knowing my mind,
she asked if it was
lingerie,
or some other kind of
kinky sex costume.

I’ll never forget
her look of surprise
when I showed her
the modest ring
and I pitched
my modest proposal,

and I will always treasure
her reaction
because she’s too smart
to be surprised
very often.

She said “yes”

and that was
the best birthday present
I ever got.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com, the best poetry site on the internet.]

Mockingbird Laughter

She said:

“Your mom asked me

not to tell you

over the phone.

Just come home.

Ok,

but,

promise you’ll stay calm.

Are you sure?

Your father died today.

He was mowing

the lawn and he had

a heart attack.”

I couldn’t hear anything

after that

except the sound

of my youth

slamming shut

and the

mockingbird laughter

of Fate

forever silencing

my Answer Man.

The Cockroach Defense

Don’t hate me because

I’m beautiful.

Your police
use body armor
that is but a faint copy
of my birthright.
I have been
tempered in everything
designed to annihilate me.

We probably could triumph
over AIDS.

Don’t hate me
because I’ve dined
at the finest tables in Europe,
stolen morsels
from Dust Bowl sharecroppers
and have prospered
where your kind has perished.

We inherit the wisdom
to turn your refuse into manna,
a feat you’ve yet to accomplish.

And we thrive on waste.

We are efficiency personified.

And the only tool
in your arsenal
to defeat us
is an atavistic and angry
shoe crushing down upon us.

Don’t hate me
because I violate
the sanctity of your pantry.

Hate me because I defy
your greatest technology
with impunity.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com  - where poets can find compassion and other poets!]

Then the Twin Towers Fell (my September 11 story)

I couldn't leave the woman
I was living with
on September 10th.

It was the life I knew
and she needed me,
but I stopped needing her.

I had strayed
long before this,
and only my material things
were still there.

We shared a bed
but were not intimate,
we shared a life
but were disconnected,
we shared a house
but were not married.

She survived a lifetime of
sexual abuse and trauma
but the scars carved
unbridgeable chasms
into our life together.

After seven years
it had all become passionless,
dutiful,
and I cheated on her
which only added to my guilt,
fueled my obligation,
and strengthened my paralysis.

My soul cried
to be released
from the twin towers
of guilt and obligation.

The next morning
an airplane flew into
the World Trade Center,
and like others,
I saw the instant replay
as a tragic accident.
Then came a second plane,
then, a third at the Pentagon
and a fourth destined
for the White House.

Suddenly,
the world seemed disoriented,
knocked from its axis,
hurtling, upside down
in chaotic twisted disorder.

Shock and suspicion and confusion
went viral
because the terrorists could be anywhere,
or everywhere.

I saw the quick and unforgiving
nature of reality,
the fragility,
the precious lives
snuffed out
like cigarette butts,

and my guilt and obligation
seemed small and pointless,

and that motorcycle I was riding
in the fast lane
after midnight
without the headlights off,

pulled over

and I knew
I had to make
a change

and then the twin towers fell,

and one month and a day
after September 11th,

I left her
for the woman
who eventually
become my wife.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at http://dversepoets.com/ - Love that site!]

The Leaves Will Not Fall Forever

In Autumn,
memories come,
cascading predictably
like leaves
off the trees,

and as the years
add up,
the pile of leaves
at my feet
comforts me,
but also reminds me
that the leaves
will not fall
forever
for me.

I do not gather my leaves
to be pressed in a book,
or burned in a pyre,
or squashed into mulch.

I collect my leaves into
a brittle bed,
and gently lay myself
upon them,
savoring their scent,
their ticklish scratching,
thankful that
I can still do so.

Looking up
at the increasingly
naked branches,
I try not to worry
about how many leaves
I have remaining,

but rather
just enjoy
the ones I’ve been
given today.

[Written for #OpenLinkMonday at Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads ]

Detour: The Twilight Canopy

This is not a mash-up, but rather how my brain processes music, hence my audio nom de plume, Noisy Therapy.  Name the samples, and win bragging rights. - thanks for indulging the Mosk

Sitcom

I experience sitcom reruns,

like chewing gum

that’s been chomped on 

so long 

that the original 

juicy flavor is gone.

I've memorized the jokes

the set-ups,

the pauses, 

the punch lines,

the musicality of 

the canned laughter.

They take me back 

to my childhood,

to the days before 

I had responsibility.

I wasn't a street kid,

but more a shut-in

who mostly listened, 

and the sounds 

imprinted themselves

on my soul.

They were comforting then

and they still are

comforting now. 

When I hear the voices of 

Fred Sanford, 

Archie Bunker, 

Rhoda Morgenstern,

Ralph Kramden,

I am

immediately 

transported back 

to my 

parents' house,

where it was

warm and safe and 

simmering pans birthed

comforting smells

and my parents 

were somewhere in that house

doing all the worrying 

for me.

I still love my sitcoms

but wonder whether

I learned the wrong lessons:

that I should try and be 

funny all the time 

every few seconds,

that I should look

for quick problem solving

as most can be resolved 

in 23 minutes, 

or in the rarest of cases,

over a two-parter.

But I know

if a dire situation arises 

and I must become 

serious,

I don't panic:

I just become Hawkeye

in the later seasons of M*A*S*H,

and suddenly

I become sensitive,

with appropriate sincerity,

intelligence

and remarkable wit,

generally, a simulacrum 

of an adult, 

and everyone believes me.

[Posted for @OpenLinkNight for www.dversepoets.com - the best site for poetry in the world.]

Being Big

The worst thing

about having

oversized genitalia

is never knowing

if she loves you

for you.

I didn’t ask for it

to be this way,

and I sure as hell didn’t have it

surgically enhanced:

it’s just the way

God made me.

The one good thing

about being

Big

is the look of surprise

when they first see it,

sometimes in shadows

sometimes in light,

but they are always

dumbstruck.

After that wears off

they’ll straddle me

like a mechanical bull,

hang off me like a

stripper pole

and indulge themselves

with me as their

flesh-and-blood vibrator.

I’ve even had a few

get scared and try to demur;

but I’m always able to

convince them

because I’m gentle,

and then they give in,

and this is where

we both get fooled:

we both think

we’re in love.

Sometimes sooner,

sometimes later,

our differences

scrape up against one another

and the relationship

degenerates into

marathon sessions of

sweaty, visceral intercourse,

multiple orgasms,

and awkward silences.

Before each

first time,

I am so insistent

on practicing abstinence,

because I know

once we cross that line,

all we’ll ever do is have sex.

So,

I remain steadfast

that I will find the right woman

who will love me

for me,

who will walk with me

in the rain,

curl up and watch movies

all weekend,

will massage my scalp

every now and then.

Until then,

I’ll faithfully

continue the search

and I’ll keep erasing

all those

tempting

late night voice mails

that my loneliness

fights to convince me

are more than just

booty calls.

My Sins Follow Me

I have sins darker
than India ink
and still I return
to them.

Shamed by my depravity,
I shudder knowing
they hardly stand out
in this twisted world.

As my transgressions mount
I press on
pretending I am

unseen.

My brain replays
every misstep,
I crucify myself,
yet I cannot stop.

I keep tossing the bodies
under the floorboards,
waiting for the day
when they will
break the foundation
of this warped life
and spew forth,

and I will stand
convicted
in the rubble
of rotting corpses.

Running away won’t help.

My sins follow me
and they are harder to shake
than my shadow.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight @dversepoets.com, where lost poems find a home.]

Orthodoxy Sez!

God doesn’t make

anything that isn’t

perfect,

and God

made people who are

homosexual,

therefore,

homosexuals are included in

God’s perfect creation.

However,

orthodoxy sez

the act (!) of homosexuality

is a sin.

Some Christians,

attempting to reconcile

their values of

compassion and judgment,

point to celibacy

as the way forward

for these people.

If these perfect creations

of God

do not choose

to deny themselves

that most basic

and essential of all human

experiences,

to love

and to be loved in return

in love’s many forms,

orthodoxy sez

they are damned.

So, then
because of their sacrifice,

the most holy and sanctified one

in the Christian church

must be the homosexual

who doesn’t engage

in sexual relations.

This is the person,

nay, the saint!

deserving of our respect

and veneration!

So,

now I ask you,

which proposition

is easier to believe:

that the Christian leaders

of this sin-ridden world

will call for the beatification

and sanctification of the

Christian Homosexual Celibate

as the paragon of virtue

and holiness,

or

that the

orthodox Christian interpretation

of human sexuality

based on Biblical principles

is inherently incorrect?

(Written for #OpenLinkNight at dversepoets.com, where people like me are not only tolerated, but loved!  Come on along!)

My Alice

Alice,
my insistent love,
where do you go
for hours at a time
and only show up
when you need me?

You walk past,
silent and sullen.

Are you jealous
that I married
someone else?

I feel guilty
because I know
how alone you are
but you offer me
no absolution.

Just a sour look
and a weepy cry
from your gray scowl.

You’ve no shame
in your demands:

Stop ignoring me.
Feed me.
You must love me.

Again
our eyes lock
as they did that first day
and I read your mind:

“this would be
a whole different story
if you were the cat.”

[Note: This poem was for my beloved Alice, my little friend since 2001. This is the last picture taken of her.]

(Posted for  for Poets United.)

Buddah Moskowitz' Crying Circus!

Hurry! Hurry!
step right up, folks
for the most
miserable, self hating display
on Earth:

it’s Buddah Moskowitz’
Crying Circus!

Thrill to the high wire acts
as Moskowitz tries to walk
the tightrope of fame and humility
high above
the flaming pit of embarrassment
without a net!

Watch Moskowitz gamely try
to tame the lion of insecurity
and self-doubt!

You’ll feel the hot breath of flop sweat
as he places his head
into the lion’s mouth
and you’ll roar with laughter
when the beast closes his jaws,
crushing the unprotected head!

Enjoy the parade of clowns
as they tumble merrily
out of their miniature car
of Failed Romantic Notions:
there’s Darra,
the Psychotic with a Heart of Gold,
LanAnh,
the War Refugee turned Crass Materialist,
Kim the PsychoBitch,
with her hilarious false rape allegations
and who can forget Teresa,
the Professional Victim?

And no trip to the
Circus of Misery
would be complete
without a visit
to the
Moskowitz Freak Show!

See the Man without a Spine
and the Mother who Made him that way!

Thrill to our Strong Man
fueled not by magnificent muscle
but by anger at years of paternal neglect!

Laugh at the antics of
teenage David,
our Half-Man Half-Woman,
as he finds no place to fit
into high school!

Drop by our snack bar
and get your
Cotton Candy Promises
to munch on --
it’ll take the sting out of your day
for just a second,
and really pack on
those pounds
that’ll last a lifetime!

More fun than the Ringling Brothers!
More entertaining than Barnum and Bailey!
More frightening than a Tod Browning nightmare!

Buddah Moskowitz’ Crying Circus
coming to an empty parking lot
near you soon!

(No animals were harmed
in the making of this poem,
and I envy them.)

[Resurrected for #OpenLinkNight at dversepoets.com - where more mirth and whoopee await you!)

The Naked Snapshot

I started writing
these love poems
in 1978.

They were designed
to capture someone’s attention
through novelty,

and they sometimes
did that

but more often
they were failures.

I wanted them
to do the courting
the wooing
and perhaps in the back
of my mind

maybe they were supposed
to have the relationship
for me since
I was too scared
and inexperienced.

I liked the challenge
of trying to coax
a new way of saying
it
free from my stale language.

Something resembling
love would always appear
and then disappear
again and again

but then, I stopped

as I realized the fear:

too much of my writing
and my unformed heart
had been let loose
on a unsuspecting and
undeserving world.

I thought of all
my long hours of
counting syllables and
stretching metaphor being
unceremoniously
crumpled and dropped
in a waste basket
with the junk mail and
other unsolicited advertisements,

or worse, still,
I pictured a catty circle
of women – late night
half-drunk, reading
my swollen purple
vulnerable verse
and having a good mean chuckle
at my expense.

Hell,
I can't blame them.

Those poems were uniformly
self-conscious
and painfully amateurish,

but my most profound
fear is that a few of these girls
might have saved these
premature ejaculations
which were only dedicated to
getting past hello.

I picture a wall map
of California
with cities up and down
the state
lighting up
where I imagine
my stray thoughts
and eternal promises
have blown.

My prayer:

may these poems never
see the light of day,

may the world never know
the fat oily teenager
with bad hair
who poured out
his heart
as best as he was able,

may these poems be
our little secrets

each one
a private snapshot
of me –naked,

save for
a naïve and trusting heart
worn on the outside.

[Posted for #OpenLinkMonday imaginary garden with real toads challenge.]

JC 2.0

The best part is

the experts had been

wrong.

Within minutes

Jesus went on

international TV

and held

a press conference,

sans interpreter.

After He did a few

magic tricks

to entertain and

convince the crowd,

He explained that John

had been hallucinating

in a jail cell when he

dreamed up

The Revelation,

and that it had been,

like so many other

human communiques,

screwed-up in translation.

The eternal conscious torment

of Hell

was similarly annulled,

and JC 2.0

(as the tabloids would

soon dub Him)

explained that while

everyone sinned,

everyone would have to go

through the fire to be

purified,

but here was where

JC 2.0 blew everyone’s

mind:

the fire didn’t hurt.

The fire was warm

and comforting

and some of the most sinful,

most pained miscreants

lingered in the fire 

far too long,

finally experiencing

something welcoming,

something that wasn’t cold

for the first time

they ever remembered.

JC 2.0 brought

the pure love,

which asked for nothing

in return,

not even faith.

He quickly went viral

and soon all that was left

were the skeptics

and the doubters,

and Jesus eventually won

them over too,

some with magic tricks,

some with genuine empathy

and an outstretched

welcoming

embrace.

Then JC 2.0

commandeered the planet

and set sail for

the far side of the Sun,

where preparations for

The Great Reunification

were already

in full swing.

[Written for the "Out of Standard with Izy"  imaginary garden with real toads challenge.]

We Have Come for Your Future

We have come

for your future,

and we will not be

deterred.

Your beliefs stand

like a moribund mansion

left untended,

overgrown with weeds,

with peeling paint,

grotesquely

oversized

for your neighborhood.

We have come

for your future,

and we will not

be distracted.

You stand on your porch,

shoulders wrapped

with a faded

and tattered flag,

standing on the

family Bible,

dusty from obsolescence,

exploiting these artifacts

as shields

to hide your prejudices

and antiquated justifications.

Your time has come

and gone.

We’ve been left out

of the inner rooms

of money and policy

long enough.

We are

cold, hungry and desperate,

and if you don’t

hand it over willingly,

we will take it.

Don’t fight us,

as we have time,

youth

and impatience

in our arsenal.

We come armed

will ideals

rooted in

the eternal value

of justice,

tips sharpened

by the sting

of unfairness

and the memory

of righteous indignation.

You tried to suffocate us

with powerlessness,

but our will to survive

was greater than your will

to destroy.

Yes,

we have come

for your future,

and we won’t take

No

for an answer.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com - come along a poem a spell!)

The Secret Mirror

I am the secret mirror

that reflects
only your soul,

so the filigree of wrinkles
the doughy skin
the graying crown
do not show,

but I discern things
most others do not see.

While I reflect 

your every weakness,
(regardless of size)
and forgive you,
I also collect 

your every kindness
(regardless of size)
and exalt you.

I witness your unconfined joy
at the first snowfall,
and I see the breath
caught in your throat
two-thirds of the way through
Barber's "Adagio for Strings."

I know your loneliness
and send reassuring prayers.

I see your decision to love
despite a lifetime of
contrary arguments
and laud you.

I exist to reflect more
than just the
random kindness of strangers
but rather the
eternal continuum of love
in all forms
found in you.

I am always with you
in different guises
waiting in silence
for recognition,

and in your most
noble, divine moments,
it is impossible to conceal
your beauty

and I want everyone to see
especially you.

I am always here
waiting to show you
how beautiful you are,

waiting to give you
a Christmas present
every day of the year.

(Posted as my inaugural offering at Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads' OpenLinkNight. )

Fire Sale at the Misery Factory!

Everything Must Go!

After 46 years
in the same location,
the Misery Factory
is closing its doors
for good
and I’m practically
giving away
my inventory!

This handy book has
every self-deprecating comment
I ever made
to curry favor and
garner sympathy!

How about a life-sized puzzle
so convoluted and challenging
that only the most obsessive,
insane or
codependent person
would dare solve it?
It’s yours for a song!

Do you need
an extra tube of
Fake Smile?
It works great
to cover the all scars-
either accidental
or self-inflicted!

Yes, the Misery Factory
is closing its doors
forever
so let the madness begin!

And, for you collectors,
there’s my Classic Guilt Machine,
guaranteed to keep working
even in your sleep!
It sets up in an instant
and never really folds up neatly
for easy storage.

For that hard-to-shop-for person
on your list,
get the very same whip I used
to flagellate myself
anytime I didn’t reach
my target weight
or got a bad grade in school
or simply misspoke.

And remember,
with each purchase
from The Misery Factory
you’ll get a free mp3 download
of negative self-talk,
perfect for the car,
the gym, or anywhere!

Goodbye letters
in scented envelopes,

rough drafts of painful apologies,

even the restraining orders
for the man
who tried to kill me
after I slept
with his wife.

It's all here
and it all must go!

(Posted for #OpenLinkNight at dversepoets.com - come on along and play!)

Ernest Becker’s “The Denial of Death”

The lifelong bibliophile,
some of my favorite hours
were spent reading
thousands of books,
mostly-nonfiction.

As I inhale
their stale paper smell,
and I stack them
on nightstands,
in bookcases,
the trunk of my car,
I know acquiring books
is not an addiction,
but rather,
it’s a superstition:

as long as I have
books yet to read,
I cannot die.
I must persevere.

The collection grows
from theology
to show business memoir
to outlaw poetry.

When I graduated from high school
in 1981
I bought Ernest Becker’s
“The Denial of Death.”
I saw it in a Woody Allen movie
and thought it represented
the intellectual gravitas
that I would need
as cultural currency
when I attended the university.

I have never finished the book,
reaching only page 36
on my latest attempt,
but
I still have the book.

Perhaps keeping it around
still unread
after all these years
is my own
quiet and persistent
denial of death.

(Submitted for #OpenLinkNight @ dversepoets.com )

This is the book I bought in 1981 for $2.95. Presently, it's in the backseat of my car.

Very Inspirational Blogger Award (Amended)

Well, hot diggity dog!  I’ve been nominated for a Very Inspirational Blogger Award!  Thanks to the one and only Amy Jo Sprague, who has the powerful "Difficult Degrees" blog at http://amyjosprague.wordpress.com/!

Her writing is strong, powerful, curative and life-affirming, and I am so grateful to have found it.

So now the rules: thank who nominated you/link to them; write seven things about yourself; choose ten to fifteen blogs you feel deserve this award; and comment on their blog to let them know.  Cheers.

Here's my seven:

1. I was born in Glendale, California on the hottest day of the year in 1963.
2. My first ambition was to be a vaudeville comic, until I learned vaudeville didn't exist anymore.
3. My major in college was theatre, but I eventually earned two degrees in sociology.
4. Haven't had an alcoholic drink since February 10, 1990.
5. Can recite the entire movie "Network."
6. My favorite rock and roll band is the New York Dolls.
7. My religious beliefs are best described as Christian-Humanist-Universalist

Here's 9 Inspiring Blogs:

Shay's Word Garden
whimsygizmo
First Pages
Sharp Little Pencil
The Tashtoo Parlour
Bird's Eye Gemini
Deb's Blog
Daydreamer Too
WaystationOne

In Deference to the Chemicals

In deference to the chemicals,
I’m waiting on the pill
that will take
the years from my face,
the rolls from my waist,
restore steam to the engine,
return steel to my thighs.

We need smart chemicals
to access the ganglia of synapses
when everything about us was new,
and we would explore
our unhidden bodies
with complete
trust and surrender.

I’m just longing for
a gentle, incomplete amnesia
that will erase
all my missteps
and all the lovers
of your youth,
so when you sense my presence
you spring
into breathless impatience,
as it was
when my caress was like
a key unlocking everything
that had been denied
for so long,
unsticking the dam,
overflowing with
slick and sweet abandon.

I recognize this behavior,
chasing those ever-elusive
primal moments of
euphoria and climax
because I am an addict,

but since she is what I need
I’ll feed this addiction,
as long as my chemicals
will allow.

(For #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com - Happy 1 Year Anniversary!)