This Fog Called Time (For Rachel’s 20th Birthday)

This fog called time

tricks us into thinking

we’re safe on dry land

only to blow away 

and reveal we’re really

only standing

on a cliff.

Time sings an

impatient, demanding melody

that everything is urgent

and everything must be addressed

now!

but then time plays that record

backwards,

revealing a hidden message

that lulls us into

thinking

that more days will come,

just as easily and predictably

as all the days before,

as our very next breath.

Raechy, I know

I’m just your

old man,

so I while I know you

and love you,

my first instinct

is to watch out

for you,

and keep you safe.

So,

I’m just asking

that before you run out

into this profane and

pulsating world,

please,

look both ways. 

[Written for Rachel's 20th birthday and for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com - my home away from home for poetry on the internet.]

Keep Moving Forward

Hey!

I'm talking to you:

all of you
who spill their seed
onto expectant blank sheets
and then try to sop up
everything that isn't art,

and those of you
with the naive idiocy
to try and capture the
breathless admiration
upon seeing a sparrow
in its purposeful
fleeting escape

and to all those aching souls
in houses of darkened memories
huddled in corners
playing their earnest acoustic guitars
trying to deconstruct
and reconstruct
the past,
daring to imagine
a tomorrow,
any tomorrow.

Finally, to the few
who trod this sacred path
wearing oversized clown shoes
just to see
where it leads
for laughs,

I urge you:
keep moving forward.

Do not be swayed
by the reader count
still stuck at
001.

Do not think that
you are invisible
or that you suck
or that you are
a mere content provider.

You're the holder
of the puzzle piece
that belongs to
no one else

and if you die
with it still
in your possession
then all you've done
is tighten
the knot of confusion
around the rest of us.

Face it.
Sometimes people comment.
Sometimes people don't.

But you are not invisible.

Detour: Noise

Here's some noise I made.

Dreams, Like Tears

Keep your dreams

in that secret place

where you keep your tears.

Putting dreams onstage

forces a reaction

from audiences

more often prepared

for novelty

than transcendence.

Feed your dreams

in secret,

keep them close

to your heart

and let them out

every now and then,

just a little

to spark your imagination

on fire,

to keep that grayness

at bay.

Be forewarned:

someday

your dreams will

spill over and

spill out,

much like tears.

Steel yourself

for the laughter,

but if none is

forthcoming,

listen close

to your audience.

Listen for their tears,

their dreams,

and let them in.

[Written for #OpenLinkNight at http://www.dversepoets.com – my poetic watering hole on the internet.]

#twitterverse

To set the world afire

naively, was the dream.

Now my words merely aspire

to be a virulent internet meme.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com - my favorite writers in the world meet there.]

Fighting with Anger

Anger hunts me down 

and sneaks up
behind me.

He drags me down
by the shoulders.

I try running
but he
pins me to the ground
and spits in my face,
taunting me
“Come on, do it. Do it!”

I‘m not going
to play his game.

“Get off me.”

His insect face laughs
at me
as he drools saliva.

I try ducking the dripping
slime but I feel it
in my hair
humiliating and inescapable.

I want to just be
free of it.

His laughter echoes
in my head.
“Come on, what are you,
a pussy? Are you gonna take
this shit from me?”

My body summons its strength
and I knee him in the groin
as he topples off me.

I can still hear his laughter.

I stand over him and
and start kicking his head.

It bobbles
somehow still connected
“is that all you got?”

I stomp my heel
on his heaving thorax
over and over
trying to put out this evil flame.

He’s almost dead.
I leap as high as I can
and with both feet
come down hard
and he splatters
into a stench-ridden puddle
of tissue.

Some of it has
splashed onto my shoes
and my pant leg
but I don’t care.
I’m convinced
that I’ve handled
the problem.

I don’t look back
as I walk away
but I hear that mocking laughter

and I know
I’ve just played his game again

and lost again.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com the best site for poets on the whole damned Internet.] 

Harvesting Lesson

Shake the word tree.
Again.

Again,
harder.

Peer up through
the branches,

“what’s sticking
them up there?”

Stop trying.

Take a seat
in its shade,

relax your gaze,


daydream…



bonk!

[Written for http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2012/10/words-count-with-mama-zen.html - Thanks!]

Thank-You Notes Never Sent

Thank you to her father

for leaving immediately

thereby planting the seeds of self-doubt

and for the occasional tortured visits

that made you stay away even more

and an even bigger thank you now

for taking no responsibility

for your absence

when asked 35 years later.

Thank you to her mother

for forgetting about her while you

squandered the family purse

in search of end time prophecy

in the holy land

and for introducing her to

the man who would molest her

in the golf clubhouse

and an even bigger thank you now

for still ignoring to her

right to her face

with an empty smile at every holiday.

Thank you to her ex-husband

for being the life of the party

by making her his punchline

especially after all the time

she told you how much it hurt

and an even bigger thank you now

when you take her kids every other weekend

for their quality time of

videogames and sugary cereal

with their willfully illiterate father.

Thank you to her ex-in-laws

because she felt like she was

finally part of a family and

even though it wasn't paradise

she did feel loved

and an even bigger thank you for

completely shutting her

out of your lives when

she finally got up the courage

to leave your shitheel son

and break the cycle.

Thank you one and all

because you've made it a real challenge

for her to accept

her own lovability,

her own worth

(she's not even sure of

the love of her own children

much less her second husband),

so I say thank you

because your callous indifference,

your malignant neglect

has made me

necessary 

to her,

because I will always love her

and take care of her

and treasure her

because I know the value

of a good, decent person.

It takes one to know one.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at dversepoets.com - come and poem yourself into a tizzy!]

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!)