Morning Prayer

Thank you, Lord, for this glorious day

there isn't much for which I’ll pray:

just guide my steps so I won't stumble

and when I do, help me stay humble;

may I look upon my brother’s face

without contempt, but rather, grace;

help me, Lord, lose the desire

for things that would me make a liar;

guard my children and my spouse,

bring them safely back to my house;

in every instance, may I stay grateful

may my actions and words, never be hateful;

may everything I say and do

demonstrate I belong to you;

this life is a gift I can never repay,

so thank you, Lord, for this glorious day.

[Written for #OpenLinkNight - at www.dversepoets.com - come share your poetry!]

Male Socialization (for Roy Levosh)

Don’t oversleep
don’t curse the alarm clock
don’t wake up the others

don’t go to work without shaving
don’t wear that tie with those pants
don’t leave without kissing her goodbye

don’t drive like a maniac
don’t get in an accident
don’t be late to the office

don’t be unproductive
don’t go to non-work-related websites
don’t daydream about sex

don’t skip lunch
don’t eat any trans fats
don’t talk to any other guys at the urinal

don’t be unprepared for your meeting
don’t tell your boss what you really think
don’t leave until after the boss does

don’t forget to call and ask if she needs anything
don’t bring your work home with you
don’t ignore the kids

don’t take it out on the kids
don’t fight it if she wants to take a walk after dinner
don’t hog the remote

don’t go to bed without taking a shower
don’t forget she needs foreplay
don’t knead her breasts like dough

don’t come too soon
don’t come before she does
don’t roll over and fall asleep as soon as you’re finished

don’t fall asleep if she wants to talk
don’t leave the tv on all night
don’t forget to say your prayers.

[Posted for #MeetingTheBar - List Poetry @www.dversepoets.com - where poetlove floweth freely!]

Underestimated

When I decided
to have sex with
the married psychobitch,

I rationalized it
by saying:

it's no big deal,
it happens everyday,
and if I got caught
I would just
deny it.

What I underestimated
is that
cruel selfishness,
demolished marriages,
and impassioned death threats,
also happen everyday
and it was
a big deal,

so enormous
and unquestionable

that,
when cornered,
I couldn't deny it.

[Written for #OpenLinkNight @ www.dversepoets.com - where you can love you some poetry!]

The Sex Machine Speaks

The headline accused:
How Big is the Average Penis?

My defensiveness recast it:
How Average is the Big Penis?

Remember:

the smaller
try harder.

[Soupy Sales Format: 25 Words or Less.]

http://www.alternet.org/sex-amp-relationships/how-big-average-penis-you-might-be-surprised

Shame

Something she said
shook loose the memory
and it fell at my feet,
like rancid cigarettes
from a vending machine
dispensing shame,

and I hated being its hostage,
and it took everything in my power
not to steal a Xanax
from my daughter's stash
because the thoughts kept
parading by
with predictable circus mockery
and I prayed for God
to just take me right then
and I wept softly
because He didn’t,
my back to her
so she’d never see.

I learned early on
some are
cherry picked
for love because
they were
born right,

and perhaps Jesus
is just the story
the rest of us tell ourselves
to make it easier
to live with
the dispassionate fact:

some are born
to be loved
and the rest of us are born
to earn it.

[Written and posted for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com - come along and share your heart.]

Prick First, Saint Second

If you want to be a great artist
you’ve got to be
a prick first
and a saint second.

You must be willing
to gamble
it all for your art:
your kids,
your wife,
your security.

If the dice fall right,
and you pull
the fourth ace,
you'll be rewarded
with the fame
the adulation
the money
the lovers
each offering themselves up
as blank checks waiting for
your endorsement.

When you've reached
your limit,
and when even
your own excesses
repulse you,

then you'll have
The Epiphany,
and you will
renounce it all
for the simple life:

you'll have
that second family,
where you will become
the devoted father,
the unabashed and
unapologetic husband,

and with your
newly proclaimed
inner peace,

you will denounce
all those things
that the prick loved-
the trappings of this world -
that now seem so petty
so temporal,
so vulgar,

but you will still have
your exciting memories
and a sizable nest egg
in the bank.

If I were smart
I would have been
a prick first,
and a saint second,
because
if I try to be
a great artist now,
I’d just end up
looking like
a prick.

[Posted for  #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com- a little bit of heaven right at your fingertips!]

Independence Day, One Day Early (July 3, 1994)

Ironically,

the day before I left

was one of the

best days

of our marriage.

(Maybe she already knew

how the trial separation

was going to end.)

Like comrades celebrating

before heading off

to battle,

we laughed,

we ate,

we stayed up late talking,

not wanting to see

past that evening,

because I suspected

the next day

would be our last.

That Sunday morning

we lingered in bed,

silent, save for the

radio whispering

painfully naive

love songs;

neither one of us

wanted to be

the first one

to start the day.

Finally,

I inhaled, got up,

and wordlessly began

collecting my things.

(Thankfully,

we didn’t acquire

very much community property

during this four month

failed experiment.)

She got up

and began preparing

herself

to go to work

(she wasn’t fooling me,

I knew she was going

to see him).

I almost made it

out the door,

when the radio played

our wedding song.

Neither of us cried,

we just found each other

and hugged

until it was over,

and I whispered

“maybe this

will only be

for a little while,”

and that was

the last comforting lie

I told myself

that season.

(For dversepoets.com - where I find my poetic oasis in this wasteland called the internet.]

The Next Feeding

The immediate concern
of every living being
is the next feeding,
the next nourishment.

Some feed only
on food,
others on love
and affection,
and others still
on bitter memories
and bile.

I drink in sound,
season them with images,
but ultimately feast
upon ideas,
sometimes slowly and precisely
as a gourmand,
sometimes ravenously, without care
like a glutton.

This is the immediate,
unrelenting motif
of this life:

feeding our hunger
by righteousness
or anger
or piety
or satiety.

Nothing exists
without some kind of
food.

Even in those prized
golden moments
of orgasmic afterglow,
when my most intimate desires
has been sated,
sweat trickling
down the side of my face,
my heart slowing
down to reverie pace,

I catch myself
thinking
what’s the next thing
I get to eat.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at @dversepoets.org - poetic fun awaits ye!]

It Never Completely Leaves

Shame leads
to the ache,

then the fix,

the high,

and the crash,

reuniting me

with the shame,

on an endless loop

to the grave.

[Written in #SoupySales format - 25 words or less.]

The Wizard’s Collection

The wizard gave me

the keys to the cabinet

to retrieve a book of spells

and poetic incantations

to further impress

the wide-eyed coeds,

the ones with

smooth, unknowing skin,

gaping, glistening lips,

and snugfuzzy sweaters.

I was his henchman,

a graduate student hunchback

with raging nostrils

who did his bidding,

his dirty work,

all for a letter of reference

and the possibility

of mopping up some of his

nubile, feminine spillover,

so I could secretly

wring out the contents

into a highball glass

to savor

in moments

of lonely solitude.

Why did he trust me?

He knew I’d look

in the cabinet marked

“Unconfirmed Research Evidence.”

Unlocking the cabinet,

I saw dozens

of unlabeled

5-inch plastic

margarine tubs.

I took one,

peered in

and saw

a small thatch

of hair,

brown, curly and dry.

I opened another

which held

a flatter, straggly thicket

of lighter hair.

One after another,

I opened and found

variations on a theme:

honeyblonde

dustyrustyred

cafebrown,

saddleblack,

each one a small handful

of slightly musky,

tight, pubic curls.

I realized

this wasn’t a collection

of data, but rather

his trophy collection.

I closed the cabinet,

retrieved the book

I was sent for,

and returned to the seminar,

where I looked at

the wizard

and his disciples

with completely new eyes.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com - where even miscreants like me can find a warm and friendly hello.]

My Six-Word Apologetic

It’s easier to believe
if you've made
art
and you don’t know
from where it came.

Who is this
strange but familiar visitor
guiding the hand,
turning the head,
pricking your ear?

After the blur
of the flow
is quieted,
behold
this thing
that didn't exist
until you brought it
into existence.

You will love this thing,
be captivated by this thing,
and fight for this thing.

It’s easier for me to believe
that it came from
somewhere else,
than to believe
it grew from
my subconscious mess
to a new consciousness,

and hence,
my six word apologetic:

God creates
and so
must I.

Do Not Let Me Sleep Until I Awaken On My Own

Do not let me sleep
until I awaken
on my own.

When I arise
naturally,
during the trip back
from unconsciousness,
I instinctively
reassemble dreams,
reconfiguring,
recontextualizing,
reinterpreting
and I usually detest
what I find:

walking down
squishy darkened halls
over the corpses of
mutilated snakes,
over blood and muscle
and sinew
and I cannot
see the end,

or embraced by
faceless women
whose madness manifests
only out of the corner
of my eye
as they take me
to their bounteous bosoms
and I nuzzle unreservedly
until I hear
the scrape of their
silver razor teeth,

and then I am lost
in a miasma,
going down on
anonymous placeholders
who I thought
only existed
on the periphery
of my consciousness

and I’m trapped
in this miserable cell,
but finally I am saved
not by the bell,
by the beep,
of an electronic
screech screech screech
from the $7 alarm clock.

Do not let me sleep
until I awaken
on my own.

I’d rather be
groggy and sleep-deprived
than rested
and disturbed.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at dversepoets.com -come along and dream a little dream with me.]

Balboa Island Sky

She sang beautiful
and promising words,

ocean blue,

cool and foamy

under that bright

Balboa Island sky.

He reached up,

caught her melody

in mid-flight,

and rubbed it

deep into his skin--

it smelled

bruising sweet

like coconut-scented

suntan oil.  

He swooned,

and for a moment,

he forgot

that he looked

the same way

sulphury, rotten eggs

smelled.

Years later

he found her

on Amazon.com,

having published

a children’s book

in Austria,

and he wanted

to contact her,

to show her

who she’d dismissed

decades ago,

but remembering

that he’d only gotten

fatter,

and that the songs

of his youth

-even the ones

he’d written her-

now sounded

like cheap wine

gone sour,

he thought

better of contacting

her

and decided to

write this instead.

[Written for #meetingthebar at www.dversepoets.com - c'mon, c'mon c'mon!]

Don’t Need No Sampler

[note to perfomer: tempo=120 bpm]

Deet deet deet
bumf!

wor-ow-wuh
wor-ow-wuh
ch-ch-ch-ch
ch-ch-ch-ch
wor-ow-wuh
wor-ow-wuh
ch-ch-ch-ch
ch-ch-ch-ch

umph,
uh-umph
umph,
uh-umph

sheenga--wokka-wokka-wokka
sheenga--wokka-wokka-wokka

umph,
uh-umph
umph,
uh-umph

bee-oh-rawhm
wah wah wah
bee-oh-rawhm
wah wah wah

sheenga--wokka-wokka-wokka
sheenga--wokka-wokka-wokka

umph,
uh-umph
umph,
uh-umph

dweet dweet dweet
d-weeh--ee-ee-ee-ee-
dweet dweet dweet
dweeh--ee-ee-ee-ee-

sheenga--wokka-wokka-wokka
sheenga--wokka-wokka-wokka

Ooomt
Auuuu-oowwww
Ooomt
Auuuu-oowwww

Ya!
ya-ya-ya-ya
ya-ya-ya-ya!

Yaaaaaaaaaaah!
Ya-ya-ya-ya-
ya-ya-ya-ya!

umph,
uh-umph
umph,
uh-umph

sheenga--wokka-wokka-wokka
sheenga--wokka-wokka-wokka

umph,
uh-umph
umph,
uh-umph

paah!

[Written for #openlinknight at www.dversepoets.com - come and make some noise!]

Again, I Fail (a limerick)

The task was to write them a glosa,

but the form made me want a mimosa,

my words could not warm

to that fascistic form

nor to poetry’s Cosa Nostra.

Applauding

I first saw

Burt Bacharach

in Laughlin, Arizona

in one of those tacky

riverfront casinos,

where he was playing

a one-nighter

in between

his popular years.

He led the orchestra

like a basketball coach,

viscerally and impatiently,

bringing many moments

from the soundtrack

of my Southern California

existence

to life.

Leaving the theatre

I passed a small,

ivy covered enclosure.

It sounded,

smelled like

an afterparty.

Through a missing slat

in the chain link fence

I saw him,

surrounded by

a multigenerational retinue:

he was trim,

stylishly grey,

approachably shorter

and everything

I wanted

to be

when I used to dream

I would grow up

to be

my own version

of him.

I stood there

and started

applauding,

just applauding,

and I kept applauding

in that steady, insistent way

that cut

through all conversation,

until I caught his attention.

He looked at me

and all I could say

was

“Thank you.

It was the thrill of a lifetime

seeing you tonight.”

He smiled,

tipped his head

and mouthed

“thank you”

and went back

to his conversation,

and I moved on,

thankful

that for a second

I made him smile,

scant repayment

for a lifetime of

beautiful music.

[Posted for #openlinknight at www.dversepoets.com - come along and sing your song.]

Print Me Out

Print me out
and hold me in
your tender hand
because even though
I was made on
a computer
I was born of a person
and his soul
is embedded
between the blank space
and the letters.

Print me out
and carry me
in your back pocket
as you climb high into
your secret tree
where you write
your poetry and
daydream ‘til dusk
and then
when you come home
unfold me
and set me beside
your bowl of soup
to remind you
that I am here.

Print me out
and fold me
into an airplane
and send me sailing
to a bored classmate
across the room.

Print me out
and tack me up
with a magnet
on your refrigerator
and when you’re
reaching for the milk
tomorrow morning
know that I have
been here
waiting for you.

Print me out
to remind yourself
that I am more than
just paper and words,
I am real.

I am flesh and bone
sadness and glory,
but when you read me
I am no longer alone.

Print me out
and save my life.

[Posted for #Meetingthebar at www.dversepoets.com - my pals in verse out in the universe]

Like This, Like That

That tiny red-breasted bird
that bounces and skips

through the sky,

too quick to catch,

she is the lesson.

Marvel at her,

enjoy her

superhuman acrobatics,

envy her grace

and beauty,

because she is

only here

like this

and is gone

like that.

In the moment

pressed against

your lover’s skin,

do not plan

the next move,

but savor the moment,

inhale the scent

of her neck,

because she is

only here

like this

and is gone

like that.

As you drift away

into your cool, dark

slumber

before surrendering,

forgive everyone

and everything,

and give thanks

for every little

detail,

and as you ask

for another day,

do so humbly

because there are

so many more

who need tending

and a share

of the good fortune

we’ve been given

because it is

only here

like this

and is gone

like that.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight - at www.dversepoets.com - you'll not find a better bunch o' poems on the internet.]

Humility Haiku

Keep yourself humble.
Pride still goes before a fall.
If you don't, God will.

[A quick shot for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com - where I go to feel loved on the internet.]

Tersely

She got up
and said

“It’s not working.”

I laid there
in naked humiliation

and she left,

taking with her
three years
of my life

and her vibrator.

[Posted for MamaZen's challenge at http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2013/05/words-count-with-mama-zen.html]