Time and Luck

Drive and desire
they'll tell you
are what you need
to make it.

Also time
and luck,

the two dimensions
over which we
are powerless,

because the greatest
of all could be
on their way to
their
appointment with destiny,

and they'll miss their stop
or will be mistakenly shot
in a drive-by
or will have finally slept with
the right connection
who unexpectedly had
that 2nd heart attack
his doctor warned him about.

So while I try not
to whip myself
over my lack of
drive and desire
I also do not hold
God
accountable for the
breezy passage of time
or for the luck
bad and good
that visits me.

The fame machine
is very random
and waiting for it
is another form of
playing the lottery.

I'd rather enjoy it all
in this moment now
scratching out my insides
for someone other than
myself.

In case I am
unexpectedly found
dead at 42

perhaps these writings
will be my triumph
over my absence
time and luck.

Raincloud

It all seems so important
when you're standing in
the eye of the storm
with sweet memories
love songs
and heartbroken promises
blustering about you.

Instead of looking in the mirror
and asking "why me"
look at his picture
and say "poor fool".

The world is full of willing suitors
who would love to twirl you
under the starry sky
and coax out your honeyed laughter.

Every moment spent in regret
is another mile away from
the joy of the moment.

The unrequited,
the painfully knowing among us,
who make promises
to the unanswering moon,
who believe in the happy endings
of countless black and white movies,
who have loved only
to not be loved in return,
will value your worth
and give you, in kind,
the love you crave
the love you need.

The unrequited know love in its most
unashamed and unguarded expressions,
from its enveloping warmth to its prickly cold.
Although the scar is permanent,
and it gives the unblemished heart
the nobility of experience and character,
the pain is temporary.

I empathize with the sad young girls
with their precious broken hearts,
for I too have often sold myself cheaply
for crumbs of attention.

And with each day that you
walk through the pain
the end of sadness gets
closer
and the memories are less tortuous
and the rejection is less acute
and the new doorways are more inviting
and you wrap yourself in the
illusion of tomorrow just to endure today
and you pin your hopes on a thing called
Better:
"things will get better"
"someone will love me better"
"my outbursts of uncontrollable crying will get better"
"food will someday taste better"
"someday, I'll be better".
When the wounds are fresh
you can't imagine they'll heal.
They will,
and all the things that were magical before
are now merely empty reminders,
so let them go.
Yesterday got you to today
and today will get you to tomorrow
where your heart will dance again
and your eye will be unexpectedly caught again
and song will spontaneously flow from within again.
To wish for yesterday
is the folly of the lovelorn.

Make up a new set of prayers
to be answered.
In the meanwhile
treat yourself royally
be brazenly extravagant
eat what you want
dress how you feel
go out every single night of the week
and kick up your heels.
Do what you must to duck the grief
and cushion the initial shock.
The pain will be waiting for you
when you are ready
to deal with it.

In all likelihood
your beloved will return
contrite and almost pathetic,
and regrettably (for him)
it will probably be too late.

And you'll know you're moving forward
when your favorite love songs
evoke wistfulness instead of tears
and the solitude of Sunday mornings is
more tranquil than lonely
and old photographs of the two of you
bring knowing smiles
instead of frenzied plans of reconciliation.
The hope is that
someday the memories you've shared
will be divorced from their tragic endings.

Your presently broken heart
is simply a reminder of how
everything changes all the time.

Roses grow, bloom and wither.

Rainclouds come, release and go
leaving even more beautiful
blue skies and cotton clouds
in their necessary wake.

On this spinning blue planet
there is always sunshine
sometime
somewhere
someplace.

Go find your sunshine
and bask in it.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at dversepoets.com - where even a misfit like me can find poemlove.]

Rachel (2003)

Rachel
came into my life
with softly suspicious eyes.

Sadly
I was only there
for the last moments
of her girlhood
because
in the blink
of an eye
she stretched out
and her soul
deepened,

and I now see her
curiously
peering into adult
ponds
and sneaking in her
toe,

but just when
I think she is
growing out of
my grasp

she quietly
reverts
temporarily
to the unsure
faun on the frozen lake
and
she curls up on
her
Pop-O

and she silently
drapes herself
over my shoulders
quietly
resting,

knowing that
I don’t require her
to be
sophisticated
trendy or grown-up.

She knows
she can be
quiet and uncertain
or even goofy
and that I will
take care of
things

for now.

The next time I
blink she’ll be
all grown up

too smart and
pretty for her own
good
with a heart
still growing

but I never fear
losing her
for she is deep in
my soul

at 11
she is already
one of the finest
people I will ever
know,

and with that
bright yellow hair
and friendly wide
smile
and soft kind eyes

she will eclipse
even the sun.

The Invisible Man

So many hours
of my anxious youth
were wasted
hoping that someone would
see me.

It was nerve wracking,
all that prep work
all that rehearsal.

A calculated appearance
and rarely the payoff
of a glance
or someone’s laughter
would come my way.

Now that I’m older
and there isn't anyone
to impress anymore,

I value my anonymity,
taking pains to dress down
not making eye contact
not saying anything,

because the anonymity
is as close as I can get to
invisibility:

I watch, study
all the grasping and yearning
specimens
in their vainglorious dance
-- what are they wearing?
-- why did they pick that tattoo?
-- how many warts bumps and boils
can the human neck suffer?

I smile,
content that
I don’t desire
an audience anymore,

as I slip
though the crowd,
stealth and unnoticed,
I convince myself
that I truly am
invisible

and maybe I’m
the only person here
who is truly alive.

The Angry Dandelion

The angry dandelion
is on fire again
and the house is on warning.

I wish I could
slip a disk into her
volcano shell and
see the world through
her filter,

what lights the fuse
and sets her off.

Her mother and I
try to bring her happiness
but we fail daily.

The house is already child-proofed,
now it needs to be
anger-proofed.

Dear Little Blonde Talking Monkey
don’t you see
we’d love to see you
bright and breezy?
For now,
something dark and brooding
lurks in you
waiting to surprise us
like a landmine,

but do not mistake our
motives:

we love you and just want
some happy memories
for ourselves,

and I wrote this today
just in case
someday in the future
if you ever think
we didn't do enough,

this is my
pre-emptive defense.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight-at dversepoets.com - comeone, come all, and have a poetic ball!]

She Deserves Poems

She deserves poems
and days of unhurried contentment
in the company 
of someone who brings
warmth and safety and joy,

and she deserves
a flight through the clouds,
climbing up to the sun
floating on pink balloons
and soaring past ordinary birds
jealous of her natural grace.

I would give her moments 
of perfection
lightly dipped in chocolate
polished and wrapped 
in honeyed cellophane.

I would give her
beautiful moments,
asleep beside her
praying that my adoration
was sweetening her dreams
and that my embrace
would melt away 
every single fear
so she could 
rest
selfishly - just sleep
and not worry about 
anyone or anything else.

She deserves dreams
that don't end 
when she awakens

and a dance
lively enough to be joyful
and slow enough to be romantic
to a tune 
that only she 
could inspire.

The things she inspires
are flavors and flowers
-so irreplaceable
so perfectly her.

She deserves to see herself
as I see her.

She deserves to be overcome
with blinding ardor.

She deserves a really great guy
and she deserves a poem
that captures her essence
and her beauty
a lot better than this one 
did.

Turnaround

I planned
to make the
Riverside to Fresno
turnaround,
when the woman
I lived with
would be
camping
in the wilderness,
incommunicado.

I left Riverside
at 2am.
It was a six-hour drive,
but I arrived hopped on
on adrenaline and anticipation
because my paramour and I
promised each other
abstinence
to intensify our reunion.

I don't remember much,
only hazy, coital bliss.
Predictably,
we wore ourselves out
pretending to be newlyweds.

The weight didn't hit me
until I had to get back
on the freeway
for the six-hour return
that night.

My muscles were
soft and relaxed,
my mind, tranquilized,
as I sped along
Interstate 5,
into the winding
mountainous
Grapevine,
where signs of life
and freeway lights
were scarce.

In this darkness
I relived this day,
and the gentle rumble
of the highway
quietly fed
my post-orgasmic
narcosis,

maybe
everything
would be ok...

ZZZHMP!

my muscles spasmed
and a hot surge
of fear
shot through me.

Catching my breath,
my self,
I realize I almost fell asleep
at 75 MPH
on a darkened highway
200 miles away from
where I was supposed
to be.

As soon as I could,
I pulled off and
burned my mouth on
a cup of gas station coffee-
as both a stimulant
and a punishment.

I drove the remaining miles
wide awake,
wondering how soon
it would be
before I made
my next
turnaround.

[Written for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com - where life and love are explored lyrically!]

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!]