The Secret Writing Place

This is where I write many of my poems.  Inspiring view, huh?

The Judge Shrugged

The courtroom was set up

so that I had to sit next 

to him.

We didn't make eye contact,

but we’d already traded intimacies 

of a sort,

what with me 

hate-fucking the hell out of 

his slutty stalker wife,

and him threatening to shoot me

because she mislead him 

and told him it was rape.

Before the judge granted

the restraining order, he said

“I've read the details of this case,

Mr. Amberg have you apologized

to Mr. Moskowitz?”

and he said he had

because it was true.

The Judge continued:

“And Mr. Moskowitz, 

have you apologized 

to Mr. Amberg?”

In a voice, 

confused but unequivocal,

I said 

“No, I haven’t”

because that was true too.

The judge shrugged,

thought for a moment 

and granted my restraining order.

I left the courtroom,

feeling relieved,

vindicated and safe,

but not innocent.

[From the #thisreallyhappened files - Written for #openlinknight for www.dversepoets.com - come over and get your poetry fix.]

Empty Dates

 A year passes
and there are empty dates
on the calendar
where birthdays,
holidays
and other milestones
belonged.

Families are owed
memories and dreams,
and everything that wasn't
given away to charity
or tucked quietly
into an abandoned toy box,
is  arrayed into a makeshift
altar,
a reminder of the shock
and random cruelty
of this loss.

Inside the
still-unwrapped
Christmas present,
a smiling, pink plush pig
has been waiting
since last year
for an embrace
and a smile
that will never come.

[Written for #newtown and posted for #openlinknight @dversepoets - with love and sadness.]

My Luxury

My luxury,
though simple,
was my luxury
when I was 10,
and is still
my luxury
today:

to sit in
a darkened room
by an open window,
a slight chill
in the wind,
looking up at
the stars,

curled up,
listening
to a small,
faraway radio station
and following
wherever
the dream music
took me.

[Written for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com - an artistic oasis in the desert what be the internet.]

Fathers and Sons and Men

Danny was 49
when he lost his dad,
after a long, slow
debilitating
descent,
but while he was alive
Ed saw his son
marry his love,
make a beautiful baby,
become a tenured professor,
make a home,
resolve any unfinished business,
and he saw his son
as a man.

John was also 49
when he too lost his dad,
after another long, slow
debilitating
descent,
but while he was alive,
John Sr. saw his son
find his perfect partner,
build a home together
also became a tenured professor,
also make a home,
resolve any unfinished business,
and he too
got to saw his son
as a man.

But, Pop, I was 35
when that dormant
heart disease took you.
I was still immature,
unfocused and
self-righteously selfish,
living from
one hedonistic decision
to the next.

However since your death,
I married
the beloved daughter-in-law,
and adopted
the treasured grandchildren
you never got to meet.

We made a home
and I know you would've
loved the view
from the back patio.

I've made a modest
but respectable career
as a college dean,
and if I play my cards right,
I'll be able to retire
with my house paid off
in a decade or so.

Sometimes I regret
that you never
knew me as the man
that I am today,
the man
I would have never
become

if your
sudden death hadn't
forced me
to grow up and
become a man.

[This is a continuation of the poem last week.  Bea was married to Ed, John Sr. was married to Willie, and Dan was married to Pat.  Written and posted for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com - where I am thankful for the support and love of the community.]

Bea is Alone

Sitting down front

with her 

newly fragmented family,

Bea accepts the flag

expertly folded into

a triangle,

but doesn’t hear

the words accompanying it.

Back at the house

there is exhaled relief,

aluminum tins

with Mexican take-out,

and everyone’s eating,

and there is laughter,

but no one is laughing

too heartily.

In a few well-spaced waves

the mourners leave,

save for the lingering daugher

who stays another night,

and another still

until, at last,

she must rejoin her own life.

Now, finally,

Bea is alone,

not just in her home,

but for the first-time

in her adult life.

[For my moms, Pat, Winnie and Bea, all widows now.]

Finding Things, Losing Things

Sometimes you just

lose things,

like the spare keys

to the strongbox

where your

homemade sex video hides,

or those tickets

to the Elton John concert

she wanted to see

in 1996.

Sometimes you find things

and you thank

the God of Lost Items

because you can’t figure

how your sunglasses

ended up in the crisper,

but you’re just so happy

to have found them

because they’re perfect.

Sometimes you just

lose things,

like the firecracker spark

of a new passion,

or the receipt from

the movie you ducked into

to stay out of the rain,

the one where she took

your hand without asking

and changed the course

of your life.

Sometimes you find things

like forgiveness when it

isn't deserved,

and ecstasy for nothing more

than the infinite blue

of the sky above.

So, 

when you find something,

like something to write about,

rejoice and celebrate,

but when you lose something,

like the clever summation

of these thoughts 

I'd envisioned,

let it go and

move forward.

Deathbed Advice

Open your heart and
free the caged
bluebird inside.

Ignore the empty buzzing
voices of those who
mean well
but contribute nothing.

You were born with a shovel
so dig,
and if you find something
you don’t like,
STOP!
Don’t keep digging.
Turn it over,
examine it
accept its dirt and grime,
for it is yours.

There is pity in the parade
and joy inside the tear,
and when you look in
that funhouse mirror
don’t disown the image:
just because the mirror is warped
doesn't mean you’re not.

if you look in the funhouse mirror
and like the what you see
you’re home free.

The only thing to hold
is your memory
but if you live too long,
the memories pile up
like old newspapers,

so start shedding
the superfluous memories,
keeping only the cream,

and if you must
write them out,
do it
and then let them die
there
on the page.

Without Irony: Christmastime in Southern California (a haiku)

Eighty-six degrees,
red and green decor creeps out
'neath November blue.

[Taken today at lunch, Riverside, California.]

The Other Side of Luke 23:34

I'm sorry,
but I honestly didn't know.

I disguised my lust and gluttony
as joie de vivre
and followed them
as I blazed
a pathetically predictable path,
one mortifying lesson at a time.

I thought I was gifted,
that I had a vision,
but now I see
I was just another
in an unending line of
abstract and myopic
nonconformists
just spoiling for a fight.

I stand now
at the foot of your cross
under a bruised purple-black sky
lost in a sea of fetid sinners,
a fellowship of miscreants-
these are my true peers.

I see the weight of my sins
bearing down
on your thorny crown.

I see your human agony
and if you can see me
through the blood dripping
in your eyes
please know,

I’m sorry.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com - where they love me even though I'm not really writing lately.]

“I Am Your Slave"

“I Am Your Slave”
she said presenting herself,
wrists forward and palms up
in an expression of
understood submission.

My face went cold and
I felt that familiar thud
drop from my chest
to my gut.

She was supposed
to go back to her husband
after our tryst
and this just confirmed my fear.

Thoughts of panic
swirled around me
and the guilt soaked
through my shirt.

She handed herself over
like a blank check waiting
to be drawn
from a demonic account
and I was angry.

Stupid girl.
She knew
she was just another painkiller
I was using to numb the
wounds inflicted by my
newly departed wife.

Why’d she betray me?

She bought into The Lie.

The Lie is a thing
so beautiful
perfectly round
juicy and sweet
and always just
a little out of reach.

The Lie
does an excellent business
tempting the lost and lonely
to disregard every dull truth
in favor of its titillating façade.

I know this
because I did the same thing
the night before
as I bowed low
at the altar of wanton carnality
and said:
“I Am Your Slave.”

[Posted for #openlinknight at www.dversepoets.com - come and read some great poetry.]

Hole Poem

20 hours after waking,
I finally carve
a hole out of my
wall-to-wall life
to write a poem,

and as I dig into
my back pocket
where I keep
my glib and facile
poetic ideas,

I reach in
only to find
a hole.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com - stop on by and have a cry! Or a laugh!]

The Devil Sleeps Soundly

The Devil sleeps soundly
on a bed of
our apathy and indifference
to the neglected,
disconnected
souls,
our hubris and selfishness
fueling sweet dreams.

The Devil sleeps soundly
on the pretense that
we don’t see
the dirty, needy hands
outstretched for bread,
and he renews himself
when we deny helping
with dismissive cynicism.

The Devil sleeps soundly
when we attribute
the evils of the world to him,
ignoring our implicit culpability
and it gladdens his heart
when we ignore
our higher inclinations
and take the lower path.

The Devil sleeps soundly
but he’s rested too long,
and it’s time to awaken him,
(ourselves as well),
with the admonition
that we’ll no longer be a party
to his death and destruction.

We’re tired of doing your dirty work.
“Wake up and get out.”

[Written for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com - come along and read some fine poetry.]

The Welcome Speech

Just sit there.
you’re new here, so listen up.

I don’t awaken easily
and I hate staying awake.

If you must ask questions
make sure they’re well thought out.

Don’t waste my time
and keep your hands off my stuff.

Remember
there’s just two of us in this cell

and the guards
are down the hall and sometimes deaf.

Don’t ask why I’m here
and I won’t ask why you’re here,

and when I get up
I get to use the toilet first.

I’ve been here
longer than you’ve been alive

so don’t think
you’re the boss in here.

Out there
you might’ve been some badass

but in my world
you’re just a new fish.

I’m holding back
more hate than you’ll ever feel,

so don’t get in my way
and I’ll treat you more fair than most,

and if you’re smart
you won't let me see you cry.

I really hate
people who can still cry.

Without Abandon or Fear

Keep searching.

In every day
God has hidden
a gift,
and the trick is
to live fully,
without abandon
or fear,
turning over
every little thing,
especially those
that appear
insignificant.

Don’t ignore anything,
especially
the cold and cruddy
stones
in your pathway,
because under
one of them
may be the
hitherto unknown key
that unlocks
the next wonderful era
of your life.

Keep looking ahead,
unceasing,
like the curiosity
of a child’s incessant
questioning.

Pirouette to the edge
of the cliff
and if you’re not too busy
living and being alive
listen to your heart beating,
your pulse pounding
insistent,
affirming
‘yes, you are alive.”

There is no reason,
no meaning
to this life

until you break through
scale the wall,
and decide
that your life
has value
and dignity

and some days
just remembering that
is the gift.

[Written for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com - love those poets there!]

The March of Death

The march of death
plods ahead,
indifferent and dispassionate.

It will see
all our dreams
and wistful hopes for tomorrow
like baby squirrels
in the path of a Humvee
and run them over.

The march of death
is always operating
in the background
never needing a break.

We all know its there
and most refuse to see it
afraid to give it proper credit.

The march of death is there
at the graduation,
in the wedding party,
during the back-arching orgasm.

"Carpe diem"
"live for today"
"tomorrow is promised to no one."

It's easy to repeat such homilies
but unless you can
enjoy the budding rose
or the breeze that bends the palm
or savor the warm quiet explosion
of that first bite of red curried Thai chicken
with your eyes directly fixed on
the march of death,
then you haven't met the challenge
you've chickened out again.

Be consumed
by the defiant dance of life
and if you are seen as
wild-eyed and spastic,
then so be it.

This is your day
use it up now.

Somewhere on this planet
someone's last moment
just happened,

because
the march of death
never takes a day off,

so neither will I.

My Catalogue of Mistakes

She rifles through
my catalogue of mistakes
looking for something new,
looking for new ways
to prick herself.

I tell her
"look at my new writing.
It's so much better."

She does,
but it's just not
as compelling a read
as the catalogue.

Everyone has their inventory
of drunken reverie,
bad carnal decisions,
wasted tears and hours,
complete with photographs
of the most compromising positions
in glorious color
each one perfectly suitable
for framing.

The wise person knows
to avoid scratching
that unreachable itch
which would dig a hole
deep into his soul.

I learned long ago
to keep my curiosity
about such ticklish things
on a short leash
because letting it run free
would only enslave me.

For I have been
a jealous monster
at times
and I hated it,

so I tried to leave it behind
by avoiding rear view mirrors
or unlocked journals
or photo albums from your past
where I've not been invited.

Everyone has a past
with luggage stamped
"Regret"
"Indiscretion"
"Loneliness"
"Loss"

and everyone has
their catalogue.

If someone
shares theirs with you
don't study it,
don't memorize it,
don't judge its contents

just accept it and move on,

lest you be added
to its pages.

[Posted for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com - come on over and have a drink of words.]

Spin That Wheel of Fortune (For Sarah)

Spin that
wheel of fortune,
listen to its clatter,
dance to its tune.

There is more
that you don’t know
than you do.

If you’re dropped
onto the stage
in the middle of an opera
and you don’t know the part,
sing anyways!

The surface of the placid
autumn lake
rarely stays smooth,
and neither should
your brain.

What we want is always
on a collision course with
what we need,

so,
take the stray fibers
of your memories
and weave wisdom
and understanding.

[Posted for my daughter, who is doing a writing challenge with me, also for #OpenLinkNight at www.dversepoets.com, where poets and poetry finally get a little respect!]

David [name withheld] (Posted for 50th Birthday)

His hubris is such
that he often says
his six-word story is
“God created,
and so must I.”

In everything he does
he tries a creative approach.
While this is not
always successful
(as evidenced by his previous
failed love relationships),
he relies upon
the element of surprise
to compensate for
true talent and competence.

He is most proud
of his second marriage
and how seamlessly
he became a husband
and assumed the paternal role
to Anita’s pre-existing
family.

In his free time
he is a voracious reader
of nonfiction,
with his favorite genres being
show business biographies,
theological treatises
and reference books.

He loves all forms
of music,
and his favorite all-time band
is the New York Dolls.

He started writing
when he was 15,
and while there have been
long periods of inactivity
in the intervening 35 years,
writing is the single
most gratifying work
he’s ever done.

When he writes
he is no longer
overweight or
Mexican or
awkward or
unwanted or
lonesome.

True to his credo,
when he writes
he creates himself,

and it amuses him,
and thankfully,
he amuses easily.

The Movie of My Life

The movie of my life
will not star Brad Pitt
or Angelina Jolie
or anyone else you’d know
or recognize
or even want to look at,
but I will be played by
at least six different actors
portraying me
in different eras.

I’ll market it like an indie
(with lowered expectations)
and feign surprise
when it becomes
a critical favorite.

John Barry will write the score
and it will be triumphant,
exotic and sentimental
and it will win him
another Academy Award.

My costumes will be
specially tailored for me
and you’ll never see me
eating
anything.

The story will be
that I’m the lovable underdog,
a schlemiel Horatio Alger
and they’ll all root for me,
as David fighting some Goliath
as I’ll defy the odds
until I ultimately rise
and transcend past…

something
 (I haven’t worked that
part out yet).

I’ll hire an editor
who specializes in action films
with masterful pacing
so that every scene
builds in suspense
and tension.

In the movie of my life
everything will be smarter
faster
and better
than in real life.

All the people
I could never please,
and things I never did,
and every needless worry
I courted
won’t make the final cut,

and all kind words
belated wisdom
and quotable epigrams
left unspoken
will be dubbed in
during post-production.

The final indignity:
the movie of my life
will go
straight
to home video.

[Posted in honor of my 50th birthday this coming Friday.]