Ofrenda (A Dia de los Muertos Offering)

Were I “that kind of Mexican”

I’d make an authentic

ofrenda,

instead of this:

por mis abuelos,

for Trini

who always had hugs and

warmth in her smoker’s rattle voice,

y Juan

and his ever present stubble which

scraped my face with each embrace,

y Irene

whose caustic humor

belied a broken life and body.

Then there are mis tios:

Rudy the bear,

Ray the quiet genius,

Fernie the garage philosopher,

Eddie the passionate spark,

Kiki the gentle soul,

Carmen the humble and strong,

y Nancy the loud, proud eagle.

Then, there are my cousins,

Celia and Johnny,

both taken too damned soon.

Finally,

mi Pop,

Daniel (pronounced Dan-Yell),

called Copi,

short for “el Capitan”

who gave me everything he could.

I send my prayers

to God

in thankfulness,

in wonder,

and I pray

for each of you

to send me

what I need

from wherever you are

now.

The Things I Love the Most Are Not Things (for Anita)

You don’t need to
write me a poem,
or pen me a song,
or bring me a fist full
of fresh picked daisies.

A mountain of possessions
will not persuade me,
nor will a watertight argument
convince me to your side.

The things I love the most
are not things,

so bring me your passion,
long for me in your breast,
swaddle me in gold compassion.

Your joyful laughter,
your melody
sweet and true,
is the dream
from which
I never hope
to awaken.

Written in response:

http://dversepoets.com/2015/10/27/im-going-to-miss-you-when-youre-gone/

The Kissing Contest

The theme of
her 8th grade
boy-girl birthday party
was “Tonight’s the Night”
by Rod Stewart.

Barely teenage couples
slow-danced and
laughed in the
nervous darkness.

Then came the
hotly anticipated,
much whispered about
“who could kiss
the longest?” contest,
a gauntlet
presumably intended
to discern some kind of
bravado and boldness
for its participants.

Despite my overweight
bookworm status,
I knew I could win this,
and I was matched up with
Debbie,
the only other Mexican invited.

The timer started
and the competing couples
all lunged in:

the others catcalled, hooted,
vicariously enjoying the
implied bravery
of this all,
but,
it was just an act,
there was no passion –
just lip-to-lip suction.

Like most guys,
I learned how to
disassociate my feelings
from my body
in kindergarten,
when boys are taught
to ignore their boundaries
of privacy
and learn to urinate
standing next to
some random 5 year old
in an accompanying stall.

Compared to that,
kissing a girl
was a piece of cake,
a party game
to be won,
and we did,

and I still have
the prize:
a 45 single
of Peter Frampton’s
“Do You Feel
Like We Do?”

Imprisoned

Even in your
unrelenting, oppressive darkness,
we see you
because your light still shines,
your spark still dances.

Imprisoned
as you are,
we keep writing letters
to the warden,
and searching
for the key
to release you.

The next time
you go over the wall,
we’ll go to the library,
sing all the verses of ”American Pie”
when it comes on the radio,
and practice driving in reverse
so you can get
your license.

Mija,
the sun is always shining
somewhere on this planet,
the trick is
putting ourselves
where it is.

Golgotha 5-1479

After meeting with
his press agent,
campaign strategist,
personal adviser
and astrologist,
Pilate thought
creating a martyr
would probably
come back to bite him
in the ass
in the long run.

There was something
about the demeanor
of the accused.
He was too cool,
too controlled
and it made him
rethink his initial
assessment.

"This Jesus probably
had some kind of trick
up his sleeve,
like that
cockamamie
loaves and fishes schtick,
and maybe I should
find a way
to bring Jesus
into the Roman fold.

Besides,
don't I always say
“keep your friends close,
and your enemies
closer?”"

He summoned
his Chief of Staff
to put in a call
to Mount Golgotha
to stop the execution.

As the rotary phone dial
slowly zuzzed and whirred

each

of

the

seven

digits,

one of his lackeys
sauntered in,
sucking on a lamb-pop,
causally announcing
that Jesus had just died.

With that,
Pilate hung up the phone
and stared out
at the desert,
vast and unforgiving,

wondering at
the array of
the ramifications
now before him.

[For Fireblossom's Friday Challenge - here's the linkarino 

http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2015/10/fireblossom-friday-beechwood-4-5789.html .]

The Rivulets of Desire

These wet
and slippery
tongues caress one
another,
as lovers share
the same
hot breath.

A niggling,
ticklish
drop of sweat,
waterslides
down the small
of her back,

and joins the droplets,
the rivulets of desire,

the slick anatomy
finding and
reuniting with
one another,
resulting in
the grandest,
and most sumptuous
mystery of all:

how can so much
moisture
cause so much fire?

Even She Deserved Her Dignity

There were tales about her,
rumors and gossip:
she doted on the
decrepit star,
plied him with compliments
and sexual pleasure,
orchestrated his return
to public life and relevancy
as his days waned.

A friend of mine
who also liked
Hollywood’s dark side,
worked in a mental hospital
in Norwalk, California.

Once night she smuggled
contraband out of the hospital
she knew I would appreciate.

I looked at the photo ID
and I confirmed:
yes, that was her.

She gave me the card,
knowing I’d appreciate
it’s macabre and unique value.

I looked at her face:
crone’s wild hair,
wide blue eyes,
wrinkly
weather-beaten skin,
and wondered
about each ignoble step
that led her to that place.

I stashed the card
away.

Through the years,
I learned when the star
died,
she was kicked out of the house
where his children decided
she had milked his fortune
for too long.

Without an income
or an address,
she descended into a world
from which she never
returned.

I don’t know
if she really
was his savior,
his paramour,
his twisted puppeteer,
and probably
never will.

Years later,
I found the card
I’d stashed away,
with the shallow hope
I could maybe sell it
to an even more callous
and selfish freak
than I.

But I threw it away.

I no longer
wanted the proof,
the indictment,
of her insanity,
her weakness.

Whoever she was,
she was a daughter,
maybe a sister,
maybe even
a mother,
and even she deserved
her dignity,
her privacy,

even if the rest
of the world
thought she was
just a starfucker.

The Mutant Messiah Speaks

“I hate that it’s come to this,
but this world just doesn’t unite
voluntarily.

We need tragedy.
We need chaos.
We need an attack.

Only then is the world
unified,
set in the same direction.

Only then is there
cooperation,
brotherhood,
a shared recognition
of life’s preciousness.

A plane flying into a skyscraper.
A twisted warrior in a kindergarten class.
Unidentified white powder in an envelope.

These are the things
that unite us.

Fear binds us
and perhaps
in our vulnerability,
we will learn trust,
and find love.

If you’re no longer
afraid of God,
then be afraid of me:
I’ve strapped on my explosives
said my prayers,
and am coming for you.

I am not trying to be
some mutant messiah,
but please remember,

I am
sacrificing my life
for you."

My Review of The Holy Bible

It took
seven and a half years,
a chapter a day,
five days a week,
but I finally finished
reading the Bible.

My review:

keep most of the
red letters
where Jesus spoke,

interpret those
red letters
with the same
breadth and imagination
as an avant garde
filmmaker,

red-line everything else,
except Proverbs,
Ecclesiastes,
and James.

Ignore the Book of Revelation.

The Mexican Carnival

The Mexican carnival
creeps overnight
onto the empty lot
next to the dollar store,
across from the storefront church,
grimy,
miles worn,
paint chipping.

The smell of
sickly sweet
deep fried pancake batter
wafts over the
loudspeakers blasting
Adriana Grande
y las bandas ultimas,
enticing the crowd.

The rigged games offer
plush prizes,
faded by the sun,
mutant knock-offs of
Spongebob Squarepants
and slightly misshaped Minions
made in Viet Nam.

It’s only when
night falls,
and darkness obscures
the spit smears,
overflowing trash bins,
with the music blaring
from invisible demonic speakers,
the red, white and green twinklers
give everything an
ersatz showbiz glitz.

It's pretty,
even inviting.

I stand in the middle
of it all,
every sense engaged,
quietly smiling,
feeling very much
like Bukowski,

an unassuming witness
to the unlikely pageant
before it all packs up
and is gone.

[For http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2015/09/the-edge.html and http://dversepoets.com/2015/09/17/open-link-night/ - come along and play!]

Reflection

I see you there
staring back at me,
wondering if
or where
or how
I’m going
to touch you,

and there are
infinite internet nodes
in between us

so, here I go
trying to connect
my thought
to your being,
trying to elicit
a goose-bump,
a curious blush,
an elevated heartbeat,
a chuckle,

and I await
your reflection.

Hate Poem

I hated the
greeting cards,
love notes,
and ticket stubs
I kept as reminders
long after you left,
so I unceremoniously
dumped them
on the trash heap
with the spoiled milk
and used kitty litter.

I hated that
you had to hide me from
your racist parents
for five years,
and
I hated how
when I tried to learn
their language,
your family made fun
of my pronunciation.

I hated those
Michael Bolton concerts
(yes, plural)
I took you to,
and I want those hours
back.

I hated how much
I tried to demonstrate
my faithfulness,
my love and dedication,
and that it still
only came down
to my paycheck,
and even that
wasn’t big enough.

I hated my weakness
for giving in to intercourse
that one last time,
and I hated
that I intentionally
hatefucked you
with more anger
than I ever knew before.

I hate that
someone convinced me
not to throw out
every single picture,
and that I still have
two snapshots of you,
hidden away,
proof of my failed
seven-year experiment
in self-debasement.

I hate that 21 years later,
I still remember
that September 1st
is your birthday.

[Written for RealToads at http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/]

Every Year at the End of August

Every year
at the end of August,
I try to remember
what life was like
in those weeks
before
that September 11.

I search newspaper archives
for what was happening,
listen to the music
of the day,
I reconstruct
my own recollection,
trying to understand
where we were,
where I was,
to somehow
quantify,
to measure
the effect,
from then
to now.

Every year,
I try but
ultimately decide
it’s pointless,
because no matter
how much my mind
can understand
such historical
artifacts,

my heart,
my soul
only knows the horror,
the division
of life
into segments of
“before 9/11”and
“after 9/11”.

The bumper sticker says
“Never Forget,”
as if I had
a choice in the matter.

[Alicia Keys, from "America: A Tribute to Heroes" 2001]

Welcomed Silence

The saving grace
of the funeral service
is rather than
the awkward volley
of stilted talk
with distant relatives,
it is perfectly
acceptable
to sit silently,
and offer
a supportive smile.

In this rare,
welcomed silence,
it becomes
profoundly clear
there are
no words big enough,
no sentiment tender enough,

to explain
what has been done
to my 49 year old cousin,
Johnny.

Posted for Poets United .

ASMR (Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response)

Chasing that feeling,
that giddy calm
ticklish sensation.

It is something
in the feminine voice,
and it cannot be
demanded.

Take me wherever
you can,
your vibrating
vocal cords
and my submissive
aural surrender.

I cannot prove it,
but I know
it exists.

Feed the Desire

Who are you
waiting for,
by the windowsill
looking up, longing
at that indifferent
moon?

Your thoughts are
dancing in imaginary ballrooms,
lounging in
candlelit hotel rooms,
waiting to slip
in between rented
silk sheets.

The beginning and middle
are always exciting,
but somewhere between
the middle and the end,
the magic vanishes
leaving you with
the moment
of realized sadness,
the emptiness
and thus,
the search begins
again.

Feed the desire
but you'll never satisfy it,
and if you can
it's better to leave it
somewhere off
in the distance,

where the perfume
never stales,
the bottle never empties
and the dream
never awakens.

Commencement (for Sarah)

I’m more thankful
than articulate:

for every doctor
who looked at her
and helped her through
cerebral palsy,
visual spatial deficits,
even the quacks
who made the true healers
shine brighter,

for every therapist
be they medical
or physical
or psychological,
who never lost hope
and kept trying
even though
there were many dark days
and almost as many
misdiagnoses,

for every kind
and loving soul
who wished her well
and didn’t think we were
bad parents because
we didn’t know how
to quell
the inconsolable, crying child
who turned out
lived in depression,
suicidal ideation,
and crushing desolation,

and to those
never relinquished
the dream
that she would be
standing in
the foyer of life
in her graduation robe,
deciding which door
to approach next.

Countrypolitan

The sadder the song
the sweeter the sting;

tales of regret
spun around
countrypolitan arrangements
call to me
as sirens
cutting through the AM static.

Why I am helpless
to I follow them
in bittersweet masochism
though their poignant goodbyes
and scenes of
unrequited splendor?

As I watch my sleeping angel
the answer
comes to me:

once she and I lived in
one of those songs
until the day
I dared to leave
my self-imposed prison
and join my life
to hers.

As the songs play
I hear lessons learned
a little too late
and smile

that
for at least
once in my life

I got it right.

[The definition of countrypolitan, "For the Good Times" by Ray Price.]

[Go post at http://dversepoets.com/ - say hi to Anthony Desmond and buy him a drink!]

Invisible in a Hyperconnected World

This hyperconnected world

makes invisibility an impossibility. You can stay off the grid only if you want to pay for everything in cash and work under the table and not own property, even if it’s only your name. There’s just too much to steal. Give them a SSN, a street address, zip code, mother’s maiden name, 4 digit PIN, your first phone number, or your saliva off a discarded paper cup and they’ll use it to find out everything about you. I change all my passwords once a week, starting Friday at sunset and ending Saturday at sunset. It’s as close to a religious ritual as I observe. I keep all my money in my security mattress, which is made of metal and is fireproof and I change its password every day. No, you may not take my picture. Don’t invite me to the high school reunion. I ignore anything mail from the government. I have no pets, no spouse, no children, no extended family, no surviving kin. I commit everything important to memory, which leaves little room for anything else, but that’s ok because I’m safe, and that’s the most important attribute of all.

My Philosophy of Life (for Brian Miller)

When I was 7
my first poem
was published
by the Fullerton News-Tribune.

I was inspired
by a late-night
tv sermonette
themed
“people are to love
and things are to use.”

It was the first time
I remember pondering
purpose, meaning.

(My grandmother
had the clipping,
ragged and worn,
in her wallet
when she died
25 years later.)

Then came
the long silence
between that poem
and trying to listen
for the voice of God.

Hearing nothing,
I embraced
and espoused atheism,
becoming a
material empiricist.

I embarked on
a life of modest
hedonism,
a suburban epicure.

It made life so rich,
so vibrant,
but ultimately,
it felt empty.

I needed a place
for all my gratitude,
for the roses,
the orgasms,
and the pizzas.

In all those
experiences
I was connecting
to something grander,
something not material,
something divine.

Eventually,
God and I
found each other,
and surprisingly
my philosophy
hasn’t changed much:

Why are we here?
To love
and take care
of one another,

just as God loves
and takes care of me,
and just as I try
to love and take care
of God.

[Written for the great dversepoets.com and my friend, Brian Miller.  Congratulations on getting your Master’s Degree!]