The Nineties

There were still
payphones

and you could watch tv
over the air
for free
with a bent coat hanger
for an antenna,

and there were
countless chat lines offering
respite from loneliness
for $3 a minute,

and his name was still
Prince,

and OJ was not guilty
of murder,
but then he was responsible
for Nicole and Ron’s death,

and there were still
bookstores
and record stores
and video stores,

and I was still
young and single
and spent money
like time,
and days
like water,

and everything
I thought was
so fast,
now moves slowly
through my mind
as a lumbering dinosaur,
bathing my memories
in a romantic,
dreamlike patina,

or so it seems
from the vantage point
of this on-demand culture
I find myself
running alongside
just to stay current.

I Pray

It's not my business
where the prayer goes
after it’s released.

Still
I find myself
searching for a place
outside
of my ego
to send
my thanks
and modest petitions.

When the smoke
clears away,
at the end of play
at the end of the day,
I pray,

and take my place
among the strivers,
the jivers,
the connivers,
the late arrivers,
and the stay alivers.

Counter-Terrorism Strategy

[The tv goes click]

“What’s that?

Human madness
running through
the smoke and confusion,
blood and anguish,
screams and cries.

Another attack?
A suicide bomber?
Hm.

They found an
un-detonated belt?
Well,
that’s something new.

It matters
less and less.

I was wondering when
the latest threat
was due.

No,
if they’re trying to scare us,
a random explosion
in an airport
a thousand miles away
won’t do.

Hell, they shot up
a Christmas party
20 miles away
and that barely held our attention
until December 17th.

Sure,
I’m angry and
I’m outraged,
but I won’t let them
see my tears,
my fears.

I cannot.

I watch
from a distance
and keep hidden
these wounds,
refusing to let them see
what  it’s doing to me.

If I let them
kill my soul,
my body will
surely follow.”

If I Could Fly, I'd Find You (for Anita)

The sky is bright
yellow and blue
and if  I could fly
I’d find you,

and we’d glide high
over the freeway,
past all the traffic
in the beach
parking lot,
to find that spot
that’s too far away
for people to walk to,

and I’d be the
richest bird
in all the world,
our basket
full of insect snacks
and sugar water,

and we'd share this
private shoreline,
just you,
my fine feathered
lovebird
and me.

It’d be
the one gift
that everyone
would covet:

time alone,
all alone,
watching
the infinite waves

crash and retreat
crash and retreat,

content to breathe in
the ocean spray,

and you’d still
love me,
even if I were
only a cuckoo.

Are You Really Experienced?

I saw her
in the bookstore
but she didn’t see me.

We went
to junior high school
together
but she fell off
the radar screen.

It was four years later
and I was
a high school graduate.

I knew a thing
or two
and I was going
to the university
next fall.

I won
a national
student journalism award
and gave the commencement address
at my high school graduation.

Most importantly,
I lost 50 pounds
and I started dating
and maybe even
broke a heart or two.

Yes, the world
was my oyster
back in that
summer of 1981.

So,
I stealthily
snuck up
behind her
and said

“Teri?”

She turned around
and smiled
“Hi”
crooking her head
in an inexplicably
cute way.

The conversation flowed
and I knew
she’d say yes,
so I looked
for an open window
to toss my invitation
into

and just as I was
about to ask her out,
she said

“Would you like
to meet
my son?”

As if on cue,
like a perfectly planned
prank,
a brown-headed
preschooler came ambling
around the corner,
holding a book out
to his Mom.

Dumbstruck,
my words stumbled,
I stammered out
a compliment or two,
and made a graceless,
hasty retreat.

Suddenly,
I didn’t feel
as sophisticated
or experienced
anymore,

but on the other hand,
I wasn’t
so embarrassed
that I was still
a virgin.

[For Open Link Night at D'verse Poets at http://dversepoets.com/2016/03/17/openlinknight-168/]

Driving Through the Fog (for Sarah)

All fog
does not come in
on little cat feet,
resting on silent haunches
over dark, picturesque harbors.

Some fog is
unforgiving, maddening,
dangerous and dense.

When driving through
such fog,
slow down.

So much
unintentional damage
can be done
with one wrong reflex,
to one unseen victim,
especially to yourself.

If you can’t witness
the fog
safely and serenely
from a distance,
pull over
and let it pass.

No,
all fog does not
come in
on little cat feet.

Sometimes
it masquerades
as anger
or depression
or relentless pain.

Don’t let it
drive you
into the side
of a mountain.

Roar/Shock

Serious business,
this Christianity.

Willingly,
I traded
my skepticism
for the Holy Trinity,
and gambled
that I'd find
something that
I could not find
any
other
way.

I was new,
hungry 
to find my answer,
my place
in this family.

Flash forward
nine years:

I read the entire bible
(took seven years),
countless tracts,
books, blogs
trying to
untie the mystery.

The mystery
still exists, but
this I believe:

God is neither
frightening
nor boring
nor grim.

God is a metaphor,
(or perhaps an
extended allegory),
not intended for
literal interpretation,
pointing the way
to something,
someplace
wordless and inspiring.

Like the movie
"Eraserhead",
or a Jackson Pollack
action painting,
or any breathtaking art,
God is a Rorschach test,

a outward projection
of our inner selves:

So, then
my God must be
beautiful,
funky,
explosive,
funny,
creative,
loving,
forgiving
and alive.

Nines

I look for
nines
everywhere.

My birth month,
my birth date
a multiple thereof,
my year in the century,
yet another multiple
of nine.

The highest digit
to stand on its own.

Perfect multiples
18, 1+8;
27, 2+7,
36, 3+6,
you get it.

Even 9 times 564,821=5,083,389,
which breaks down to
5+0+8+3+3+8+9=36
36 becomes 3+6,
it's damned near magic.

Just before
the odometer
clicks over
into a milestone,
the nine holds on
for just
one
more
moment.

The whole nine yards.
Picking up
a nine-pin spare.
Lennon's #9 Dream.

Thesis, antithesis, synthesis
(count the syllables).

Is there any number
better than nine?

Nein!

[Written for http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2016/03/kerry-says-lets-count-on-our-fingers.html ]

Holy Communion

Everywhere I look
I see the flock
lost in their prayers:

young and old
rich and poor
Jew and Gentile.

Each in holy communion
huddled around
their electronic beads,
their mutant rosaries.

Speaking in tongues
to unseen companions,

each believer
in holy solitude
connected
to something greater
than themselves.

In gratitude
they offer
the abstract sacrifice
of their time.

At last,
the world is of one accord.

Bridging the gap
between human loneliness
and cosmic emptiness
is this
God With a Hundred Names:

Verizon.
AT&T.
T-Mobile.
Sprint.

[Posted for http://dversepoets.com/2016/03/03/open-link-night-167/ ]

On the Slick, Black Rock at Monterey Haibun (May 2002)

In the gray fog of dawn, on the rocks at Monterey, I thought of the woman I left, with all the blood and messy entanglements of heartbreak. I also thought about the woman with whom I’d recently fallen in love.  When this newly-found romance tried to bloom, pangs of guilt kept my joy confined. Lost in this misty, damp morning, the fog enveloped me, forgave me, encouraged me. Then and there, on the slick black rock, I decided to start a new chapter, the best chapter, of my life.

The view through the bars
might appear discouraging;
it was never locked.

Reality TV Emotional Epiphanies, Explained

It's all
in the
editing.

The Hypochondriac Speaks

How I hate to visit
Urgent Care,
as unseen germs float
in virulent air,
and nothing I can do
will quell my despair,
just find a safe spot
and try not to stare.

I know you can't control it,
but try covering your sneeze.
By the look of your symptoms,
no one wants your disease.
On my left, he's burning up
On my right, she's in the freeze.
Hurry, doctor, hurry,
I'm feeling weaker by degrees.

My chest is feeling tighter,
Please make this wait more fast.
Finally, they called my name,
Thank God, some care, at last!
Check my vitals, ask a few things,
It's worse than thought, alas!
What I thought was a myocardial infarction,
turned out to be only gas.

Polished Dancing Shoes

Still yourself
until you feel
the vibration.

Sharpen your senses
until you can hear
the thrumming,
pulsing life
in every living
being.

Listen to the world
turning on
its weary, aged axis
and attune your breathing
appropriately.

It may feel like
a night lasting a year,
but it is only
darkness,

and just when
you’ve adjusted
to it,
a flash will blind you
for a moment,

and out of the glare
a meadow will bloom,
the ocean will sing,
and your heart will know
the music
of the spheres,

this planet
whirling in
its blue-black space,
within a larger galaxy,
twirling within
this infinite cosmos,

and when that happens
you’ll be ready
to put those
polished dancing shoes
to good use.

[Inspired by Belinda's post at http://busymindthinking.com .]

Finding 1974

Climbing

over the mountain

of memories,

it looks more like

the city dump,

everything tossed

about,

no rhyme,

no reason,

no hope

of ever

finding 1974

and the

innocent skin,

the naive eyes

I once possessed

before the erections,

insecurities,

and self-abnegation

took me hostage

for the next

few decades

and refused

to let go.

One Week Shy of 26 Years

I am the sexy line of
Long Island Ice Teas
and the salacious,
intoxicated solicitations
that never happened.

I am the morning
Bloody Mary
with raw egg and Tabasco
as a cure for the hangover
that never came.

I am the frosty can of
ice cold beer
waiting in the 90 degree
afternoon heat
that I never opened.

I am the nondescript
bargain whiskey
on self-pitying lonely
and moonless nights
that never left the bottle.

I am
one week shy of
26 years of sobriety,
but on days
like today,
I want her so badly
that I can only
define who I am
but what
I don’t drink.

Raincloud Haibun

She tried to process what he'd just said, but all she kept thinking was "it's not good having a 4 o'clock meeting on a Friday afternoon with your boss."  Breaking her reverie, she looked up and heard him say "I have to flatten the organizational tree in higher administration." What the hell does that mean?He proudly championed his commitment to diversity, but here he was telling here that in the upcoming reorg, there was no room for a woman of color who has been with the organization 28 years.  He spoke some more, but her shock left her temporarily numb and mentally elsewhere. Gathering her thoughts and her dignity, she waited for a break in his monologue, and said "I think we're done here," and walked back to her office.

Rain can fall or storm,
ultimately, it brings growth;
the clouds never stay.





[First #haibun attempt, photo by BusyMindThinking (many thanks as it inspired this writing).

Nightmare (Twelve Problems)

I awaken
in darkness
alone in my bed
(problem #1),
and I hear someone,
something,
slamming against
the front door
(problem #2).

The alarm wails
(problem #3)
and before
I can panic,
the familiar
beep-beep-beep-beep
of the code
is entered
which quells
the alarm
(problem #4).

I call out
"who is it?"
and there is
no response
(problem #5)
save for the sound
of breathing
and the opening
and closing
of kitchen drawers
(problem #6).

I attempt
"Who's there?"
but my voice
suddenly strained,
is whisper quiet,
(problem #7),
and I hear
the familiar squeak
of the knife drawer
(problem #8).

I try to kick off
the blankets,
but I'm inexplicably,
inextricably,
tucked in
(problem #9),
as heavy footsteps
plod up the stairs
to my room
(problem #10).

In the moonlight
I see the glint
of the blade
in the hand
of the approaching intruder
(problem #11),
as my body,
frozen in fear,
eyes closed hard,
awaits the plunge
(problem #12).

The Un-Commented Upon Post

Inspiration wafted by
and grabbed imagination
by the collar
and they wrestled
and rode each other
naked and sweaty
until conception
was complete.

During gestation,
the second draft
brought needed
revisions
until finally,
this child,
their beautiful offspring
was ready.

Press “Publish”
and wait.

Every baby
in this nursery appears,
more or less,
the same,
and a hundred more
were born
since you started
reading this.

What did you expect?
It’s just a blog post.

It’s not like
you cured cancer.

[Written for http://dversepoets.com/2016/01/28/image-ine-dverse-meeting-the-bar/, inspired by your Hostess, Victoria C. Slotto]

The Night Watchmen

The night watchmen
see it all.

They slip into midnight,
their natural hue,
and witness the hunger,
the desperation
of those who live
and scurry by night,
but don’t do
or say anything about it.

Their slick black
trench coats
make each one
indistinguishable
from the other.

Last night,
they witnessed
a break-in
at the printers,
a break-up
after the bar closed,
and a breakout
from the county prison.

They betray no one,
they have no code.

In the dawn
they gather
in their murder,
but there is
no conspiracy,

each crow
searching the morning’s
detritus,
stray fast food wrappers,
uncovered garbage cans,
just looking for
something to eat.

The Unacceptable Weirdos

Give me
the unacceptable weirdos,
those artists
sweaty, passionate
and forever
misunderstood.

I don't believe artists
who look like
movie stars
or fashion models,
because they always had
other options.

An artist
so ugly that
all they have
is their talent,
their lifetime isolation,
and their pulsating pain;
I find
in these outcasts,
succor
and understanding.

This is the story
I tell myself:
I'm not a pretty boy.
I'm an ugly,
unacceptable weirdo,
so therefore,
I must be talented.

Anyone else
see the flaw
in my logic?