Not Everyone

Not everyone seeks to praise the wounded world.
Some can only write in the alphabet of trauma
Until even beauty is a scar and a temporary comma
In a gush of grievances that would unnerve the Dali Lama.
But there are still things deserving of our praise.
You don’t have to ignore the gaze of suffering
To adore the butterfly fluttering in the garden.
And to realize that you too are in need of a pardon.



In Defense of Light Verse

God forgive those insufferable writers
Who are always writing too much!
Mere length doesn’t mean they are brighter
Than my last line that ends with a punch.

My Daddy was a Cowboy

I never knew my dad after I
never heard from him either.
I grew curious about a man who
I’d never seen but who loomed inside
my dreams. I could see him riding
down a dusty road on a horse from the sunset.
I watched him ride close to me
/and I knew it was him. There he was on a
his great mare, he gave his hand to me and
pulled me in front of him. Dad told me
to hold on tight and don't be frightened.
We flew away, Everything moved hard and fast.
I felt his body pressed to mine, but he never spoke a sound.
My father passed his hand over my shoulders
and placed my head on his chest. I
felt his heart pounding. We galloped
away. We watched the road ahead, Dad
lit up a Winston cigarette.
I wanted more from him. I wished to confess all my
him my dreams and fears and all the
secrets I carried in my pocket that I
never told anyone. I begged
him to stay but he vanished into his own world.
My Dad was never a real cowboy but
he belonged in his own place in time where the
sky was always blue and people were few
and far between.

"Sign of the Times"

You made it
back to your apartment.

Roof torn off.
Night sky peeking in.

You strip
and lay on your wet mattress.

Counting your cuts and bumps,
realizing you're better off than most.

Don’t Be Grim, Mr. Reaper


Mr. Reaper, sorry to interrupt you at the hospice doorway, 
but I’m seventy-eight and before it’s too late, I’d like to say
you need the cunning of my illustrious P.R. career
to create an image that doesn’t make mortals tremble with fear.
Look in a mirror at your skeletal self. Is this your preference?
I used to spin corporate maleficence into acts of beneficence,
so I don’t think it’s grievous folly
to want to re-brand you from Grim to Jolly?
Not to distress you with body dysmorphia disorder,
but wouldn’t flesh on your bones diminish your horror,
and what about a blue cape instead of a black shroud,
and a brown skimmer hat with a ribbon to make you proud?
Banish your steed to the glue factory, ride a melodious motorbike,
ditch the blood-dripping scythe. Who wants to appear ghostlike?
Play a jaunty tune on an accordion, dance into a sickroom, 
spread toe-tapping joy instead of thunder-clapping doom.
To the beat of the “Beer Barrel Polka,” harvest their dear souls, 
pose for selfies, leave them laughing until their bell tolls.
Wait! Please don’t wag your bony finger at me, Mr. Reaper!
It’s not my turn to be a rotting eternal sleeper.
Even if you hate my glorious marketing plan,
can’t you at least grab me with a velvet-gloved hand?

There’s a Divine Dance (and We’re in It)

There’s a divine dance and we're in it. We might as well sing along, forgive, set free the bothers,the bitchy stuff. Whatever the tune, folk, funk, punk and pop make something out of nothing.They’re threats to anything or anyone who doesn’t want us to feel good about ourselves. Man inventing his precious eternity made an easy ending impossible. Love isn’t the stuff of words or books or reason. It is. Most times, healing takes a lot more than Band-Aids. When the light comes off something slightly differently than it ever has before, it can be seen in a whole new way.

Hula-Hoop Girl
 

sprawled out in the grass at a music festival
my teenage daughter beside me
the kind of scene where a lawn chair
would indicate advanced age
     and I’m a liar
feeling nostalgic for the days
when laying in grass was a joy
when the itchiness didn’t matter
when getting upright again wouldn’t be a challenge
when ticks were not a worry
 
You spun in circles
fifty feet away from us
the only entertainment before the music started
regaled in denim bell-bottoms and a flowered top
a hula-hoop flowing from hips to arms to neck
     flawless
a scene that has me feeling nostalgic
although nostalgia indicates presence
I’m estimating twenty years on you
and this scene is indicative of my parent’s youth
 
Your auburn hair
caught in the sunlight
caught in a past that
     we weren’t alive for

I Get Hard


just thinking about her
2 states away
in love with someone else

no matter how hot it gets
it’s the end of summer
no matter

the ceiling fan lethargic
while somewhere
dark, deep, brooding,
esoteric

an earthquake considers
rebirth



The Critique


We were on a bus
Crushed in there with the foreign tourists
Cruising west on Santa Monica Blvd
Hurtling through Beverly Hills through
The wooded area where the tourists
Were using their phones to take
Pictures of the Beverly Hills sign
I noticed a number of rather vulgar sculptures
I turned to her and said
Look at all that trash disguised as art
These rich motherfuckers have no taste
And she turned to me and said
What are you talking about
There’s all kinds of perfect sculptures
She waved her hand at the window vaguely
Look at them all, can’t you see?
She had this glassy look in her eyes
She was talking about the trees
I looked out at the trees whooshing by
I looked at her with her glazed eyes
And I thought How do I always end up
With hippie girlfriends?

Death of the Father
 
Windows and walls
can’t contain all that runs
through this house,
a waterfall that never
ceases, fills up every room,
every corner, every crack,
spills into the streets.
Neighbors wade through it
without noticing, drive cars,
walk, jog, ride bicycles.
For the family, there is no
lifeguard, no lifejacket, no life
that can be conceived in the
After – only the Before
of memories.

Only In America

Poor man, he works his situation to his benefit.
Walks to the highway with a cardboard sign:
NO CAR, TWO KIDS, TWO HUNGRY CATS,
GOT NO FOOD, GOT NO JOB.  PLEASE HELP.
Not a lie.  The Mercedes in the shop for an oil change.
His two kids are full grown with families of their own,
Neither one lives with him and both have good jobs.
He doesn't have any food.  He just pigged at Applebee's.
He retired last month with a pension and Social Security.
The only car that stopped to help him took his sign,
Robbed him of his shoes and followed him home.
They took his cats to make immigrant stew.

dunwu

you gotta go
through
years of misery
and stupidity
to achieve

sudden enlightenment
and realize
that life is just
a waste of time