The Fan Letter

Dear Buddha,

First off,
I'm a real big fan
of your writing.

I especially like
how you don't use
words that are too big.

I don't usually read
poetry,
but I can understand
yours,
so I think
it's pretty good. 

I think I know why
you don't put your picture
on your site.

From your poems,
I figure you're pretty
insecure
about your body
and face.

I understand: I'm an
uggo too.

I also like
that your poems
are funny,
especially the ones
about your first marriage

(like the one when
your ex wife asked you
not to kiss her so much
during your
wedding reception!)

I need to
confess something to you:

for the past three months
I've been taking
your love poems
and giving them
to my girlfriend,
telling her that
I wrote them for her.

Guess what?
I've gotten more pussy
with your poems
than I did with Axe body spray,
and that's saying something.

So you'll understand why
I don't publicize your site.

Anyways thanks, bro,
David

The Longing

Those beautiful
mid-century homes
I grew up walking past,
dreaming of
are still there.

My longing to know
how life is
within those walls
still lingers. 

I resist the urge
to peer inside,
enjoying the mystique
and fantasy,

knowing the reality
will never measure up
to a lifetime
of delicious wondering.

I Kill Myself Nightly

I do not count on
being reborn everyday,

so I kill myself nightly,
and collect the days' missteps,
wipe away the unnecessary
ugly sentiments,
the emotional fecal matter
from the bung hole
of my self.

I cherry pick
the two or three
good moments
of my day,
the divine reminders
of charity and grace
and take their snapshot,

and in my evening
prayers,
I place them on the pyre
of impermanence
of regret
and light that holy mess
on fire.

The evil ashes
float to heaven
for forgiveness,
and the near gold
is heated in the hope,
that it will become
purified,

and I take these
few shiny nuggets
and start again
upon awakening.

The time is at hand
for my nightly sacrifice
of self-destruction.

See you in the morning.

Remember Me

“I know your world
is full of
noisy details
and there’s always something
or someone trying
to get your attention,
but, please,
remember me.

When you see
a rose,
breathe in
its sweet scent
and remember me.

If you see
a skating chimpanzee
wearing a tuxedo
and smoking a cigar,
laugh and
remember me.

When you hear
“The Tears of a Clown”
by the Miracles,
remember me.

If you remember me,
then I’ll always
be with you,
alive in your world,
neither gone
nor forgotten.

Remember,
this wasn't my idea,
and don’t blame the
public defender;
we all know
I was framed,
but that doesn't matter
now.

I know
I have to go now,
but,

remember that impossibly
bright summer day
when we went
to Newport Beach,
and we just watched
the waves,
and we breathed in
the sea breeze
until the sun went down?

Well,
thank you
for letting me
love you,

for letting me know
how sweet
it all could be.

I’ll wait for you
on the other side
of that sun.”

Burlesquing My Soul

I started out
wanting to be
a song and dance man,
an entertainer.

I haven't
the hubris
to assume
you'll follow me
down the
rabbit hole
of vague,
inscrutable
imagery and
poetic conceit,
so I just try
to amuse
with the
workman's toolkit of
humor and pathos,
sex and violence.

I need
an audience
for confirmation,
so I'll sing,
dance,
and in desperation,
burlesque my way
into a motley strip tease,
revealing my
naked soul,
every hairy orifice
and unflattering bulge
on freakish display,
hoping you won't
turn away
and find someone else.

I don't write about
the horsetails in Asia,
or a church bell's lonesome tail,
or anything noble
like that;
its most just about
me.

Seemingly, in humility
I don't describe myself
a poet,
but rather a documentarian
and my only subject
is me,

which,
upon reflection,
is hubris
in its purest form.

Masuda is Dead

Masuda is dead

and I am sometimes

caught off guard

knowing that he isn't

in his wheelchair

somewhere I Oregon,

a phone call away.

I mourn because

sometimes I avoided his calls

because I knew he was going

to ask me for money

and how do you say no

to a man with

an incurable illness?

When I was an atheist

he told me I was

one of the most

Christian people he knew.

We went through

graduate school together,

he also wrote poetry

and he was able to crank out

entire books

thanks to the manic part of

his bipolarity.

He was Vince Neal

until 18, when he

accidentally learned

he was adopted

from a Japanese-Norwegian

couple named Masuda.

He was a red-headed

mountain of a man

who loved Jesus

and still considered himself

married, a Catholic,

even though his wife

threw him out

a decade ago

for philandering.

In many ways

he was a cautionary tale,

but he was also

just another broken kid

who wrote brutally honest poetry

about social injustice

about the challenge of the Christ

about getting raped at five years old.

Now

he’s free

from the vasculitis,

from the diabetes,

from the poverty,

from this moribund

life sentence.

The last thing

he told me

was to read

“Ragman and

Other Cries of Faith”

and I told him

I would.

It arrived

months ago,

but I haven’t

opened it,

as if somehow

my reading it

would somehow

close the door

on him forever.

I’ll get to it

someday,

when I’m not so

weepy.

Me and Johnny Masuda, August 2005.

[If you want to buy Johnny's book, I think it's still available at lulu.com .]

Tools

These words,

differ little

from the crayon butts

that scribbled something

indecipherable,

the photographs

that tried

freezing reality,

the keys

that rose and fell

in stumbling arpeggios,

the scratch

of the strings

on my $20 guitar

when I was 13.

They were just

the tools

I had at the moment

to help

capture the parade,

and maybe

understand

that which may be

a cosmic

absurd joke

after all.

Still

while I love my tools,

I cannot forget

that after all

the songs,

poems, cartoons,

jokes,

my life is more than

these things.

My life is to be

a vessel

bringing

understanding,

compassion,

the overflowing chesed

from above

through me

out in all directions,

infinitely.

When I remember this

perspective,

I am properly

humbled

and happily accept

that I am a tool.

[For #OpenLinkNight at @dversepoets.com - my favorite place for poetry on the internet.]

Come the Flowers

From the cold

and dark season

every year

come the flowers.

I envy their

uncontested beauty,

their grandeur and attitude,

as they bloom

without restrain

or shame,

knowing they are

the most beautiful

in the world

for a time.

Those with

provocative splashes of

orange,

reds and purples

excite me most,

with full curves

and unrestrained,

mysterious

allure.

They attract every

living thing,

especially

monsters with

huge nostrils,

who want to possess,

consume,

and inadvertently

kill them.

Worship them

from afar,

and love them

on their own terms,

as the proof

of Divinity

that they are.

Emptying

I am emptying
myself

of all things comprising
myself

in an attempt to
be the most perfect
servant,

but I’ll never know
if I reach it

because
by then
I would have lost,
I should have lost

my name,
my personal pronouns,
myself.

On Some Nights

He kisses her
goodnight
and on some nights
she kisses back.

He always tries
a second kiss,
to gauge her interest.

Most nights
her eyes are tired
and glazed over,

and he feels like he’s
kissing a dummy,

but more likely
it’s the
other way around.

Cigar Meditation

I lean back
in the chair,

and light a cigar,

feeling a kinship

to my Spanish-speaking abuelito

and Groucho Marx.

Sucking in the smoke,

a joy, exotic and ephemeral,

like an amorphous nipple,

I let it slither out,

amusing myself

with its heavenward

curling gray path.

I take a sip

from the tumbler

of apple cider vinegar

and honey

over ice cubes

pretending it is a cocktail,

because even though

it too, is an acquired taste,

it doesn’t provide

the liberating

slippery feeling

of real booze.

I inhale,

then put the smoke down.

I sip,

then let the honegar slide slowly down.

I ponder the

future destination

of the sun

as it sinks

predictably

and dispassionately

over countless stories

that I’ll hear someday,

maybe.

This ritual

forces me to slow down,

to remember

that some things

remain unchangeable

and to accept them

as they are,

or waste your time trying.

I learned early on

you can’t smoke

a cigar quickly,

but then again,

why would you?

New Masters (a sijo)

We buy the smartphones, unaware we are buying new masters.

The app store tempts our vanity with personalization.

Soon, we all are narcissists, looking in our handheld mirrors.

[Written for #formforall at dversepoets.com - a poetry lovefest online!]

Simple (Gracia, 1983)

1983 was

a simpler time,

and our love

was simple.

There were

no needless

complications.

No sex

(we were both

too scared),

we knew

we couldn’t

handle that.

Sitting with her

in the shade

at Hillcrest Park

on that May afternoon

was enough,

leaning on each other,

gazing at

an ever-receding

horizon.

Her laughter,

her chestnut brown hair

in the breeze,

her full, deep gaze

were all I needed.

It went by

so quickly.

Just as leaves

don’t fight

to stay

on their branches,

we didn’t fight

our inevitable

parting.

I think about her

every Spring,

thankful

that even our goodbye

was simple.

I’m sure

she wouldn’t

recognize me

today.

She knew me

before all the drama,

all the unnecessary

damage,

before all the

complications.

She loved me

when my heart was

simple.

The Voice

I first heard the Voice

as it transported

my mother out of her

unfulfilling, suburban agenda,

lifting her above

the detritus,

to dream the

impossible, often necessary

dreams

that true gifts

truly inspire.

For a glided season

he entertained the world,

smiling on cue,

pelvis swiveling,

hitting every note,

raking in riches,

his prodigious talent

the stuff of legends,

susceptible to

inevitable caricature.

As the love of the masses

waned,

he toiled on,

near obscurity,

to some,

an artistic pariah,

but the true believers

knew he was

biding his time.

Decades passed

and he outlived his critics,

naysayers silent

as he assumed the throne

with long-denied grace.

His crown

is now a shock of white,

and he possesses the wisdom

of a life lived hard,

sometimes even squandered,

and he rules

with the passion of David

and the wisdom of Solomon,

holding scales

balancing praise and blame.

If you came late

to his kingdom,

just bow your head

and join me

as I listen to him

preach and prophesy

from the tower of Song.

[Posted for #openlinknight at dversepoets.com - come along and surf a poetry wave!]

The Longest Wait

Time brings

everything

at the same

steady pace,

as if life

were on a conveyer belt,

and I could see

10 am Saturday,

Pop’s memorial service

off in the distance,

sitting there,

just a day past his

viewing,

which I also

didn’t want.

It was

the longest wait

between his death

on Monday

until Saturday,

mostly because

I didn’t know

how it was

going to feel.

Eventually

Thursday,

Friday, then

Saturday came,

and before I knew it

the tributes were made,

the body was buried

and everyone was back

at my Mom’s house.

It too, had passed

right on by,

just like so

much of life

if you’re not

watching closely.

Now,

that his death is

years down

the conveyer belt,

I still miss him

and have the occasional,

merciful dream of him,

and understand

that I am now

only fourteen years into

the longest wait.