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Hello Friends,

I've moved to a new site: Follow me there!

http://ihatepoetry.blogspot.com


Thanks for your loyal readership,
Moskowitz
ihatepoetry@verizon.net

Some people went to

The Rocky Horror Picture Show

and memorized it.

 

I was always too timid

to venture out that late

among all the self-congratulatory

freaks.

 

But when VHS came about

I was in seventh heaven:

 

memorizing the rhythm

the cadence of

Groucho and Chico

bantering in “Duck Soup”

 

William Holden

leaving Faye Dunaway

with pithy eloquence in

“Network”

 

Dustin Hoffman’s

grand deception

unraveling with

masterful despair

in“Tootsie”

 

Richard Dreyfuss

and Marsha Mason sparring

and falling in “The Goodbye Girl”

set an ideal for dialogue

rarely encountered

in real-life,

 

almost every Woody Allen

film,

(pre-Soon-Yi)

schlmiel neurosis

giving a defiant voice

to this misfit teenager

 

Ray Liotta as

the amoral narrator

in “Goodfellas”

 

Bert Lahr in “The Wizard of Oz”

 

Zero in “The Producers”

 

Linus explaining

the true meaning

of Christmas

 

I’ve lived in

and through

these movies

more than five times

each

 

and now I want

to see them

 

all

 

again.

 


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Night (prompt: evening poem)

Night used to be cells of
unsolicited solitude
but I put the time
to good use.

I read,
wrote songs
and practice
all the clever things
I would say
extemporaneously,
if I was ever lucky enough
to get a date.

I stayed up
late into the night
beside a static-filled
AM radio
and I imagined
I was the only one
tuned into this
distant AM station
paying old country and western tunes.

Night always told me
"Someday.
Someday man, it'll
all be different.

Better."

Now
at the end of the day
filled with
my family
who have no hesitation
in claiming
my every waking hour,

I revel in my solitude,
as I troubleshoot computers,
listen to old C&W songs over
the internet,
write the occasional poem,
and sink deeper
into some library book,

I look out
at the blue purple sky

and realize night
was right.

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It's Still Magic (prompt: song)

I've studied

Burt Bacharach's

"Bond Street"

for 40 years -

 

the quirky, uptempo

funky saxntrumpet

Hammond B-3 riff

that strange Eastern

flavor and the

soaring orchestra

representing

aural transcendence

- even the Gypsy

tambourine

 

and it's only

two minutes long.

 

I've played it

a million times

since I first heard it

when I was 7

and it still makes me

 

stop everything

and surrender

to its mystery.

 

If you know how

a magician

does the trick,

does it make is

any less magical?

 

No,

it's still magic.
 


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Cool Saturday mornings

in spring

I weed the planter

in blissful silence.

 

It’s simple,

tactile.

 

I break the

cold hard ground

and sift the dirt

through my fingers

plucking the weeds

as though they were

errant gray hairs.

 

The same ground

worked and farmed by

my Mexican ancestors

and the Mestizos before them

and the Indios before them

and the Aztecs…

 

I am connected

to that eternal continuum

of hands digging

into this Earth.

 

It is almost

a mindless activity,

peaceful,

this private haven

that I own

 

and I smile

at my self-deception

and audacity:

 

to think

I own this land

that was here

long before

all my ancestors

 

and will outlast us all.

 

My name’s just

on the deed

 

for now.



 

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"Everybody wants to be
a musician
but how many actually
get a job doing it?"

"I really want
to read more books
but it hurts my eyes."

"Nah, it doesn't
matter to me if
you don't wanna
have kids. 
You can't miss
what you've never
had."

"Sure, I believe
in God but
I just don't want
to go to church.
I did all that
stuff when I was
a kid."

"If you're gonna
get married
you have to know
how to take
a punch."

"To apologize
to your mother
is the biggest
mistake you can
ever make."

"One of these days
you're gonna meet
a pretty little girl
and you're gonna
start dating her
and before you know it
she's gonna be
pregnant and then
how're you gonna
pay for it all?"

"Go into electronics.
I know about that
field and there's all
kinds of jobs there."

"Do you know why I
bought this carpet colored
gold?
Because I want you
to treat it like
gold!"

"Don't waste your vote,
Vote for Perot!"

"What you eat in private
shows in public."

"Thank you, mijo,
your reward will be
in Heaven."

Disappointed (prompt: looking back)

I want to deny
we ever existed
but that is
giving us
a cachet that we
did not earn.

We can admit it now:

after six years of dating
neither of us
wanted to get married
but we went on with it
anyway because we didn’t
want to lose face or
our deposit.

Even our honeymoon
in romantic San Francisco
lost its steam after
the first day.

Being married to you
was the hardest
141 days of my life.

Even as it unraveled
and I asked you to fight
for our marriage
you just defaulted out
with silent, apathetic
shrugs.

I always wanted it
to be better than it
ever was
and I was always
disappointed.

Even today,
I gave in to curiosity
and paid 10 bucks
to an Internet company
to show me your addresses
and employment history
for the past 15 years,
and all that came up
was your parents’ address.

So,
after all these years,

Lan Anh,
you’re still a big let-down.

Sherri Dunn (prompt: name in title)


If I say we are
less like cousins
and more like siblings
that’s self-serving
on my part.

When she speaks
it’s a bubbling stream
of chaotic joking,
uncertain confirmation,
hopefulness and love.

She comes off
likes a bubble headed
bottle blonde,
but I know the truth.

Through it all,
the abused childhood
and neglected teenage years,
the “college” widowhood
and now the onset of lupus
she survived and
fought back
the only way
she could.

With love
she raised
Amanda, Carissa and Melanie
and their light-
her joyful sunlight-
will shine and
shine and
shine
long after
Sherri has moved on.

The ability to
take all the sadness
all the darkness
and turn it into
double bright
sunlight and laughter,
isn’t magic,

It’s heroic.

Sherri and her Dad

I apologize in advance

for the weakness

of the most recent offerings.

 

Life has been

throwing hell

at me

and I’ve been

waving a white flag.

 

Give me enough time

and I’ll try to turn this excrement

into gold

but I make no promises.

 

However,

to all my loyal readers

who see me

and steal my invisibility,

your slightest notice

sends me into a drug like high.

 

Merely being seen

keeps me going

when I cannot understand

the  point of any of it.

 

Nothing is better than

someone telling me

I have touched them.

 

It’s the ultimate triumph 

of my spirituality over materialism.

 

I am transcendent

typing mad fury

these stray thoughts knowing

there is some understood

underlying code

in all this spilled blood.

 

I keep trying to make connections

because it doesn’t matter

if you’re in public library in New York

or a jail cell in Texas

a bakery in Oregon

a pub I Australia

 

for a moment

we are in the same place

and it feels good to me.


The Duty of Science (prompt: science)

Science

tries to wrestle
some control
and predictability

into this
chaotic
madness,

a million formulae
and the solution
is still incomplete

not so far
from
the folly that is

Poetry.


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