New Cat Poem

This is my cat, Maurice’s poem. He died a few months ago after about 17 years. He was a black cat born on October 31st. I’ve shared it with a few friends. In some respects it’s the first poem I wrote in years, simply because it’s different than the other poems I’ve written in the past couple of years. I did steal the idea from Billy Collins; he wrote a poem through his dog’s voice. Why I would steal anything from that guy, someone who accused me of being a simile machine I have no idea. Poet laureate—eh, what does he know. Kidding--it was a useful comment; not for the poem we were talking about but….

Pet me, you fool

Why did you call me Maurice?
It’s an okay name
but even though you remember
your 7th grade
French dictée
your pronunciation, save tien,
is intelligible.
When others asked why you named me Maurice
you said that I told you that was my name,
I did no such thing
I didn’t talk to you for at least two weeks,
and you named me after only 2 days.
People kept leaving your condo
and your life,
what happened to that 1st girl
that you lived with?
The one that was allergic to me,
but loved me almost as much as you.
After my first 11 months
she stayed in bed a lot
got skinny
bloated up
right before she disappeared.
She smelled of chemicals,
she left one day
with a long thin tube in her arm
and never came back.
I liked her,
hoped I’d see her again.

Then there was that woman that came
every few months for five years,
once she stayed for two weeks
and on the14th she cried and screamed at you.
I thrust a claw in her leg,
she was annoying and I thought you might like that
but you cried that night,
and then again for her years later
so perhaps the claw thing was not a good idea.


Then there was the guy with dreds
he stayed for 9 months,
I liked him and his youthfulness.
You two spun a lot of music,
our condo was the happiest it had been
since that 1st girl
but maybe it was because you two
smoked a lot of pot.
I liked teasing him, pretending
I was a crazed cat.
Once I cornered him
and two friends,
he propped up his mattress
barricaded all of them
in a corner.

How about that woman
who came and sat next to you
while you endlessly played
that damn computer game?
She’d sit silently
for hours watching
until you cried,
she and I talked a lot with our eyes
about the 1st girl.
I liked her too
she smoked too much.

Then my step brother
that dog stayed with us for 5 years,
you went away for a week
someone with a key
took him.
He never came back home,
I missed him like Dorothy did the Scarecrow,
we always played
chased each other continuously
from the living room to the bedroom
until I’d get
my nail stuck in his chest
then we’d sit still,
at attention
until you gently pried us lose.
He was nice to curl next to in winter
to sit next to on the window seat,
we used to think about the passing cars together.

Now that I’m gone
to the hole in your backyard
I hope you can keep
someone in your life consistently.




I still might rework this a few times, but I like it now. Well, the title I’m not so sure about, but I’m whimsical. I’m like an annoying parent with my poems, tugging at them straightening their ties, seldom leaving them alone. I’m just hoping to find the right image for the blog site

Dating To The Internet's Melody

When did dating via the internet become so provincial? I remember when I first went on AOL. People had been telling me about chat rooms for years. I couldn’t completely grasp the concept or their appeal, even though my best friend at the time was such a chat room whore. He praised their benefits because he’d met a lot of women in various chat rooms. Some were probably fairly normal—while a significant number were licentious. I only maintain that deduction because of what came to be my own experience.

My friend stayed with me for a few months, when he was between houses. His estranged wife finally put him out for years of smoking crack, losing his job, and finally getting arrested. After being released, he had no place else to go. Having proven himself irresponsible for a number of years to a myriad of people, both friends and family, left him few viable options. He was forced to come out west where I lived in LA. Don’t we all follow Greeley’s command and end up out West? When he stayed with me he’d lock himself in my room downloading porn; he shared some bestiality pics with me on several occasions. It’s amusing to look at those images once or twice—they’re outrageous, but really that cartoon bubble above your head is mostly saying, “Eeeww!”

Once I ventured in the chat room realm I found it easy to engage women in conversations, subtly tuning them in the direction of my fantasy, making my fantasy their fantasy. Clearly, I wanted to get them hot and bothered, to steer them in the direction of a randy conversation, creating an atmosphere of either, I want to screw your brains out, or I want to make love to you depending on their personality and proclivities. I suppose being articulate, and a story teller by trade, has its advantages. That’s what you do teaching high school English, you basically tell stories. For a number of years I’ve explained themes and characterization of 19th century novels to hyperactive or apathetic students in a way that held their interest. My problem is that I’m too psychologically unbalanced to avoid having my mouth write a check that my ass can’t cash with regards to women. So, yes my mouth often gets my ass in trouble. More times than I care to admit I’ve found myself in an embrace, wrestling on the couch or sprawled on someone’s bed, then suddenly, without warning, announce, “I have to leave.” Half the time I don’t answer the door for people I do know. It’s all part of my psychosis—a never ending battle of meds, therapy, TV, heritage, marathon video game sessions, long rambling conversations with other depressives or a few friends that can bare the burden of my reluctant, hesitant friendship, which often includes broken dates—even for an occasion as benign as coffee. That’s something I can’t understand. Why can’t I simply have coffee with a friend? I’d like to think I understand myself pretty well. I understand I hibernate because as a kid growing up I found it advantageous to not leave my room, stay protected in my little world of army men with their intricate stories, and other random day dreams. It was violent outside my room.

Women often claim on their online profiles that they don’t want a man with baggage. Personally, I believe after a certain age we all have baggage. As for myself, I just don’t have baggage I have an entire American Tourister collection!

I also understand that it’s so hard for me to sustain a romantic relationship because I’m so apprehensive of them ever since my wife died. After my wife passed, the first woman I dated developed a fatal blood clot in her leg 2 days after we had sex; then, the 1st long term relationship after becoming a widower was harrowing because my girlfriend was diagnosed with breast cancer 8 months into the relationship.

What I like about internet dating (I use the term dating for want of a better term) is the fact that you can get to know someone before you meet them. Of course you don’t truly know them, they may in fact be lying to you—but you can get to know their character. It’s hard to completely hide one’s personality. You can hide your wife but you can’t hide your personality. You do know them in a sense so a blind date with someone you’ve met on the internet is more like a blurred vision date, not a blind date, but a cataract date--whatever.

Talk about safe sex. Although cyber sex is played out for me, it was okay in the beginning because I didn’t masturbate until I was in my late 20’s. Nine hundred numbers had just become the rage. I worked at a public relations firm off the Sunset Strip (77 Sunset Strip SNAP SNAP a Quinn Martin Production ). I’ll never forget the address, 6464 Sunset, the corner of Sunset and Wilcox, pretty much Sunset and Vine. It was an office made up of fledging actors and disgruntled musicians. Any one of them would tell you there was a call for you on such and such a line, you’d pick-up the phone and there’d be a sex phone operator panting on the other end. I became tempted at home to dial those same numbers, quickly release any tension that had accumulated during the day.

Unfortunately what my wife saw was a $200 phone bill; then there was a lot of ‘Splain’N to do. But there always was a lot of ‘Splain’N to do concerning my physical affection. I recall staying up writing or reading, and despite the fact that my wife was pretty, in perfect shape; she practiced ballet, she ran 20 miles a week, and was more than willingly affectionate—it was me that couldn’t handle the affection. I liked it, loved it, desired it, needed it—but I couldn’t handle it-- it was so foreign.

My mom only hugged me if we took a picture with so many people that I had to sit on her lap to fit everyone in the frame. I guess that wasn’t really a hug, but I’ve always referred to it as such. Or when mom used to work 2nd shift and we slept at my grandparents’. When she’d come to take us to our own beds I’d always pretend that I was asleep so she had to carry me. I longed for a hug, for touch—some sort of physical affection; and, I knew as early as 1st grade I had to manipulate the situation to get it.

It takes a long time for me to feel comfortable around anyone anyway. When I was married I probably hurt my wife by staying up late then slipping into bed quietly once I was sure she had fallen asleep and wouldn’t touch me, hug me—have her legs wrapped around me like she did every night. I liked being close to her, but sometimes it was all too much. After she passed, I craved that sensation, longed for the feeling. Now, even though people would probably laugh incredulously if you’d describe me as not being affectionate—it’s obvious from my interactions with lovers, dates, or failed potential sex liaisons that I still have a problem with closeness on a monumental level. It’s not uncommon at the apex of turning a flirtatious evening into that pinnacle moment of actually having sex, I’ll suddenly announce without warning, and no segue of an excuse, “I have to leave.”

Among other things, I’ll realize that I don’t know this person that I’m about to be extremely intimate with, hence I freak out.  After all, mom didn’t say she loved me until I was 45 as I cried my eyes out one New Year’s Eve. My mind and heart were tortured that evening with visions of my best friend of 35 years (yeah, the bestiality guy) running off with my girlfriend. It’s those types of incidents, which make virtual relationships so much more appealing than real ones—less of a chance to get hurt.

Another curious thing about internet dating is that, for whatever reason, I find I’m constantly making connections with women that are far away—and I mean really far away--like half-way across the country far away; sometimes even as far away as Germany. Hmmm? The distance is undoubtedly a reflection of my subconscious struggle to make real connections.

Everything is so virtual now anyway. We’re on our cell phones talking to a friend or lover about something completely innocuous instead of having a real conversation with someone standing right next to us in line, at the bus stop, or the subway station. What often makes me appealing on the internet is my propensity to not go into any overt sex talk. It’s as if I’m the only man that still has the ability to long for romance. It’s not that I’m such a gentleman—I am—but the reason why I don’t dash into sex talk is because I truly want to make a connection with someone.  I’d much rather have friends than anything else. I’ve had too many failed romantic relationships and have become too pessimistic to believe that I’ll ever find that person I can become one with.

“A man has to know his limitations,” the voice in my head says in Dirty Harry’s raspy voice.

I do recognize (“You better recognize,” followed with a queen’s classic Z snap) my limitations, and they’re many. I can be your friend—but beyond that I tend to get a little unsettled. And that’s what we all are looking for--that settled feeling. That’s what we all want I believe; even men that pose as players. I think we all want our best friend to also be our lover. I was lucky to have had that for 17 years. There was no one I’d rather hang-out with than my wife. We were one and that’s what I search for on the internet, to find the person I can relate to physically, emotionally, intellectually and spiritually. To become one. We all want our hearts to dance to the lyric of our lover’s melody.

A Living Nightmare

The right has lost their collective and individual minds. I believe in calling a spade a spade—and the primary reason conservatives are so upset, throwing bricks through congressmen’s doors, spitting on senators, shouting epitaphs is simply because a black man is president. And, now he’s cemented himself in history as being the 1st American President, of any hue, to pass health care legislation. For conservatives it’s a living nightmare. How could this have ever happened? How could they have allowed a black man to become president? Well one reason was that we had 8 years of a blithering idiot who thought Africa was a country. According to polls, one of the main reasons Bush got elected was because the public thought he was someone you’d like to have a beer with. A beer with? Is that how conservatives want to elect the leader of the free world, whether he’s the type you’d want to get drunk with or not? Okay, considering Palin and Joe-the-plumber I guess so. But, wouldn’t it make more sense to want the president to be someone you’d have a single malt scotch with? I was for Hillary myself. Not necessarily popular with my brothers and sisters but home-Sally knew her shit. She didn’t need cue cards or a Sharpie stained palm to give a speech. And, Hillary was very specific—while Obama is often (then and now) only generally specific. Also, I felt Obama hadn’t been around long enough. He hadn’t accumulated enough favors. What back door deals could he finesse? But Hillary fucked up, hired the same PR firm that managed Union Carbide’s environmental disaster in India, and then she got ugly. I shook my head when Obama won the Democratic nomination. I thought, you have perhaps the worst President in history leaving office and you put up a black man? Okay that’s one thing—but his name is Hussein Obama—can’t the democrats do anything right? The presidency is being handed to them and they nominate a Black man with a Muslim name—the very name of the supposed master mind of 911. They just wanted to lose. Then, the republicans select Sarah I-don’t-know-what-journals-I-read Palin and their nightmare is alive all over again. A Black man becomes President. Then one of the 1st things the Obama’s do (aside from bail out the banks and work on health care) is start a victory garden at the Whitehouse—God forbid please don’t harvest watermelons this summer.

Death and Dark Roots Video

This is the video David and I shot in my attic with the pocket camera he swiped from his 11 year old daughter. We loved the fact that New Jersey appeared at the bottom of the frame. The book that the camera is sitting on is part of our tripod mechanism. The image is rather dark. We shot one that looks better but this one had such a cooler feel to it. I recently met this woman, Sylvia, whose a photographer. I'm gonna try to get her to shoot the next video because at least she'd have a better understanding of light. She says that she knows nothing about video but then I found out that she's a photography major in school so that's not gonna fly.




Death and Dark Roots

Looking out the window
wanting to see a peaceful setting
the moon rising above a patch of still grass
air breathing through the trees
branches brushing against each other
like office paper jogged carefully.

The moon isn’t necessary on 6th
at 1400 block
all the street lights are out
except one weak flickering
and one across the street at a Hayward hotel
lighting up the sidewalk where no roots grow
but those that fight up through a neglected crack
and black gum spots
that have lost their bright colors
pretend to take root
because they’ve been there so long
none of these move freely
or softly with the wind
the wind
like other things in life
gets trapped
whips around tall buildings,
I see the results
trash
blowing violently out of crowded sewers
and wire meshed garbage cans
some of it blows wildly lost
some moves with a natural rhythm
but most stays close by
lost
a mass without roots.
I dump the dottle from my pipe
it reminds me of my friend
growing up there
crowded
without roots
blowing wildly lost
taking on color,
the hair-like growths
that supply food
the bring water
have no soil to cling to for support
what is expected happens
he is again crowded
planted in a wooden box
among dark roots,
plots spaced apart like soldiers
while someone offers usless words of comfort.