My wife is a rock
She works so hard to make ends meet.
Her concern is for our safety
to make sure we’re not faltering,
emotionally, financially, morally.
When she’s troubled she calls me
on the phone;
If there’s good news,
I’m the first one she shares it with.
I reciprocate her affection,
with flowers, poems, and tender touches.
We’re best friends.
Our most important trait is
Let me clarify:
No marriage is without bumps.
It’s not always love, love, love.
We bicker over many things.
Sometimes it’s trivial, even though
It always seems “important” at the time.
Yet, we never give up on each other,
instead we compromise:
we say, “I’m sorry.”
and try to rectify our behavior.
It’s a marital dance—
a passionate tango
at times its jolting,
often times its smooth.
a relationship between
two strong-willed humans,
if there’s commitment:
love and sacrifice,
and plenty of laughter
which acts like glue.
Got myself a Barlow.
Who knows where it’s been?
I found her unkept,
marked by neglect—
A forgotten scrap of metal,
left in a tool-box
that’d become a crypt.
I recall the history—
A trusted companion of
West-ward seeking pioneers
and American boys.
I set out to clean,
so that it
could be put
back to work.
My “sure-enough” Barlow,
sharpened and oiled,
EDC—Every Day Carry
I carry my soul on my back,
I carry the memory of my father’s untimely death.
I carry the love of my children’s laugh.
I carry the weight of my next rent that’s due.
I carry the moves made to Texas, Oregon, Kentucky, and Georgia, then making my way back.
I carry the memory of good times and hard times.
I carry the manifold wrinkles of age under my eyes.
I carry the reality of what’s wrong with this world.
So I sharpen my knives slowly methodically—each stroke wet stone soaked with fears.
The memory of brothers-in-arms lost overseas, burdens laden with tears—
Everyday I carry things.
Everyday a new burden is laid on my scared back.
I have a tire that keeps losing air;
back left tire deflates on its own.
It sends an electrical signal to my
dash and it reminds me I have a flat.
I have to drive to the service station
ask the attendant to turn on the air pump.
I take off the black plastic valve cap,
pull on the air house and insert the air valve and press until I hear a hiss. The tire slowly inflates and when I’m done, I release the pressure, put the black plastic valve cover on and leave.
After a few days of this, I make a decision to contact tire replacement stores in my area. The tires are worn from the constant driving. I’m looking for the best deal. I’ve been:
Going to work.
Going to the grocery store.
Taking my kids to school.
Picking them up from school.
Going to see my dying brother-in-law
out of state numerous times.
Going out on dates movies.
The back tires are worn
from all the driving
rubber on pavement
I find a set of tires for a good price.
I walk in and patiently wait.
The room is stifling, I’m sweating.
The men sitting are talking
about sports, carbon fiber bikes,
the Golden State Warriors recent loss.
I’m uncomfortable, the air is hot and stale with a strong stench of brand new rubber.
It’s over 100 degrees and miserable.
I walk outside, the cool breeze hits my face. I find solace in the shadow of a sidewalk tree. Those inconsequential trees some city landscape architect decided to plant. Today, that tree brings me relief from the rays of the central California sun.
I see my car being parked up front.
I go back in pay the cashier get my
keys and head back out towards my car. It has two shiny back tires and they even spritzed the front ones to match. Done.
I wonder if Dante’s poetic place
smack in the middle of purgatory,
(it’s where all poets go after death)
all the great ones find themselves there.
Even those who never had a book deal.
After a hearty breakfast
of Huevos Rancheros
and hot steamy cafe con leche
In that vast ocean of metaphors
where one finds small,
plump, and juicy enjambments
perfect for otherworldly poems.
Then after a nice lunch of
lamb meatballs on crunchy
Dutch bread topped off with
We take a walk in the garden of similes—
Where there are lush trees full of ripe fruit
like cherries ready to be plucked, joyfully
collected in our gilded baskets.
Dinner is roasted Chilean Sea Bass
marinated in garlic and cilantro
served with a delicate glass or two
of buttery California Chardonnay.
It’s during this time
Neither in heaven or hell,
we recite our daily poems
like grace is
a lovely meal.
Why you should reconsider becoming a philosophy major.
Look what happened to me:
* I hate academia and macadamia nuts.
* I think way too much—over analyze.
* I can’t buy into the status quo or any presidential nominees.
* I have an outrageous sense of humor, that frankly, no one understands.
* I am bitterly sarcastic about everything.
* I read philosophy to settle down while I drink beer—Thank you Prof. Robin Roth.
* Rather than listen to music on my way to work, I listen to erudite people explain the meaning of things. Everyone finds this boring except “moi.”
* I rather go to a book store and read Dante or Nietzsche than go to a party.
* I have a hard time understanding adults and their silly views.
* Religion and I are bitter polemical friends—
*I am a mental mess when left alone with my thoughts.
If you want to mess up your life forever be a philosophy major.
Feeling unpoetic today—
June seventh twenty sixteen.
I’ve been contemplating
I don’t know.
I can describe my room:
Wide arch into the bath
nicely shadowed white.
Fan above swirling at a
The TV’s on but I’m not watching.
Purely background noise.
I’m lying on my bed with legs lazily spread.
My door is open while the light gently slips in.
I can feel the warmth of summer seep in through my window shutters like a thin veil; pushed aside by the
cool breeze of the air conditioner kissing my face.
Work your magic
calling on fate
My left eye is glitching
Like an analog TV
with static electricity.
The perils of a few more
years under the belt
A few more beers too.
Reminds me of a plump
Beachball someone forgot
that it ends up on the side
of the road
sometimes sailing with
the wind, until it gets stuck.
Calling on magic and fate
I’m tired of getting stuck
being in a rut—
I like the feeling of sailing along
being carried by the Pacific breeze.
The live oaks are green
almost impervious to drought—
My kids are alive,
swimming in a resort pool
while I watch them
scream with glee.
The grey squirrel almost blue
running up and down the seasoned tree
showing off for a gallery of kids.
Excited, ecstatic, joyous
“Look at the squirrel.”
If those who paid the ultimate price
could see what I see,
Perhaps they’d say
it’s a price worth giving…
While the living celebrate life
on another Memorial Day—
and the live oaks continue
to grow green leaves.