THE REWARD

(A Christmas Poem)

I’m giving you so much more

Than a gift today.

I’m giving you

Your just reward.

This is your reward

For loving me

Into being.

This is your reward

For letting me smile

Into your eyes

And cry

Upon your shoulder.

This is something

You deserve

For letting me

Into your life.

Consider this

Your just desserts

For making me

Feel so good.

There are more ways

To tell you

What you already know

Is true.

I expect nothing

In return

Except to love you as long

As the world turns.

This is your reward.

This is my reward.

The Polar Express and Me: An Anniversary

Every year since Chris Van Allsburg's book The Polar Express was published in 1985, the book has been read aloud either by my father or by me on Christmas Eve night. Tonight marked the 25th time this has been done. I only pull the book out once a year, on this night. The need to do this seeps into me gently, like an angel spreading her loving kindness throughout my being.

I know there are recordings of the book, read by the likes of William Hurt and Liam Neeson. I know there is a rather prominent film of The Polar Express that was directed by Robert Zemeckis and starred Tom Hanks, or more accurately, his computerized likeness. I daren't see the film or hear any other voice read the book. To do so would allow the magic I feel every year to be polluted, and then disappear completely. The Polar Express, as I understand it, is a sacred entertainment.

Van Allsburg writes of the most magical sound in the world: "the ringing bells of Santa's sleigh". The sound it makes is entirely what you imagine it to be. To me, it is a sound not of this world, but a celestial, ethereal trill. And all who believe in Santa Claus hear the sound and lock it away, in the safest place in their hearts. As adults, we get jaded, we get cynical about Christmas. The two worst words a child can hear, at least in my view, are "Christmas Shopping". When a child hears those words, Christmas stops being about what it was meant to be. It becomes about buying the shiniest diamond, the biggest television, making the best ham or baked Alaska. A child deserves so many Christmases, unchecked by worldly concerns and anguishes.

"Though I've grown old, " Van Allsburg concludes his book, "The bell rings for me as it does for all who truly believe." If I'm still reading his masterpiece twenty-five years after its publication, a very strong case could be made that I believe in Santa Claus. And I believe I always will.

Do You Realize...

Ladies and Gentlemen, do you realize:

--that by one report, tickets for Friday night's NBA Game between the Miami Heat and the New York Knicks at Madison Square Garden cost as much as $79,000? I'll bet there's at least one person who leveraged his child's college tuition so that he could smell LeBron James' B.O.. Isn't that sad?

--that more people will attend this year's Super Bowl in that monument to Jerry Jones' ego outside Dallas than live in Green Bay, Wisconsin, Cape Coral, Florida or Albany, New York? Or that more people have been murdered in Chicago this year--412--than live in its suburb of Arlington?

--that for every McDonald's in the U.S., there are as many as three Barnes & Noble employees?

--that Donald Trump's net worth ($2 billion) is more than the gross national product of American Samoa ($575.3 million)?

--that there are only 121 more inmates on death row in every prison in America than there are residents of the Falkland Islands?

--that neither our current President or Vice President served in any military capacity prior to assuming office, and both men are attorneys? (In fairness, Vice President Biden was reclassified as ineligible by the Selective Service, as he had asthma as a teenager.)

--that on average, 642, 000 people watch ESPN and ESPN2 every day combined--88 million people every month. That's nearly double the amount that watch Lifetime on average per day.

--that a week ago, five days before the basketball game I mentioned before, the great opera star Renee Fleming gave a recital at Chicago's Lyric Opera House, where she has accepted a position as an artistic consultant. The show sold out; the top ticket price to see Fleming's voice soar like an angel's: $149.

Just some brain food for you to chew on...

To The Back of Beyond

Nothing will happen to you;
no harm will come.
Nothing you have to do
That I haven't already done.

Just take my hand
and close your eyes.
Smile, that you might
not cry.

I want to take you
to the ends of the earth;
to the back of beyond.

Where there are no limits,
where laws of gravity
and laws in general
are mere words.

Come with me to where
the grass dances freely
and the flowers smile at you.

We've seen too much decay,
destruction and death
for our hearts to be
troubled anew.

This is the back of beyond,
where we renew,
rejuvenate and restore.

This is a place
I wish we could stay
forevermore.

At least until you
feel the yank
of this weary sphere.

Never fear.
The back of beyond
is always here.

MIGHTY MEN OF NEWS

Gone are the Murrows

The Cronkites and the Hollenbecks.

Absent are the Garroways,

Huntleys, Brinkleys.

Ditto the Chancellors and Brokaws.

Never to return are the

Reasoners, Jenningses and Downses.

These Mighty Men of News,

Who disturbed the air and

Chiseled stone

In the Discharge of

Their sacred and Holy Duty.

In their place

Are skywriters.

The void of Information

Is filled by Complaint,

Debate and Spite.

Men who used to speak

Are replaced by men

Who scream and shout.

Our televisions are now

But wires and lights

In a box

Failing to maintain a spark.

And I weep

For what we

Have become.

JOUST

In a dank and deserted castle
Under a steel grey sky
There is a fight
Between two knights.

One wears black.
The other sports white.
The soul of a man awaits
The winner of the fight.

The white knight
Represents all
That is good and sweet,
Joyful and right.

And the man in black,
Always on the attack
With a sword sharper
Than the toughest tack.

The castle they fight in,
The soul they fight for,
Is inside the man
Moving this pen.

The battle never ends.
The fight goes ever on.
No truces are called for;
No judge to say who won.

I think every one has
A castle worth fighting for.

There’s a white and a black
Knight inside everyone.

It’s a truth that’s hard
To ignore.

Bookstore

Poking through a bookstore,

Wondering which book

To behold

And buy.

Envious of the authors

Who get it all down

Before the parade

Passes by.

They must lead rich

And full and creative

Lives.

The magic in their pages

Pierces my heart

Like tiny knives.

Knowing I could jump

Into any story

I wanted to

Leaves me breathless

Dizzy and agog.

It’s true.

Such a tough decision—

Which book is

The best?

Who’s got more magic

In their words

Than the rest?

Such mystery and

Majesty and magic

Await.

At the bookstore.

If the prices aren’t

Too great.

Sunday Night

Measuring

All of the breaths

I take.

One after the other.

Savoring them,

Making them last.

Wishing time

Would draw itself

Out.

Staving off

The inevitable dread.

Knowing that people

Will be scowling

At me

When I return

To the breathless world

First thing Monday morning.

Softly

Softly I awaken to

the tinkling nocturnes of Chopin.

Softly I am licked and nuzzled

by my lovely kittycat.

Gentle and warm is the water

on my back and in my face.

So, too, is the cotton

of my clothes.

Soft is the kind of

music I listen to,

and the voices I want

to hear.

First thing in the morning,

everything is soft,

until I join the rest

of this hard world.

Day After

When the hurlyburly
and the flapdoodle
and the carnage end,
there is only you.

When the parade passes
and the crowd follows
and only the mess is left,
there is me, too.

Soon enough, the glow subsides
and the world returns to normal
because time does not...

Wait for us.

3 year old Jonathan conducting to the 4th movement of Beethoven's 5th Sy...

Friends, watch this--and allow your faith in the youth of the world to blossom and grow anew...

Matthew Who Will Be Thirty-Two in Twenty-Four Hours

I will be thirty-two years old in exactly 24 hours from the start of this piece. I was born at 9:51PM EDT, Friday, October 27, 1978. And if I had my way about it, I wouldn't stop crowing about it.

I never wanted to be the kind of person who gets down on himself when his birthday comes up. In other words, I couldn't be someone who passes his birthday off as just another day, marking just another number. I've known, and lived, with people like that and they just make me sad.

Your birthday is the ultimate celebration of YOU. You only get one birthday per year, per lifetime. So you know what? Live it up! Smile, even when everybody is frowning and seething. Shake a stranger's hand. Eat lots of birthday cake. Blow the noisemaker as hard as you can; who cares if the cops show up. Celebrate YOU. Spread the celebration across days if you can help it. You got the other 364 days of the year to be miserable and lonely and sad. Your birthday's the day to have wings on your heels, and when your birthday comes, you gotta feel like you're flying.

October 27 is my Day. Just as it is for everyone else who day it is. Just as, say, June 2 is someone else's Day. It's your day to glow and crow and exult in the fact that you made it. You get to run another lap with the rest of us.

But save a piece of cake for me, would you please?

A Sweet Moment

My kittycat framed by the window

Crunching on his Cat Chow

Lapping up the water

So gratefully.

I peek up from this machine

To observe this

Happy little ritual.

Opera plays softly in the background.

I am barefoot,

Soaking in this perfect

Moment of peace.

I have so few in my life.

Petite Cosmos

Please don't
promise me
the moon.

I can't see it
for the stars.

I'm being burned
by someone else's
sun.

Baseball and the Art of Detachment

Just now, I’m sitting in a Starbucks in Clearwater, FL., close enough to Tampa Bay you can hear the fish splashing if you listen well enough. The hometown Tampa Bay Rays are trying to stave off elimination at the hands of the Texas Rangers in the third game of their Division Series. And I’ll tell you something: I couldn’t care less if the Rays win or not.

Let me repeat that for you, if I may. I couldn’t care less if the Rays win or not.

That is not to say that I wouldn’t be pleased if the Rays won; I would. But if they lose, I won’t be calling for the manager’s head on a spit, I won’t demand the team disband and move to Oklahoma City, I will not smash the car windows of absolute strangers and I will be empathetic to their plight. And here’s something else: if the New York Yankees and the Philadelphia Phillies, the two teams I’ve followed my whole life, fall in the postseason, I would feel the exact same way. I’m happy for them all the same.

You see, I love baseball with all my heart. I tell people this is my wheelhouse time of the year, and the postseason in baseball is one of the many reasons. I listen to or watch most of the Yankees games, some of the Phillies games, some of the Rays games, and they lift my worries and cares as few things do. The one thing I am not is rabid. I do not live or die by the double play, the strikeout, the three-run homer or the umpire’s sketchy eyesight. Baseball is as human as the people who play it, and that is why I love it.

That is also why it makes me sad that people around this time of year seem to do nothing but complain about the double play, the strikeout, the three-run homer and especially the umpire’s sketchy eyesight. I read too many columns by (mostly) men whose job it is to stir up phony controversy so people can hold endless and unwinnable debates, over the airwaves and otherwise. I go on TBS’S Facebook page for its baseball coverage only to find an almost endless litany of complaints and grievances from people who seem to have nothing better to do. They complain about everything from the graphics to the commentators to the Phillies fan whistling where the field mike can pick it up. These are the kind of people who would go to a French restaurant and complain that the Chicken Cordon Bleu wasn’t served within ten minutes.

And to them, and to anyone else who complains about baseball (or any sport for that matter), let me say one word to you:

Detach.

Detach yourself from the result of the game. Cheer your team when they do well; don’t cry in your beer when they don’t. Stop needling the umpires and the officials; they should be relaxed to do their jobs well and you should be relaxed when you see them doing it. Forget the whining about how bad the commentators are, because trust me on this, the Kalases and Harwells and the Scullys of this world are irreplaceable. You don’t like them; put your favorite CD on, but leave me out of it. You should be treasuring every moment. Revel in the success. Don’t dwell on the slights or failures. Take a deep breath and enjoy it.

The people who don’t enjoy these games are the ones starting riots when the home team loses. They’re the ones setting cars on fire, looting groceries and beating strangers. And they’re also the ones demanding instant replay in baseball. Can you imagine every ball and every strike being endlessly debated? Can you imagine people pulling their hair out over a bang-bang play at first base in an all-but-meaningless game in June, whether a perfect game was on the line or not? Can you imagine lawyers, arbitrators and magistrates deciding the outcome of baseball games? Football, yes; it seems we’re well on our way. But the day that happens in baseball is the day I leave it for good.

So I say again: Detach. Remember that old chestnut from Grantland Rice: “It mattered not who won or lost, but how the game was played.” October would be such a happier month if everyone had that in mind. So open your mind, unclutter your heart, and enjoy it. That’s why you paid for the ticket, after all.

Short Straw

Everyone's going to run away

when I need them the most.

Someone will stay behind

to lash me naked to the post.

They'll all run home

to find shelter from the storm.

I'll be left out there,

because that's the norm.

Lightning will crash

and thunder will roll

and sharks will come

to swallow me whole.

Nature abhors a vacuum

except when I'm inside.

I'm left out there to die

while everyone else hides.

Why?

What did I do wrong?

Nothing.

I just drew

the short straw.

Peaceful

Just as the sun rises

on a Monday morning,

and that great sphere

illumines everything,

the birds talk in their

private and beautiful

language.

The dew glistens on

the leaves and the

grass.

The late night chill,

such as though it is,

lingers in the air.

And I, in my bed,

held gently by my sheets

and my angels,

drink it all in.

Savoring the luscious quiet,

the perfect peace,

the seduction of a new and

promising day.

Holding out against

the modern world,

until I am sucked into

its vicious clutches.

For now, my breathing

is easier and better

as I soak it all in.

Wanting to catch each

new bird's song

in the jar of my heart

and hold it there.

I daren't say a word

or make a sound

to crack the quiet

or disturb the air.

These are the gentle

and peaceful times

of our dreams.

Fireflies

When the sun sets

They come to

Light the rural

Night.

Little fireflies

Casting their

Brief green glow

On us.

Lie on the grass

And look at the inky

Black sky.

They’ll be there.

Bringing the magic

To the peaceful

Evening.

Beauty and vitality

Too big

To be held in a

Pasta jar.

See those little green

Pinspots

Darting this way and that?

Isn’t that neat?

Don’t you wish

There were more

Fireflies?

Where there are none

The night just seems

Dull.

I’ve lived too many

Of those dull nights.

Oh, to feel the

Enchantment

Only a firefly

Can bring.

THE SEAGULL

On a secluded beach

There’s a lone white seagull

Standing guard

On a sandbar.

The flock is a thousand yards away

Or a thousand miles to his

Lonely heart.

They flit and fly

And he might cry

Though I’d never know,

For I think

He’s scared to go.

I go to feed him

But he comes to me.

He seldom does that.

He’d fly and pick the bone

Out of the sky.

Even when the tide comes,

The seagull still stands guard.

The water dances about his feet

And he doesn’t budge.

It’s his space.

No one dares come close.

Except an egret.

Only an egret

Can scare a seagull

Out of his home.

I should know.

I’ve seen it.

8:07AM, SEPTEMBER 11, 2010

Up until now, I have only ever told family and a few of my closest friends what I am about to tell you. I am writing this hoping to expunge pain from my heart that might never truly dissipate. I suffer from survivor’s guilt.

You see, nine years ago yesterday, September 10, 2001, I flew over the World Trade Center. I was on my way back stateside from Madrid; I had been attending the wedding of the daughter of one of my closest friends. I was on a Lufthansa plane that connected me from Frankfurt to my hometown of Philadelphia. The flight path we had taken took us over New York…and over the twin towers.

Indeed, the plane home to Tampa was delayed by a thunderstorm in Philadelphia and I didn’t end up at home until about midnight. Eight hours later, nine years ago this hour in fact, well, I don’t need to tell you. But can you possibly imagine if the flight home had been cancelled and I would have had to go home the next day? Who’s to say what might have happened? Who’s to say that the terrorists might not have boarded that plane and threatened those people with box cutters, exacto knives or whatever else? Who’s to say that I would not have been at risk?

That morning, after the towers collapsed, I had to get out of the house. For the first time perhaps in my life, my car pointed itself to a nearby church. I don’t recall steering it; it just pointed me, as if angels were at the wheel, to a church. And I prayed. Harder than I could ever pray for myself, I prayed for all of the survivors and all of the people who could not have survived. Then I tried to go about my day. I took photos to the supermarket to be developed. There were a lot of people inside that place trying to go about their day, too, probably like me, trying to deny what they might have just seen. I ate lunch. I rented movies, trying to take my mind off. But I couldn’t.

And now, every time this day rolls around in the calendar, I get upset. Although I will admit that the pain seems duller with the passage of time. I can’t bear to watch the memorials, the tributes, the replays of what happened. And so I go on a media fast. I won’t watch teevee or listen to radio on this day; to do so would blast open the wound and renew the pain. And if I may expand on the same advice that Rudy Giuliani and George Bush imparted to us, I recommend you do the same thing: Live your lives. Give someone you love a hug and a kiss. Go to a beach with someone you love; I will today. Go to a park, a meadow, someplace unspoiled by hatred. Commune with nature. Talk to God, or whoever you believe the supreme being to be. Write a poem. Most importantly, spread love.

The day may never come, but September 11 can once again be a day where goodness trumps insidious evil, where love defeats hatred, and where happiness reigns upon the Earth. Those are the things that no terrorist can destroy.

IDYLL

Sometimes when I close my eyes,
I see the most idyllic place
In the world.

I see a place where there are
Deep rolling hills
And golden valleys.

I see the wheatgrass
And the lavender
Dancing in place

And you can lie on the leaves
By a dainty brook
And gape at azure skies.

The streets are lined
By birches and oaks
As large and strong as
The spirits they house.

And at the end of one of the streets,
Tucked in behind a calvert…

There’s a grey stucco house
Draped in ivy and dewdrops.
Inside, books line the shelves,
A fire crackles, and lovely music
Floats through the windows.

It is truly the most idyllic
Place in the world.

It is where I would like to live,
And be reminded that I’m alive.

PLAINTIVE SHOUT

Physically, I’m grown-up.

But mentally, spiritually, truthfully

I don’t think I’ve grown.

I go looking for people, places and things

To empower me and make me strong.

But I still have no power

And no strength.

I feel misguided.

Aimless.

Feeling for a light switch

In a pitch-black room.

I should be married

And have a child.

I should have a good house

In a nice neighborhood.

And I should be driving

A decent car.

But I’m not, and I don’t.

Why?

What did I do wrong?

How did I screw this up?

So many more men my age

Are doing so much better

And have done greater things.

I haven’t even had my first kiss.

I need to devote myself

To something,

To someone,

To anything,

To anyone.

I can’t be living alone in a

House trailer

When I’m 42.

I can’t go through the rest of my life

Like a lion in a cage,

Unwilling to stay,

Unable to leave.

This is my prayer.

This is my hope.

I need help.

Someone help me.

Anyone.

Will you help me?

Please?

The Heavenly Game

Cheer on the hometown nine
While you lay on the sloping grass
Of a meadow in mid-May.

Listen to the crack of the bat
While you play among the fallen leaves
In the October twilight.

Thrill to the sound of horsehide
Slapping against leather
While your kids thrill
To the chill
From an open fire hydrant.

Doesn’t the heavenly game
Make you sigh deeper,
Smile wider,
And step livelier?

You can’t make snow angels
During a pitching change.

No one ever built a log fire
While the manager squabbles
With an umpire.

And whoever heard of a perfect game
Surrounded by holly and ivy
And the bright lights of Christmas?

April through October—
These are the days of heaven.

April through October—
These are nights that fill the soul.

The days of the heavenly game
Are the greatest days of all.

Cinema Paradiso

Do you know how you can tell when you really love a certain piece of music? I mean, really love it with all of your heart? That's the moment when you can not only hear it in your mind, but also in your heart, which is where it matters the most. Tonight I was wandering around in a bookstore, listening to a ballgame on my brand new IPod Touch, and this piece of music kept playing in my aortic jukebox. It needed to be heard, and heard again, and finally shared. So I hope you don't mind...

A Pigeon Doesn't Care About The Emmys

Consider the Emmy Award Ceremonies last night in Los Angeles, if you don't mind. And imagine all the celebrities and personalites emerging from the ceremony either sad and thoughtful from the disappointment or aglow in victory's aura. Now imagine a flock of pigeons hovering about seventy feet off the ground, and one of those pigeons pooping on one of their heads. What do you think that celebrity will do? Would he call his attorney on the iPhone that never leaves his sight and sue the zoo? Possibly. But do you also think he'd look up and get the message--"You're not that special." I'm willing to bet that at least one of these celebrities would.

You see, a pigeon has no sense of human accomplishment, and I've touched on this in other ways. A pigeon could care less about the Escada gowns, the Harry Winston jewels and the Armani tuxedoes. A pigeon has no idea about Oscars, Emmys, Tonys, Razzies or whatever else. Pigeons don't poop on your head out of spite; they don't punish, reward or pass judgment. We do all that.

I just wanted you to sleep on that, folks.

A Modest Suggestion for Football Fans

Just about a year ago on the blog, I wrote a poem called "College Football". It was, suffice to say, anti-college football. And now that the people who play it and talk about it are pawing at the dirt to start anew, rather than denigrate football anew, I would like to offer a suggestion for helping you deal with it.

Some years ago, I read an interview that famed New York Times columnist Ira Berkow conducted with one of my most beloved actors, the late Walter Matthau. Matthau and his son Charlie came to any number of Los Angeles Lakers games over the years and had courtside seats. When the Lakers were on the road, you know what Matthau would do? Depending who the commentators were on teevee, he'd turn it down and put on a Mozart record. To Matthau, Mozart was a perfect background score as the men jumped and ran and danced around.

So this is what I suggest to the men and women who watch football this fall--if you find yourself tiring of the commentators who can't decide if they are unctuous, pompous or both at once, turn them down. But don't turn on the local radio broadcast, if you can help it--a quarterback sack would send him into an almost orgasmic wail. Turn on light, soothing, and mellow music. Anything will do, from most of the canon of Chopin to Ennio Morricone. You know what doing this does? It re-frames your thinking. You go from being inconsolable when Wossamatta U loses to just thinking, "It's only a game. They'll beat the Mud City Manglers next week and all will be right with the world again." Trust me. You'll thank me when you've got your child on your lap first thing Monday morning and you're smiling and not frowning.

But I also know that some of you don't do mellow, light or soothing. You're in luck; I'm willing to compromise. I hear Metallica makes some pretty appropriate football music...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xisIVhc64Ng

Poem From a Facebook Comment

Is it just you

and me

and all who comment

upon these comments,

but are we paying the price

of the foibles

of the irresponsible,

the immature,

the inbred and

the ignoble?

Thoughts some thirty minutes after leaving one of those phoney-baloney Irish pubs in the Carrollwood section of Tampa, FL.:

-- Perhaps no American in the past thirty years has walked into a phoney-baloney Irish pub and started to read "Gas From a Burner" by James Joyce and lived to talk about it. Perhaps no such person exists. And anyway, no one goes to a phoney-baloney Irish pub to hear James Joyce. They all want to watch sports on teevee, at least nowadays.

-- It can get awful loud in certain "Irish Pubs" on any given Friday night. What you may think is the quietest corner of the place could face the band that has no idea how to sing "Margaritaville". The speakers sometimes are turned so far up as to render intelligent, articulate conversation virtually impossible. And all you hear is NOISE! NOISE! NOISENOISENOISE!! LOTSOFGODDAMNNOISE! IT'S SO NOISY! WHERETHEFUCKISTHEKEYTOTHEHOUSE?!?!?!

-- And because it's so noisy, just try picking up a woman in an Irish pub. Likely, you can't. You may have to start the most enthralling and passionate relationship of your life by using Morse code.

-- If anyone who runs an "Irish Pub" wants to attract more customers than he repels, he could do several things. He could offer more than just the usual bangers & mash on the menu, which I believe is an English dish anyway. There would be an actual thatched roof on top of the pub itself--there is in one bar in the Downtown Tampa area, which, if I were as smart as I would like to think that I am, I would have gone to. Maybe an actual Irish fiddler could play on Friday nights, or a singer could sing "The Jolly Tinker" or "The Bold Grenadier" and really endear himself to the patrons. Maybe there could be staged fights between two white-haired lads named Kevin and Timothy, kind of like the sausage races between innings--you know, maybe Kevin will win one night and Timothy the next. Just a thought.

-- And anyway, you can tell you're in the wrong "Irish Pub" for your temperament if you're on your way out and wondering when to schedule an appointment for the kind of cochlear implant that Rush Limbaugh has. This is exactly what I thought when I came up to my car and saw two women in the space next to me about to go inside. One of them was wondering if she should leave her belt on or take it off. (For the record, it came off.)

Slainte!

The Limey

I think this is what I was trying to say in the last poem.

THE STAR OF THE SHOW

The lights come up

and the curtain is raised.

The tawny platinum blonde

is firmly in place.

How she's dazzled and

hypnotized all those

poor saps in the audience for

the past two hours.

They stand and cheer,

they hoot and holler

and throw themselves at

her feet.

They throw her roses,

bathe her in white light

and anoint her as a god.

Out of the glare,

out of the limelight,

there I am, in costume,

rueing her.

I'm far more talented,

tons more expressive,

and a whole lot better at

what I do

than she.

But I'm just shrewd enough,

just kind enough,

and just enough of a pro

not to let her know.

My day will come.

And I'll bide my time.

Soon the light and love

will be mine.

I’m Not Just Anyone


I’m not just another car
In a traffic jam.

I’m not an anonymous rear end
To be kicked around.

I’m not a Social Security Number
Or another credit score.

I’m not just a member
Of the faceless, unwashed masses.

I’m your son.
I’m your father.
I’m your brother.
I’m your nephew.

I’m the one I want you to love.

I’m not cut with a cookie cutter.
I’m not just one of the guys.
I’m too talented, too good, too wise.

Just because my voice doesn’t always rise
Doesn’t mean I don’t have one.

I’m not average.
I’m not ordinary.

I’m extraordinary.
I’m unexpected.
Not just the usual unusual.

I’m capable of such magic.
If only you’ll let me wave the wand.

I have such love in me,
I want to give it all to you.

Because I’m more than the voice
On the other end of the phone.

Because I’m greater than the sum
Of the words on your computer.

And I’m so much more than
The smiling face in the photo.

I’m not just anyone.
I’m yours.

Off My Chest...

One of the people commenting on this clip (or more accurately, the first two plus minutes) from The Crossing Guard refers to Nicholson as "royalty among pawns."

Lately, it's getting harder and harder for me not to feel the same way. I find myself walking through shopping malls three or four beats faster than the other mall-walkers, or more accurately, mall-dawdlers. I get caught behind people in traffic driving some fifteen miles below the limit, and it's all I can do not to turn into one of those road rage people you hear all about on the six o'clock news. Almost everyone speaks in monotones, cliches, obscenities--they just seem so goddamn trivial.

Yet I would like to think of myself as loving, caring, compassionate and good-hearted. I would like to think I am living up to my reputation as a decent, good man.

You know what set me off yesterday into perhaps the most acidic poem I have ever written? Sitting in Borders, looking around at everyone else in the little coffee bars. They seemed almost stuck in the same mold--in their late sixties and seventies, wearing Hawaiian shirts, golf caps, and their various infirmites like a second skin. Ordinarily I would not notice that so acutely. Yesterday, I shuddered. I could not conceive of such a fate waiting for me. That's why I wrote that poem. I was excited about it at the time. I felt a little like Jack Nicholson. ..

WHEN I’M SEVENTY

When I’m seventy years old,

I’m not going bald.

I’m not trimming ear hair

And I’m not putting in my false frigging teeth.

When I’m seventy years old,

I’m going to hear every word you say.

And I don’t want to hear you say

I’m going in a home

That ain’t my own.

When I’m seventy years old,

Sorry, but no Hawaiian shirts and

Golf hats for me.

I’m staying in Philly Town

And hitting your golf balls

With my baseball bat.

When I get to be that age,

My wife’s going to be

The foxiest, tallest, sexiest,

Most goddamn gorgeous woman

In the world.

No matter how old she is.

Want me to drive a
Mercury Grand Marquis

With crushed blue velvet seats and

Only a tape deck?

Sure.

If I’m allowed to push it off a cliff.

You think Tony Bennett and Frank Sinatra

And Rosemary Clooney (especially her)

Are going to sing me sweetly to my grave?

Think twice.

When I’m seventy,

I’m driving a Porsche.

I’m wearing de la Renta every day.

I’m getting laid every night.

I’m gonna fall into the golden autumn leaves

And make me a snow angel.

I’ll remember everyone I love

And everything I don’t.

Oh, and by the way,

I ain’t doing winter,

Spring, fall, summer

In Florida.

When I’m seventy.

Okay?

CHASM


There’s a wedge between us
You could drive an ocean liner through.
So hard to repair
To make our dreams come true.

The needs of the angry mob
I must tend to first.
But their rage and stupidity
Could make my mind burst.

Other people’s forgetfulness and greed
Have become my responsibility.
But I want to focus on you
To the best of my ability.

They push me one way
And pull you another.
They want nothing more
Than to set us asunder.

My eyes burn with anguish
And I think my ears could melt.
Nothing for me to grab onto
Not even a belt.

I want to fly across the chasm
That keeps us apart,
And fly away with you,
Never to part.

Bali

I'll bet anything that when you go to Bali

The flight attendant won't chew you out for

opening the overhead bins

before your plane stops.

I'm sure there's at least one McDonald's in Bali

but no one punches the cashiers

and breaks the drive-through window.

Of course there are laws and lawyers in Bali

But perhaps no one brings you your divorce papers

while your child is standing next to you.

Sure, it rains in Bali.

But nobody's scared of it

by a weatherman in a plaid jacket.

Days go by when Bali is

Preferable to anywhere else

on Earth.

It has to be.

Just has to be.

What's the news in Bali?

Same as it's always been.

Happiness and joy

and a life higher

than this.

A bonbon...

I don't know about you, folks, but I'd give my eyeteeth for Marty Scorsese to barge in on the moments of my life. Now that I think of it, I wonder what those spots for General Foods International Coffees had been like if Scorsese had gotten his hands on them.

Merry-Go-Round

Dried out.

Wrung dry.

Burned up.

Bled down.

Bitter.

Angry.

Dismayed.

Frustrated.

Humiliated.

Like a hamster on the wheel.

A runner on the treadmill.

Hearing the same people

Saying the same things.

How did I come to live

In Seahaven?

I’m not Truman.

I hoped I never would be.

But it seems I am.

I hear Traffic

And Transit on the Ones

And Weather on the Eights,

Hoping I were up there,

Dismayed that I’m not.

Life’s not about the traffic.

Life’s not about the wheel.

I wasn’t meant to move around

In mere circles.

Why did they ask me

To stay within the lines

When I doodled in

The coloring books?

I was meant to live

Outside the lines,

Away from the hamster wheel,

Free as a gazelle.

I wasn’t meant to follow you around

In a big circle.

I was meant to run through

The wheat fields,

Giddy with the glee of freedom.

To hell with the traffic

To hell with the rain and ice.

It’s time to get off the merry-go-round

And take delicious, delirious

flight.

The Rantings of A Middling Poet and Essayist...

Just up the road from the Starbucks where I am composing, at a Barnes & Noble in the Carrollwood section of Tampa, FL., the actor Tori Spelling held a book signing this past Tuesday. According to the St. Petersburg Times, the session started at 7:45PM and, because Ms. Spelling has a reported reputation for greeting all of her fans, it ended at 2:20AM the following morning. 1, 400 fans had to purchase Ms. Spelling's newest book, titled uncharted terriTORI, in order to procure an armband and be shepherded in groups of 50 up to the table where she was holding court.

I have no doubt of Ms. Spelling's professionalism, her ability (or lack of it) to write a good, profitable book, or her devotion to her two children. But something bothers me about the whole enterprise: Casting aside Ms. Spelling's pedigree and her role in Beverly Hills, 90210, do you really think that those 1, 400 people would have waited into the wee small hours of the muggy Tampa night to secure the autograph of the star of Awake to Danger, Mother May I Sleep with Danger, Co-ed Call Girl, and other delightful fare? And what about them, anyway? You would think that J.K. Rowling herself had just walked in, nodded her head and given the cue for the boxes to be opened, the final Harry Potter book to come out and for everyone to crack it open in unison, jaws agape in wonderment.

In other words, for the author of Carrie and Needful Things, I would understand the clamor. For my Facebook friends Jacquelyn Mitchard, Marty Appel and others, I would hope to be part of the throng. If Oliver Stone wrote one more book and came here to sign and promote it, wild horses would not only not keep me away, they'd be spiriting me there like Secretariat at the Belmont. For Tori Spelling, I dunno. I sure wouldn't be bringing her raw rhubarb, as one fan did. In Tampa, Ms. Spelling must be like Marc Antony eulogizing Julius Caesar. In, say, Philadelphia, she might just be another violinist on the steps of the Art Museum, playing for change. Which I suppose we all do, in a way.

I also admit to being rather jealous. If I were the child of a famous teevee impresario and I were out there in the public eye, raising small children and being a "perfect" husband, no one would flinch at wanting to publish my memoirs. But I admit my life is far more boring and far less glamorous than that of Tori Spelling.

FRIZZLE-FRAZZLE (Don’t Touch the Marble)


Hey, Kids!

Ya see that little silver marble
Hanging inside the wooden box?
The one suspended inside the box like magic?

See how the marble just hangs there,
Never going up or coming down,
Free from the stingy
Laws of gravity?

Don’t touch the marble.
Whatever you do,
Don’t touch the marble.

If you do,
The marble will go nuts.
It’ll frizzle and frazzle
And fly all over the place.

You can’t stop it from
Frizzling, frazzling
Or flying.
Even with your hand.

Who knows?
The marble might
Break the box
And hurt you.

But eventually
The marble will slow down.
And then it will stop,
And go back to hanging there.

So whatever you do,
Don’t touch the marble.
You understand?

Don’t touch the marble.

THE GLOOM

Days go by
When I want to wash my eyes
And open them to
A brighter, happier world.

But lately all I see
Is the Gloom
That contaminates
And brings about doom.

It’s the Gloom
That makes us crazy
And hangs on to us
Like a stink.

The Gloom is what
Breaks up marriages
And drives pious men
To drink.

I want to believe
That angels and fairies
Lie in joyful wait
In every park.

But I can’t see them
Through the veil of Gloom
That shrouds them
In the dark.

It causes car crashes,
Slips, falls, and broken bones.
It makes evil men rich
And forces good men from their homes.

The Gloom seeps into your lungs
And coughing makes it just harder to expel.
And once you’ve inhaled it
Life turns to living hell.

I don’t know how you avoid the Gloom.
I don’t know how you reject the doom.
But someone better tell me
And that right soon.

I have too much to live for.
I have all this life in me.
Living with the Gloom
Is no way to be.

Beautiful Blond Baby Boy

There was a baby boy

With blond, fair hair

And chubby cheeks

Sitting beside me

At a restaurant.

When I saw him,

All I could see

Was me

At that age.

I had blond hair

Just like his.

Chubby cheeks

Just like his.

He was cuddly

And adorable

Like they always said

I was.

And he had the wonder

And joy

That I wish

I still had.

I smiled at him

And occasionally

Stole a glance

Whenever I had

A chance.

But the thought

Never left my mind.

That beautiful

Blond-haired

Smiling

Happy

Baby boy…

Used to be me.