Sunday, February 12, 2006

Needs

"Do you know an
empty garage
I could use? That's all I need,
just a small one,"
he said.

I looked at what Manuel was wearing --
shabby shoes and worn trousers,
white t-shirt,
turqoise polo shirt,
his brown tweed sportcoat;

and his Von's
grocery cart
full
of his meager
possessions:

a blanket,
a second pair of trousers,
a spare sportcoat,
and two or three boxes
full of his papers and notes--

and was
thunderstruck
at the frugal
statement
of his simple needs.

I became
ashamed
at all I wanted
and thought
I needed.

Public Libraries

Speaking to a
homeless person
may engage you in one of the
most
intellectual conversations
you have ever had
because they
may be the
most
well-read people in America.
Laugh, if you want,
but check out
the number of
homeless people
sitting in public libraries
reading
and check out
whom they are probably
reading:
Rushdie, Pound, Hemingway,
Vonnegut, Dostoevsky;
and about what they are probably
reading:
politics, SETI, sociology, color codes,
survival.
Oh, you say,
I don't usually go to public libraries,
Dave,
so I wouldn't know.
Well, I know you don't go --
most
Americans don't anymore.
Corporate bookstores
have joined with
corporate coffee
to relegate the need for public libraries
to high school students and
homeless people.
Look at the facts and one understands:

corporate has mobile phones
public has pay phones;
corporate has double mocha decaf latte
public had fluoridated water;
corporate has millions in advertising
public has millions in overdue charges;
corporate smells like prime wealth
public smells like the grime of life;
at corporate, people check out each other's looks
at public, people check out authors' books;
and corporate has stories by unseen people
discussing their perspectives of life
while public has the actual perspectives of life
sharing a reading table with you.

Homeless people
give their stories without want of
financial recompense;
they merely seek an ear to bend,
a touch of humanity,
someone to listen.
Public
is a place unafraid of itself,
in touch with its residents,
open to those seeking
knowledge,
a card catalogue,
reference,
or shelter.
It is here that
one can
read, breathe, formulate, gather.
It is here that
homeless people
slough off the stenched burnoose
of shame and non-acceptance
forced upon by society
like a father's hand upon a helpless child's cheek.
It is here that
they have
access to what
most
of us take for granted:
feeling like
a real
person,
part of the world.
respectable,
not ignored.

Poverty

Today, while walking down Wilshire Boulevard,
I saw a nun driving a luxury car
--an Infiniti, I believe.
Some vow of poverty, I thought,
as thirty meters away
lay an old homeless man
whose luxury car was a
Von's grocery cart.

Thursday, February 09, 2006

Untitled

A country built on democracy and capitalism
a place where all voices can be expressed
a chance for all to make a living
by any means necessary.
The Great Melting Pot
is the country's proud moniker.
E pluribus unuma saying on all its currency,
repeated in oaths,
in one form or another,
a forgotten citation
as the voices of those in minority
rise and rise in volume
threatening the very concepts of democracy.
The lure of competition, capitalism,
the lust for money, to be the best,
the bleeding heart for the loud voice
of the smaller populace
denigrate the foundation of the country.
The democracy lessens as the social idea
blossoms, threatening the core.

We hide behind a mantra of
'political correctness' and look down upon
the tenets upon which our country was constructed.
We are losing our grip on reality, on how to live,
on what is right, on what is veracious.
We litigate when things go not as we desire;
we go behind the backs of our
brothers and sisters in order
to increase or improve ourselves;
how we look, what we possess, where we live,
all counting for more than how we act;
we complain about our plights even
as we refuse to help those more in need;
our myopia overwhelms our conscience
and we act not true to what is right,
but, instead, true toward what will be thought of us.

We are afraid to be alone, to stand alone, to think alone,
because it is perceived to be a flaw
and who wants a flaw to be exposed in this era?
Our fight for and celebration of the independence
we have is now laughable as we have become a nation
of malcontent co-dependents, unaccountables,
fence-sitting opportunists, on the ready
for our neighbor's misstep so we can raise ourselves.
We are losing sight of what is right and what is wrong
as we instead focus on a label or ideology that
misapplied or misused or misfocused.
We stand for morality even as we live immorally;
we judge others even as we lash out at being judged;
we have lost our simplicity as our
technology advances to dizzying heights and we
think ourselves as the Creators or Improvers
of all that is around us in Nature and the Universe;
we see differences instead of noticing similarities;
we hear what we want to hear instead of listening;
we reach for what we think is ours
instead of feeling what others feel;
we lift our noses in the air at others less fortunate than we
instead of smelling the decay of society;
we stick our tongues out at that which we do not understand
instead of tasting the incredible delights offered by others;
we take what we want instead of sharing what we have.

We are leaders of the world, the nation to which many
others look for guidance and emulation,
yet we are not worthy of the responsibility,
a responsibility upon which some of the major
foundations of this nation were erected.
We have taken this load for granted and
have used it to bully our way into the lives of others.
Slowly, but increasingly, other countries are
hoping to find another alternative to our bullying.
But, they are in the unfortunate position
of being at our mercy when negotiating with us.
So, we take advantage of our strength,
forcing our views upon the rest of the world.
We have sanctions against certain countries because
we have taken it upon ourselves to morally police
these countries because of their repugnant leaders,
many of whom are not even the choice of the people they lead.
So, we cause millions to suffer because of our
policing of countries and their leaders where
it should not be our business to police;
we too often take our role as world leader
further than it needs to be taken and we lose
sight of what is really being accomplished by these actions:
the sufferings of millions and millions of innocents.

What Do You Want to Do?

People ask
but I don't know.
People asked
and I didn't know then.
People will ask
but I still won't know.
If I could,
I would travel, write, drink, and read.
Then I would
drink and write about what I'd read
and where I had travelled.
While drinking and writing,
I'd think about what to read
and where to travel next.
While travelling and reading,
I'd write and think about
where I would drink next.
It would be an intimate cycle
of travelling, drinking, writing, and reading,
or
of drinking, writing, reading, or travelling
or
any single, double, triple, or quadruple
combination of the above.
But, Davya, one might ask,
what about women?
Where do they fit into your picture of life?
Would you do any kissing
or loving or chasing
or grabbing or what?
Oh, believe me, I’d answer,
women would be on my mind,
alright,
Hell, I'd say, they're the reason I'd be
travelling,
writing,
reading,
and
drinking,
trying
to run from and run toward,
to describe what I'd had and I'd want,
to learn why they've been and why they will be,
to remember and to forget.


West Los Angeles
22.10.99

Two Women and I on a Bench at the Beach

I am sitting on
a bench at the beach
listening to
two gabby women.

I am listening on
a bench to two gabby women
sitting on
the beach.

I am two gabby women
listening to
a bench
sitting at the beach.

I am the beach
listening to
two gabby women
sitting on a bench.

I am a bench
sitting on the beach
listening to
two gabby women

Two beach women
sitting on a gabby
listening to the bench--
I am.

Two gabby women
listening to
a bench at the beach
I am sitting on.


Santa Monica
07.08.99

Saturday, January 21, 2006

Entitlement

What is entitlement?
Is it a large bank account,
expensive house,
or fast car?
Is it race, nationality, gender, religion, or ethnicity?
Is it a beautiful face, lean body, or hard muscles?
I don't know what it is, but I see it every day,
and, frankly,
I am sick of it.
Because of this catch word,
the lines of graciousness and acceptance of others
have been eradicated.
Every day, I experience and/or observe this phenomenon
and I shudder at the direction in which
this country,
this world,
is headed.
Everyone seems to think he or she is entitled
to whatever it is he or she wants,
the wishes of others or the needs of the masses
bedamned.
I am entitled to be rude and ugly,
to have what I want,
to my rightful place,
because
my ancestors were repressed
or because
I am a woman
or because
I am white
or because
My child is smarter
or because
I am beautiful
or because
I live in an expensive Malibu bungalow
or because
I am an Ivy Leaguer
or because
I am a man
or because
I drive a German sports car
or because
I am a victim
or because
I am on welfare
or because
my ancestors were wealthy
or because
I am black
or because
I am fat and lazy
or because
I am handicapped
or because
Of my ethnicity
or because
I know the President
or because...
The reasons are endless, superflous, and disingenuous.
Why the need for entitlement?
It has done nothing but
cultivate bitterness,
promote segregation,
emphasize separation,
cause misunderstanding,
foster mistrust,
and
endanger this country's,
this world's,
relationships.
Because of this attitude,
our country,
our world,
is more divided than ever.
Every day brings fresh news of conflict between people
who feel that they are more
entitled to what it is they want
than are the people who believe opposite,
who also believe THEY are more
entitled to what it is they want.
It is a vicious cycle and it is not new.
No, it has been around for millennia.
However, the relentlessness of
technological advancement,
the explosion in world population,
and the heightening educating of the world
have begun to narrow the distance
between neighbors and encroach upon
the privacy of the world,
serving to make this a more urgent problem
than ever before.
It can be found on small, insignificant scales,
such as a claim to a space in line
at a coffee shop,
or it can be found on larger scales,
such as a claim to a promotion
at work,
or it can be found on the grandest scales of all,
such as the claim to land or religious monument
at home.
Entitlement has always existed,
and especially on the grandest of scales;
it is the reason for war.
But it is when it starts to become an epidemic on the
smaller and less large scales
that the problem of entitlement
must be addressed
and the attitudes toward and surrounding it
must be altered and
compromises must be reached.
Perhaps this entitlement is part
of Nature's course
for the universe,
but I suspect not
because we as a species of humankind
have begun to believe more and more
that we are entitled to destroying
more and more parts of Nature,
literally and figuratively,
in an effort to further our own advancement,
which, of course,
is not an advancement at all.
In trying to impose our sense of entitlement upon Nature,
we run the risk of provoking Her wrath.
When we believe we are entitled
to know and understand
what it is that Nature
knows and understands,
so much so that we will attain this
knowledge and understanding
at any cost,
we jeoardize the future of Humankind's
relationship with Nature
and even, indeed,
the future of Humankind itself.


Santa Monica
01.02.01

Monday, January 09, 2006

A Window on Perspective

A woman sings karaoke
while I sit and drink and contemplate.
I am invalidated and angry
(even using the word "invalidated" pisses me off),
happy and exhausted,
weary and resigned.
To my right,
I look out the window and watch as, out on Wilshire,
an old-looking middle-aged woman
pokes through the garbage can on the corner.
I bet on the baseball playoff game
tonight and won.
A parlay on three hockey games
would have won had I had the guts
to have made that bet.
I curse my cowardice
as, a half-moon hovering overhead,
I notice out the window
an old-looking middle-aged woman
poking through the garbage can on the corner.
Victory and elation,
disappointment and letdown,
all relative to the beholder,
smolder like incestuous hillbillies
on a Jerry Springer show,
baring all on syndicated television,
merely to cash that virulent paycheck while,
just outside the window beside which I am sitting,
an old-looking middle-aged woman
pokes through the garbage can on the corner.
Shame and embarrassment
steal over me for things
I have done or said,
ways I have acted or reacted,
situations I have caused or created.
I feel sorry for myself and think that
I am the unluckiest person on earth,
until I look out that window and see
an old-looking middle-aged woman
poking through the garbage can on the corner.
My wife sleeps at home
while I am in this bar,
sad, alone, near the breaking point,
while her cowardly, self-loathing husband
pines away, genuflective before a bottle
and this pen and paper,
attempting to discern his lot in life,
while outside, with no home and a sorry lot in life,
an old-looking middle-aged woman
pokes through the corner garbage can.



Santa Monica
19.10.99

A Mid-January Midnight - in Shorts

Midnight
in mid-January
sitting outside in shorts
on a bench at the corner of
Santa Monica and Wellesley.
Across Santa Monica Boulevard
~~~~~~~~~~(straight ahead)
is Rocky's Hot Dogs and Hamburgers.
Across Wellesley Avenue
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ (to my right)
is Del's Saloon,
into which I have set foot many times.
A perspiring can of Coors
sits on Beside Me Street
~~(to my left)
and keeps me company
as I watch the sparse traffic meander by.
I think about my
being in shorts
at midnight
in mid-January
(it is Los Angeles, after all)
and it brings to mind
where I was a year ago
(Budapest)
and two years ago
(Boulder),
neither in which place I'd be
sitting outside in shorts
at midnight
in mid-January.

I watch the traffic and enjoy the night.
A Lexus, a Honda, a Chrysler
all drive by;
then a Ford pickup truck
and several other cars.
However, my mind is not here on the bench;
no, it thinks about my soon-to-be ex-Mrs.
in bed at home:
a second marriage failure.
I feel pathetic and I'm not even
thirty-two years old yet.
I am momentarily brightened at the thought
of two potential successors, though:
one in Hungary and one in Turkey.
But I've a feeling they would just be
the third and fourth ex-Mrses,
so I decide not to take my act
international just yet.
Hell, they probably aren't even
potential suitors; it's probably just
the Coors talking or
the desire for good drama amidst all
this rubbish.
Questions do remain, though,
and chances saunter past me
like the traffic in front of me.
Perhaps, however, as I am doing with these cars,
I am merely watching great chances pass by me.
I get up to walk home and I walk past Del's.
I pause, for it's definitely a bar
I know well and will only
know better, and, although I know
it would certainly be OK in mid-June or -July,
I wonder if it would be OK for me
right now to be
sitting inside in shorts
at midnight
in mid-January.



West Los Angeles
18.01.00

Tuesday, January 03, 2006

Exposed

This poem was written within a month of the incidents of 09.11.01 in the U.S. It was written with the assumption, long since disappeared from the author, that those who crafted the events of that day are whom the American government would have us believe:


exposed
we were
we have been
we are

will we learn?

or will we continue trying
to force our will
--unwanted--
our politics
--unnecessary--
our threats
--unheeded--
our ideas
--unsympathetic--
our beliefs
--unessential--
on people and cultures
ill-disposed or -inclined
to accept them?

will we learn when to help or aid
and NOT to interfere?
or will we always follow up our good intentions
with OUR agenda?

Innocents
(and innocence)
have been lost, on our own soil,
a tragedy and injustice, perhaps,
but no more so than what
we dole out to the world all too frequently.

do we deserve to seek justice?
maybe,
but not at the expense of other
innocents
(and innocence)
who will pay for our wrathful vengeance.

american innocence suffered because,
if you believe the party line,
others who are allegedly against our "way of life"
sought vengeance,
not justice.

"we" claim ours to be a superior
morality and culture
just as "they" claim theirs to be.

so, where is the difference
between *us* and
those we demonize?
or between those we
expose
and those who
exposed
us?

Thursday, March 10, 2005

Introduction

i've written a number of poems in a variety of locales for a myriad of reasons and on countless media: bar napkins, my travel journal, the odd notebook here and there, scraps of paper, the backs of envelopes and letters sent to me by family and friends, my hand or arm, an alluring maiden's cleavage, the shaved and mangled ribcage of stray dog, and more.

it always depended on my feeling or stage of intoxication at that particular moment.

on this and surrounding pages are some poems from my travel journal, recently completed (late winter '05), and there are a variety of subjects about which they deal: love, erotica, what i saw while traveling or living somewhere, and the incidents in the u.s. of september 11, 2001. all they are are measures of the maunderings in the mausoleum that is my brain...