Monday, July 22, 2013

Is My Muse This Abuse?

Is my muse this abuse?
Have my screws come a-loose?
Does my fuse need a boost?
Is my muse this abuse?
If I choose to write Seuss
And not Hurston or Proust
Like a Susan or Bruce
Is my muse this abuse?
When my blues come to roost
My dark hues on the loose
Please excuse my excuse
For my muse is abuse
Drinking booze like a moose
Dealing twos like a goose
Loving boos like a deuce
Life infused with the juice
I was used then seduced
Been confused and reduced
I refuse this refuse
'fore I lose,
Call it.
Now my screws come a-loose
My old fuse needs a boost
From the zoos to be loosed
To my shoes, introduced
Not amused, I deduced,
My best woos reproduced,
That my muse is abuse
That my muse is abuse.
- Mel

Tuesday, June 25, 2013


I live
In a constant state of panic
It’s my default setting.

So, when everyone else freaks out
Cause the shit hit the fan
Or the world’s gonna end
I’m like, “What else you got?”

They always ask me,
“How are you so calm?”

I never say
Because it doesn’t matter
And this is not the time for that
Just stand over there and be quiet
I’ll handle this

You see people
We’re at DEFCON 1
High Alert
State of Emergency
All hands on deck
Clear the bridge

Cuz you guys…
You’re just visiting.
I live here




But once it’s done
And everyone goes home
With a pat on the back
They say, “Good job.”
“Let’s party.”

I can’t…

Because I’m a

And that
Was the only time it’s useful

But you’re welcome.

- Mel

Wednesday, February 20, 2013

Exhibit A (Try Not To Stare)

I am on exhibit at the Bronx Zoo.

Children stop and stare
Wishing they could grow up
But not grow old.

Adults pass by quickly
Knowing what it’s like to grow old
But not grow up.

I wait to be fed.

I am on exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art.

The guide calls me an important work.
Signed, Certified and Numbered.
A Limited Edition.

The plaque reads:
Unknown Subject Number 3,471,955,134.

I am on exhibit at Disney World.

I am an animatronics display
Showing the perils of drug use,
Not staying in school
And not taking life seriously
While playing with fire.
On a track and on an endless loop
Until it closes for repair.

I am a ride with no line and no ticket
And only room for one
That is at times
And fun
And at other times
A straight flat slow trip
From one side of the park to the other
And back again.

I am on exhibit at a Televised Murder Trial.

I am Exhibit A:
The murder weapon
Used to kill the dream

I am the dreamer

I am Exhibits B – E:
The so-called smoking gun
The iron-clad alibi
The powerful motive
And the suicide note

I am every member of the hung jury
And I am the judge that declares a mistrial,
Clearing the court room in anger.
There was no crime.

I am on exhibit at the Museum of Natural History.

Behind a sign that reads,
The Human Being:
Kind, Creative, Complex;
I sit at my computer writing
Whatever comes to mind.

Behind a sign that reads,
The Human Mind:
Anxious, Angry, Arrogant;
I sit at my computer writing
Whatever comes to mind.

Behind a sign that reads,
The Human Animal:
Hungry, Horny, Heart-broken;
I sit at my computer writing
Whatever comes to mind.

Behind a sign that reads,
The Human Spirit:
Passionate, Peaceful, Present;
I sit at my computer,
In a replica of my living room,
Writing whatever comes to mind.

I am on exhibit at the World’s Fair.

Here we see Mel at 10 years old
Not knowing who he is

And this is Mel at 20
Not appreciating who he is

And here’s Mel at 30
Not liking who he is

And if you look to your left,
You will find a mirror on the wall
Placed there for your convenience.
That’s Mel today
Not remembering who he is.

“That’s me?”


“Hi Mel.”

Try not to stare.

Saturday, July 21, 2012

Guns in the Church

I grew up in movie theaters.
It's where I learned about the human condition.
Where I discovered my love for story-telling,

It's where I had my first sexual experience
and my first paying job.

The theater is where I went for refuge
from the abusers,
for shelter
from the loneliness
and for warmth
on long cold rainy nights.

It is my institute of learning,
my place of worship,
my home,
my church.


Do not bring guns into my church.


- Mel

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

Falling Objects

My hands shake

I’ve always been
A nervous man
Since I was a
Nervous child
And consequently
I drop stuff

Nervously fumbling
With things in my hand
Then helplessly watching them
Crash to the ground

Objects in my grasp
Were only
Temporarily there
Literally slipping
Through my fingers

But I noticed something
Something interesting
As they dropped
Time would slow
As they fell
Time would crawl
The more fragile the item
The slower the passing of time

So presumably I had all the time in the world
Theoretically I could catch an item before it hit the ground
Instead of watching slack-jawed In horror

As it broke in slow-motion

I began to practice
Not on purpose of course
But I drop a lot of stuff
And got a lot of practice

Try to catch it
Try to stop it
Before it lands
Before it breaks

I began by moving my foot underneath the object
To break its fall
Or even kick it into the air
But depending on the object this was a momentary reprieve from destruction
Or worse

Very painful to my toes
If the thing were sharp or heavy

Then I started trying to immediately squat to the floor once I dropped something
A deep knee bend as soon as the item left my hand
Falling faster than the object and beating it to the floor

I began to save things
Snatching them from the inevitable collision

And then I got good
I got confident
Instead of fumbling
with the egg
Or the glass
Or the gadget
I would let it go
And catch it out of the air.

Through the years I got quicker
And quicker
To the point where
I could catch something out of the air
After I’d dropped it

But age has slowed my reflexes
And has not calmed my nerves
And my knees
They don’t bend that deep
That fast
And my saving rate has taken a sharp decline
So once again objects in my grasp are only temporarily there

She once said to me
“We don’t own things.
We keep them safe for a short time

And then they are gone.”
But she may have just been justifying the fact

That she was robbing me blind
Taking little things from me
Like gravity
Snatches things from my hands

But when I was good
When I was fast
When it would drop
When I would save it
To the average observer
It looked as if
It had never left my hand

“What was that?”
“I dropped it. Then I caught it.”
“That was fast.”

Gravity never stood a chance.

- Mel