Still Life Radio

Joy of Arguing

Arguing is a sport, a game,

such a fun activity

That my mom and I would get tangled in.

Sometimes we became so animated, so excited,

So thrilled to be swimming with our points of view,

Our play on words, that we'd burst out laughing,

While my siblings stood, confused, and worried

That we were getting carried away,
Going too far, and would end up fighting.

But for mom and me it was play,

A way to sort out what we thought

About things, about politics, about situations,

And about who we are ,

And who we are not.

Back to Back

Back to Back

By Mushroom Montoya

So many conversations between people

Are nice and shallow,

Barely getting the top of their feet wet,

So rarely exposing our private parts;

Our vulnerabilities, 

Our fears, or our secret delights.

The dominant thoughts:

I want to like you,

And I want you to like me,

Jump in front of the gut, 

Cover up the heart,

Telling them to be still, shhhh.

Don’t mess this up,

Our thoughts tell us.

As they paint a wishful smile.

We dress in appealing robes

That mirror what we think 

The person we’re talking to will like.

We look for cues

While our smile distracts the viewer

From our searching.

And everyone once in a great while

We take the risk and open a door

To our inner sanctum.

When we are strong, we say that it’s ok

To be different from me, 

It’s ok to like what I don’t like, 

And to have an opposite point of view.

We can stand back to back,

Describing the truth,

as we see it,

And we can both be right or 

Both be wrong.

And that is ok. 

Handcuffed Stomach

By Mushroom Montoya

I was free at the age of ten.

I raced across the sand,

Laughing, skipping over the wavelets

And diving into the ocean.

No school uniform,

No household chores,

No needing to do or be anything,

Other than a shark, or a dolphin, or even an octopus.

I’d glide with my friends

Along the bottom of the ocean,

And we’d jump up like dolphins.

We were free to play and just be boys.

Being an adult is a different story

Driving up Pacific Coast Highway

Along the Malibu beaches,

Having a good day.

Red and blue lights flashing in my mirror.

Check the speedometer.

Check the street.

Check myself.

Breathe slowly.

Put on your blinker.

Look for a wide spot in the road.

Pull over.

Breathe. Be calm. Breathe.

I stare in my side view mirror.

Why are both of his doors open?

Why isn’t he coming to my window?

Why is he pointing his gun at me?

Why is he asking me to get out of my van?

Oh shit! What is going on?

Did he see my brown skin?

Vibrating all the way to my toes,

I open my door and step out slowly.

Obeying his command to raise both hands.

I breathe with each step

As I walk toward him.

Why is he pointing his gun at me?

Where is my freedom?

My eyes stare at his fingers

On the trigger of his gun.

The salt air licks the sweat on my palms.

I hear the second cop

Talking to my spouse.

The waves crash on the beach.

He looks inside our van.

Seagulls squawk above me

Witnessing my frozen freedom.

He waves his hand to the gun holding cop,

Who puts his gun back in his holster.

My stomach is handcuffed so tight.

Trucks and cars buzz along the highway.

The cop calls me over, asks for my license.

He turns to his partner and nods.

“Your vehicle fit the description of…”

Yes, I know, the description

Of a dark-skinned man driving

A vehicle.

He apologizes for stopping me,

For delaying me,

For scaring me,

For taking away my freedom.

He returns my license

And tells me to have a good day.

Yes, it is a good day

When the cops let me have my freedom back.

I look across the highway,

At the kids on the beach laughing,

Skipping over the wavelets,

And diving into the ocean.   

Whose Dumb Idea Was It To Give God a Penis?

Whose Dumb Idea Was It To Give God a Penis?

By Mushroom Montoya

Whose dumb idea was it

To give God a penis?

The devil's?

Nah.

The devil was invented.

Why?

They, whoever they are,

Decided not to accept blame

For their own misdeeds.

They strategically placed the letter “d”

To point away.

They disguised the letter “d” as a standing penis

To deflect responsibility.

“The devil made me do it.”

It sounds so clever, so easy,

To point the blame away

Onto someone who does not exist.

If the “d” were removed

From devil,

Only evil would be left.

Their evil.

If God were female,

She would not need a standing penis

To deflect her responsibility

For her own mistakes.

She would not go to battle,

And blame her own creation

For the apple that was eaten.

God knew it would be eaten.

The male God

Designed his creation to eat

the apple.

Why didn't the male God accept

Responsibility?

Why did he punish his creation

For following through with his design?

A mother would never punish

her children

For doing what she designed them to do.

Whose dumb idea was it

To give God a penis?

Afloat From My Lips

Anger brews under the sadness 

That shadows my heart

with news of the riots and curfews.

Dark Magic is being tossed around in a dust devil

Filled with tear gas and incantations laced with

Stinging nettles, and angry wasps

That curl our lips with hate.

I shall not unlock the corral

Where I keep my wild, furious jackals of hate.

Getting them back in without being bitten

Is impossible.

Where can I find enough light

To evaporate the shadows,

To corral the dark magic of pent up rage,

And bring peace back to the land?

It must start with my words

That have been cooked

In this cauldron of pain

And cooled in a chalice of kindness.

My words are imbued with magic

To heal or to curse.

I must choose my words

carefully, wisely, and lovingly,

For they are no longer mine

to control

Once I set them afloat

from my lips. 

Desecrated Public Servant Blue Uniform

We stare at the TV,

Watching four grown men,

Wearing police uniforms of

Public servant blue.

Officer Chauvin's knee is holding down,

Choking, suffocating George Floyd,

Pleading for air, begging for his life,

Calling for his mama.

Two of the men in blue

Hide behind a black and white police car,

While they too, pin the man to the ground,

Squeezing his life out,

One begging plea at a time.

Is this America?

The America that I risked my life for

in Viet Nam,

Alongside sailors and soldiers

Of every race and creed?

I thought we passed the Civil Rights Act

More than half a century ago

To end racism in our America.

Who are these four grown men,

Dressed in public servant blue,

Who desecrate the uniform,

Their oath

To serve and protect?

Who allows such men to

Kill Black men at will,

Violate common decency,

Violate human rights?

Who allows such men to

Ignore the Constitution,

Ignore the rule of law,

And express blatant racism

With NO accountability?

When local governments

Ignore the law

To shield one of their own

From lawful consequences

They become accomplices.

We, too, become accomplices

When we watch TV

And do nothing,

Except run to the toilet

And vomit our helplessness,

Our acceptance.

What does it take for us to act?

Do the corrupt police have to hurt

Our next-door neighbor,

Our family,

Our body?

We know, when we accept injustice,

We are being unjust.

And we can't keep vomiting

Our integrity into the toilet.

We must NOT turn off the TV

And walk away,

Lamenting the violent “normal”

We have accepted.

We must hold accountable

Any man who desecrates

The police uniform,

Who desecrates the public trust

with lethal racist actions.

When we climb out of our shelter

And charge forward,

Knowing it might be uncomfortable,

It might hurt,

We come back to humanity,

We come back to life.