the wine from Portugal

a few questions remain on my chin

like drops of dark cranberry juice

with a neat twist of lemon,

hijacking my tranquil mood

as i'm returning a container of fresh milk

to the kitchen refrigerator:

a woman is speaking on live TV

to a white haired man with a pancake face

and a soft creamy grin, who tries to interrupt

while a house fly is buzzing around his head,

and yet another hurricane is approaching the Gulf of Mexico

with a Greek name and one hundred mile an hour

winds, looking for another city to destroy,

an American city occupied by National Guard members and 

ICE cubes menacing their gin and tonics. 

California wildfires consuming millions of acres of forest in an

attempt to engorge themselves, are eating like obese ants at a climate change

party, waiting for the chocolate cake which never arrives.

Armenia is failing. Azerbaijan is failing.

Putin is a tragedy.

Trump is a presidential disgrace.

Pink Floyd (the band) is playing a British song about mother dropping her bomb

over a dusty New Mexican desert, Trinity in the air.

a border wall is being built from steel plates while a pod

of pilot whales remain stranded on a remote New Zealand beach.

there are children in a prison without lights on at night to make it impossible

for them to find their parents, who are also in a prison without lights on at night.

a public picnic table is empty under the spreading chestnut tree.

the village blacksmith is looking for his food stamp coupons and a hammer for the anvil blow. 

a square-jawed sheriff (white hat on good-guy head) is looking for his shiny badge when the wall clock strikes high noon;

the nearest saloon is filled with lonely drinkers, all eyeing a table holding the ace of spades.

the Earth is spinning like a bikini top playing games as the warm winds blow in

from the southern ice shelf, groaning in a whirling fit of desperation,

while to the far north Santa Claus sits on his snow sled looking inside a big brown bag.

it's empty of gifts for the needy and the lost, but filled with voices singing Mozart's Requiem in D Minor. 

and the wine from Portugal is better than you think, as is heard from the party goers drinking French

champagne at a golf course club house situated along the southern Florida coast.

oh, what we once had!

there's insight here, but it's dim:

there is a dark shore and a dark morning and a man

in black who is not Johnny Cash,

splashing ketchup on the walls

down the length of the White House halls

heedless of the calls for a resemblance of sanity.

It's taking place in the 21st Century

whistling past the Arlington Cemetery

where genuine warriors and heroes repose

and God only knows 

who else...

what's happening is a shit show of epic proportions 

that only those trapped in a menacing China or Russian or Iran

can fathom.

what we have here

is fear

uncommon for such a freedom-loving people

in their own heartland,

but the clown and his circus

are spreading hatred among us.

time now for the good folks

to see thru this con man hoax

by calling out the cruelty, the indifference to open civil society; 

not to take shelter behind veils of piety,

to get really really angered at the power grab.

oh, what we once had! 

America, the beautiful. 

frogs along the shoreline

my dad kept brass knuckles in a bedroom dresser drawer
underneath my mother's white panties.

he had a temper, that's for sure.

he was a fist fighter, i was told.

once, during a baseball game he was catching for his Marietta
team, a local cop arrived to arrest the second baseman.

when the cop walked onto the field to get his man, my dad flipped
his mask and ran to get the cop.  And he did, so i was told.

and later, he got me, more than once.

but i don't want to talk about my childhood.

well, there is this:

my first 3 speed bike was too big for me,

but i rode it to elementary school anyway.

i watched a girl friend of my mother after she took a shower at our house,
peeking in from outside while she was drying herself.  those were the first
real female breasts i ever saw, and there was nothing special about them.

i was curious about a female body, but can't remember why.

i have a long very visible scar on my right forearm.

the scar has a history, but i can't remember what it was.

i was a good high school wrestler.

today, i continue to watch my weight.

i shot at frogs along the shoreline of a large pond, using
a BB rifle.

no frogs shot at me,

and i wondered why not. 

As Tears Go By

Marianne
be faithful to me
toss your extra money
deeply
into the sea
come with me
in a fur-skin rug
along with the rabbit
and his marching drug
near St. Anne's Court
the thick lines white and short
where the homesick blues
wear like rich kid's shoes

so fare thee well my little dove
a much harder love
is hiding underneath our talk
shall we continue our walk?
it's on a slippery slope
much longer than the longest rope
if you think our relationship has been mended
the time of day has probably ended

oh, what you've been through
not many at all
in fact only a precious few
have survived
when the gardens and all the pretty flowers died
when
nights and darker days
parted ways

i can still hear you speak in broken English
running from your hospital bed
one more breath
is all that's
keeping you from being declared dead

shall we continue our walk?
it's on a slippery slope
much longer than the longest rope
if you think our relationship has been mended
the time of day has probably ended.

Ho Chi Minh died in '69

And they all died!
Any further consideration would be postponed
Until tomorrow.
A total of twenty two hundred men lied!
One was big nosed Charles de Gaulle
Who was last seen sipping heaping teaspoons of arrogance along
With ripe strawberries which came from Dalat.
Who else?
The French legions at Dien Bien Phu.
That's who.
The Emperor, Bao Dai, constantly smiled 
But never went wild
when the sneaky Japanese sat eating his rice.
They weren't very nice.
Uncle Ho knew which way to go.
And millions of peasants soon followed.
The Buddhist Group went up in flames
Playing gasoline games
In the public square.
I wasn't there.
Ngo Diem was, however, along with his brother and the
Dragon lady, who wasn't very blue.
Who else knew?
In Saigon, Nguyen Van Thieu,
Continued to work on his resume.
Kennedy and the CIA
On the river's embankment,
Ordered the bogeymen into action.
And the rain might have stopped as suddenly
As it started, but the B-52s
Were just warming up on Guam,
Their cold bomb racks filled with misery for the
Vietnamese on the ground, without qualm.
It became very clear that death could drop from
Thirty thousand feet
And kill a thousand people as they sat down to eat.
Truman had no policy, Eisenhower none, but Johnson
Pulled his pants on like a true Texan.
Nixon was no Texan, but in 1972
He celebrated an early Christmas
With Henry who flew home from Paris
With a secret merry card.
On the cover it mentioned that Hanoi and Haiphong
Would not have a merry time
tonight or for the next several weeks and
Not a single word made a rhyme,
But the men acted as though one did.
Whom did they pretend to kid?
President Ho Chi Minh died in '69.
He was no friend of mine.
The US Embassy lost a sign.
It was carried away by a staffer, who jumped
On the last helicopter leaving for the coast.
Where is it now?
That's what I want to know the most. 

Sydney, Australia

Sydney, Australia

and the opera house
at dawn
was singing 'Good Day' to a
regatta of sailboats
which i saw and heard
while walking to the famous bridge
out of my way
but not too far
at the end of the summer of
1970.
for nearly a month
i waited for my flight from
Saigon;
in spite of everything,
i was able to board,
and on landing,
the Aussie girls were waiting
after i cleared Customs and
found my army duffle,
their big round eyes shining
brightly in fresh happy faces.
they waited to dine and dance,
to walk and talk,
to peek and probe,
to be close to me, to touch.
did i ever say how much
it meant?

war and peace, so close together.
and in the crisp springtime, future months away,
with the opera house filled with song,
the evening harbor aglow with lights, sails and stories,
i'd be dug in under a misty jungle canopy
far to the north,
listening for an encore.

Nixon and Mao

i've been thinking of the days

when cigarettes were 25 cents a pack from the dispensing machine

including a soft pack of matches

and soda was 5 cents a bottle

but the nicest thing was nobody talked about Trump.

a fill-up at the gas station was typically less than 5 dollars which

included a complete window cleaning and an oil level check

but the nicest thing was nobody talked about Trump.

the bikini was introduced for the young girls who had lithe, athletic bodies

and the nerve to wear one on a warm summer pool or beach day and

they sure looked delightful to the young boys

but the nicest thing was nobody talked about Trump.

Jim Bunning of the Philadelphia Phillies pitched a perfect game in 1964, on Father's Day,

and his team won which was not remarkable although helpful for their standing in

the league

but the nicest thing was nobody talked about Trump.

In the early summer of 1969, in a muddy field near Woodstock, New York, there

was an amazing outdoor multi-day concert of stunning music attended by

hundreds of thousands of beautiful young people, 

but the nicest thing was nobody talked about Trump.

Richard Nixon, in his role of President of the United States, reached out to the

People's Republic of China and it's leader, Mao Tse Tung, for a rapprochement between

their respective countries and it proved to be a welcome gesture

but the nicest thing was nobody talked about Trump.

in 1989, the Iron Curtain separating east and west in Europe was dismantled by

freedom loving peoples tired of the mind control of the Soviet state and that empire

for the most part began to unravel stone by stone and brick by brick,

but the nicest thing was nobody talked about Trump.

on September 11, 2001, there was a horrific attack by Islamic militants

against the United States centered on Manhattan, New York, at the World Trade Center,

with the use of two commercial American Airlines planes crashing into the twin towers,

and later, on May 2, 2011, the master mind of the attack, Osama bin Laden, a Saudi national

living in Pakistan, was killed by United States Navy SEALs during a secret raid on his compound,

but the nicest thing was nobody talked about Trump.

died of fright

no one came into my bedroom

yet the air was heavy with breathing

i imagined a masked man in uniform

he wouldn't give his name

but i signed all the papers

i accepted all the blame

and in the morning there was no one

i must have lost myself at night

my dying was never questioned:

they said i died of fright. 

Broken Arrow

it was once Saigon
but now it's all gone:
the muddy river slept and burned
and what have we learned?

painting it black won't get it back!

the body bags filled with Asian dirt
who said it wouldn't hurt
watching the helicopters at the embassy
the woman with her startled baby
grabbing the barbed wire wall
dodging shots before the fall
and all the President's men
in their white face
the conference table with expensive pens and fancy lace
and that perfect powder room
where the drunks sang delirious songs of doom

in the stone temples
the impassive gods sat hard and cold

watching fates bought and sold

in the parlors of the press
the readers were forced to guess
what in the streets of an American city
was real and what was simply witty

and on the television screens
cigarette smoke filled the air

while in Vietnam the midnight sparkle
was a phosphorescent flare
and young men lived and died there

while in the Pentagon
it was once Saigon
but now it's all gone
when the flesh gave way to marrow
the cry was 'Broken Arrow'

or was it in Orem, Utah?

remember what they said about Oswald?

how he planned it all and was such a

good Marine 

sharp-shooter

with his rifle

with nerves of steel 

with unlimited patience

being a convenient dupe of the mob

but it was all bullshit

meant to deceive and deflect

while driving the Irish Catholic crowd crazy

or crazier, if that was even possible,

by losing their first American man who

ascended to the Presidency. 

the Cuban Batista boys were furious, of course,

about the loss of their property

and the fast women

and the slow cars

and how they hated the cigar smoke from Castro

who blew it furiously up their asses

but never giving away his hand.

the cops did their best playing the field

sniffing the air for smells that didn't belong

conning the cons

wearing their suits into Broadway clubs

waiting for snitches and bitches

to order tall drinks

from a short bartender

who was a closet friend of J. Edgar Hoover,

famous top dog at the FBI.

of course it was Oswald, the pinko

solo player

a mastermind

a maestro

a genius,

simply another day in a plaza in Dallas,

or was in Orem, Utah? 

as some conspiracy theorists have suggested. 

the summit of Alpe d'Huez

Chemical Ali was not there
in the rarified air
at the summit of Alpe d'Huez
where a sign in French says
"Allez Armstrong"
go hard and long
he was often hung in the press
accused of doping i should guess
but never strung on the gallows as Ali
is soon to be
yet he seriously kicked ass
and would certainly out-class
most sports writers
playing pencil lovers dull as fighters
Chemical Ali will soon be dead
for what he did, not what he said
the ghastly gassing of the Kurds
an act of evil beyond mere words
innocent children and mothers
fathers sisters brothers
uncles aunts old middle young
poisonous clouds all far flung
by Iraqi Migs and French Mirages
no racing bicycle in those garages
thousands dead and homes razed
survivors stumbling in a toxic daze
while Saddam smoked his Cuban cigar
sipped bourbon inside his palace bar
holding perfect Kosta Boda crystal
and his famous Glock 18C pistol
Chemical Ali was not there

eaten by pigs

eaten by pigs

while wearing wigs

squealing naked and not yet infirm

watch them lie and squirm

down the dance hall and out the door

rolling in heaping piles of their own manure

wearing their disguise outside the public sewer

ICE

not tea but walking body lice

masked with military grade armor

a special operations charmer 

zip-tying children in the street

binding tiny shaking hands and tiny feet

screams for help answered with a sneer

ICE is there and now here

eaten by pigs

while wearing wigs

snort

contemptuous of American justice and Federal court

orders, they say, from a soul less pimp

squatting behind the Resolute desk like a deep fried orange shrimp 

bone spurs and fat reducing pills

challenges and chills

the brain worm eating its' way deep into the soul

finding a black heart and a blacker hole

what, one asks, is the end game?

SHAME

on all the cult followers and their tragic game

extinguishing the long-burning liberty flame 

while applauding hate

is their ultimate fate (to be)

eaten by pigs

while wearing wigs? 

on the dunce seat

when i attended school

i had to obey the golden rule:

no messes and everybody confesses

on the playground and in class

no holding hands or grabbing ass.

Mrs. Coleman was her name

and teaching was her game.

we had a small group of rowdy boys

who thought our penises were little toys

that needed attention

not to mention

flirting with the innocent girls

wearing bobby socks and shampooed curls.

the teacher was often stern

her temper simmered into a slow burn

and 

i ended up on the dunce seat

when i failed to meet

her expectation to be quiet and stay seated

she treated

me with her adult stare

i tried to care

but my friends would poke and joke around

no one could make a sound

when she looked our way

but we always had a lot to say

at recess:

hey, look up Nancy's small skirt

Francis is always wearing the same striped shirt

Joey farted, lit a match & shot the flame

i somehow got the blame

and 

ended up on the dunce seat.  

Picasso would have painted

Pablo was a dabbler in the art

of solicitation while a genius with the brush

and colors on canvas.

Two wives and countless lovers, all women,

naturally, he boasted.

he didn't live long enough to make the

acquaintance of a modern day painter named

D J Trump.

DJT has painted his own canvases, and 

each one of them is a self-portrait. 

He boasts continually they are, collectively,  the greatest

paintings in the history of humankind.

Many people are known to believe this is true.

Many who disagree are threatened with

the guillotine, a device with a weighted, sharp

metal blade meant for decapitation.

Headless people have been seen wandering the

streets of America.

Picasso would have painted them, had he lived long enough. 

landfill or garbage dump

Portland isn't known as trump land

and that's a good thing

trump land is a hell hole

a deranged darkness of the soul

pity the humans who inhabit trump blight

who turn light into a nightmare sight

wherein the political right 

exacts revenge upon their American enemies

enemies?

simply free citizens who choose freedom of speech

over craven supplication

who choose liberty for their nation

over being a member of the cult

by default 

all who obey trump

belong in a landfill or garbage dump.

Portland isn't known as trump land

and that's a good thing. 

Louise de Coligny-Châtillon (1914)

before we began smoking opium

i was already your devoted slave

unafraid as any other former jailbird might be

to feel your whip strike approvingly on my bare ass 

you've forcefully sodomized me with your love poems
filling my orifices with your urgent singing
opening the gates to my body without difficulty
while i've spread myself wide to your intense advances

i remain the recruiting office deliriously hungry
for your enlistment: there are no obligations!
the application merely asks for your most sincere depravity
and my madness is fully guaranteed

if we prove to be a combustible couple,
of course this relationship cannot last, so
i'm going to give you a very good tip:
i burn for your disdain.

the happiest boy

there's a little boy playing in the tasseled field
pretending to be a captain or uniformed colonel
without serious thought darkening his nocturnal
no deeper idea about an older living or the younger dead:
an all American global blue white and red
carrying his cardboard captain's shield

guaranteed invulnerability to anyone with intent
or under the super moon on a starry night
and all without any sense of fright

simply sidewalk ghosts sneaking around
oblivious to the very tender, fertile ground
where all blind people are eventually consigned

there was a crack of the bat and a flying ball
he spun and went over the nearest pile of hay
he had nothing of importance to say
he tried, but it was considered obscene
light years of urgent words and what did it mean?

he's still playing like the happiest boy of all.

i love belonging

when i was young, i created a self-protective

bubble around myself, as a defensive measure

from what i felt was abuse from the parents

who fed and clothed and housed me. 

the tools i employed were rebellion and mischief,

which were intermingled in always a curious fashion.

i found a bonding love with my grandparents and my 

grandmother's family, her 7 sisters and their mother,

my great grandmother.  My great grandmother was

a distant but gentle presence.  Her love of cooking

was a way to share her love for people.  Inside her home,  Tuesday

pie-cooking sessions happened in her large kitchen;

her daughters helped and the wonderful aromas of

many fruit pies cooking and cooling on a nearby table

filled my nostrils; i would find myself

overwhelmed with a flood of colors and tastes and the soothing sounds of

ladies laughing.  My grandmother also took me into her

own kitchen, and she equally loved to cook. 

Her Thanksgiving Day turkey in her oven was a day dream

waiting to be revealed during the many bastings meant to keep

the meat moist.  I would be scolded if I tried to snatch pieces 

while she was carving the bird.  It felt good.  I was teased and recognized and,

while maybe not exactly appreciated in those moments,

I was welcomed.

She was from an old order Mennonite family, yet had a delightful habit

of always serving herself a glass of cold beer along with the New Year's

tradition of cooked pork, sauerkraut and a large bowl of real mashed potatoes.

i belonged to this world of sights and sounds and aromas, 

while leaving me protective bubble behind.

In Vietnam, as a young soldier of 21, I served with other young men

from America, from diverse backgrounds with interesting stories.

Gus, a tall, lanky guy from the coast of California, shared his pipe

collection; he know them all and they each had unique characteristics.

Alan, the afro-wearing black guy from Bedford-Stuyvesant, wanted me

to know his life growing up in a ghetto.  Kent, the CIA agent-in-training,

who would helicopter into Cambodia and return with tales of intrigue.

Others, and we became brothers; we trusted one another; we reached out

with our dreams and our fears.  We relied on a community outside of our

immediate home families and bounded.  We believed in our bonds.

A young Vietnamese soldier was tasked with helping my Team 95 garrison

protect the compound.  He was in the service for life, or until he died, or the

war ended, he told me our first night together, sitting behind the barbed wire

fencing and the stacked sandbags.  He asked me to help him speak better

 English and in return he'd teach me Vietnamese.  We met regularly

for many months.  I learned he lived off base in a dirt floored hooch;

his small house had a metal roof fashioned from discarded beer and soda cans,

split in half and flattened, then woven together with thin wires.  He asked

me to shop for soap and powdered detergent for his wife.  Once, I surprised him, 

his name was Nguyen, with a bottle of Martel cognac.  At the time, this was a drink 

only high ranking officers could afford. 

I remember the first time Bette kissed me.  We were on the wood bridge spanning a

very small stream.  She must have seen the real me without my bubble.

I've completely discarded the bubble.  I love belonging. 

 

 

 

of hatred and bigotry

the real America, Charlie,

is found in Austin, a middle-sized city in Texas,

during South by Southwest.

so, here's your test:

is it music and drink, sex and sin?

if you said yes, you win.

lots of fun and the bands

full of laughter, straights and trans,

eating and dancing and being true to Self,

not a media personality pulled from a shelf.

beards, broads, ladies and gents

doing whatever life foments

while saluting life and liberty.

repeat after me: be free

of hatred and bigotry

and have a drink on me. 

Vietnam is such an interesting land

Vietnam

is such an interesting land:

shoreline and mountain top

jungle and rice paddy

people and places

bungalows and water buffalo

brilliant sun and heavy rains

heartbreaking poverty

exquisite wealth

glistening skyscrapers

river shanties

busy city traffic

quiet dirt lanes

papa san

mama san

water puppets 

flowers on the Perfume river

beauty and yes, depravity

yet with laughter and soft touches

final judgements

penetrating smiles

bright, inquisitive eyes

brown

with jet black hair.

i'm intrigued by it, all.

That's the lucky part

I've heard it said by my history teachers:

George Washington was the first President of America,

then a newly formed Republic,

finally successful in a war for independence against the

mighty British Empire.

It was a protracted struggle,  costing lives and wealth.

In doubt over the many years of battles was the triumph of the colonies.

How they won is undisputed, with major credit given to the

leadership of the Continental army, and luck.

Luck is a powerful intangible at work over the many generations of

human life, and it continues to be active.

In America, I've heard it said by my history friends

that luck has ended for the people of this land.

The current president, nameless for this diatribe, is a disaster.

He is a disaster not only for the people of America, though;

he is a plague on the nations of the world.

I've heard it said by my nighttime mind:

this current president is immoral but not immortal.

That's the lucky part.

Edna (1892-1950)

In Paris, a simple bridge over the river Seine
could not be rebuilt:

George Dillon brought his younger arms,
surrendered to lavish red-haired charms
and the scandalous Fatal Interview
about the sexuality of two
was promptly published on the following Saturday.
It offered a literary way
to understand the sad demise
of one famous Poetess sonnet-wise,
who became drug addicted and Steepletop lost
at an undeniably human cost.

Me?

With lips like a valentine heart
and sweet songs from her apple cart
would she love me, if I said
I could raise her from the dead
and read Aeneid or Baudelaire
in French or Spanish, if she'd care.
We could go walking in the nude
and while not perfect or purposely rude,
I'd kiss her inside her candle's glow
and play music on the keys of her piano.

She could recite her poem Renascence
with that unforgettable voice which forever haunts.

off the foggy coast of wild Peru

how did you survive

when they killed the number five,

and tossed your Father in a cell?

because in Kashmir there is a riot

when Indian troops demand a total quiet

from early dawn until an indefinite tomorrow

like a conquering Spanish Pizarro

off the foggy coast of wild Peru.

what will you do?

a sharp-eared owl heard the softest drums

of an approaching storm:

she saw the clever swarm

of power-hungry mouths

eating the primordial forest nude and bare,

leaving

nothing but thin air:

her tongue could taste the odor

of a menacing nightmare

softly creeping 

into bedrooms where children were safely sleeping,

dreaming of their grand empires

of laughing moons and shooting stars and youthful merriment.

their closed eyes and gentle faces,

wrapped in imaginary blankets of loves' good graces,

rest in peace.

what will they become?

more statues made of gold?

F. Scott Fitzgerald, American novelist

Celebration beer in hand, 

the stranger sat next to Scott and asked about the Paris weather.

Zelda overheard the question and threw her drink

at the face of the questioner.

"How dare you?" she demanded,

"Who ever cares!"

as soon as she finished her last word, she went

to replace her drink.

the weather improved in her absence.

but just as soon as she left, she returned,

drink in hand.  

Scott had a drink in hand, too,  and one resting on 

an adjacent table.  

he liked having a simple choice. 

Scott saw Duncan walk in with a young man who

was half her age and decided to introduce himself.

when Zelda saw him knell before the aging dancer, she yelled,

"How dare you?"

"Who ever cares!"

and she ran from the room, drink in hand, and threw herself from

the nearest balcony.  

the weather improved in her absence.