a battle for the human soul

The Bridge at Remagen

is not in the United States,

but it is a bridge too far,

no matter who you are:

what don't you understand?

it is not in Minneapolis

never has been

and never will,

no matter who you are

or how many you try to kill

with a hammer or an ice pick,

you prick.

the Super Dooper Looper

is a roller coaster

not a super storm trooper

with Kevlar vest and thermal eyes,

a black heart of steel and forked-tongue lies.

a grieving mother cries

under your cloud of steaming gas:

she's all the way from the fertile underclass

with an academic degree of dirty nails,

disdainful of your modern jails,

scornful of your belly fat:

your constant bragging about this or that!

if it's not a charade,

it's no longer an Independence Day parade

as far as i can see,

morally and intellectually,

it's a battle for our deepest, most humane human soul

and everyone has a role.

Mao's little red book

The Yellow River

with a mighty brown flood,

and the Yangtze

with potent dragon's blood:

millions of buried ghosts,

bodies dead or alive!

brave protesters in Hong Kong

finding it hard to thrive

inside Mao's little Red Book,

raising their heads for a gambler's quick look.

See!  there's the Great Wall:

a Terracotta army of the first Emperor

holding swords and shields, standing tall.

Dynasties leading deeply into times that last

with echos of great tragedies

from present to distant past.

fields of plenty and loss

almost too far to walk across;

sprawling cities on expansive coastal plains;

thunder beyond the near mountains followed by torrential rains,

arriving early or leaving too late,

keen eyes sipping pearl milk tea served on a special China dinner plate,

too proud to kneel

for another expensive Western meal!

you're no longer there

it's not as it used to be

as you can plainly see

not in our hours of daylight

or even late at night 

when i hang the picture of your face

on the wall by my resting place

and reach to touch your hair

when i look

you're no longer there 

when i thought i couldn't miss

you walked away with your kiss

so you don't miss me

confidentially 

like a tango would miss a beat

or a hot rod might miss the street

it's uncertain in my heart

how this stop can become a start

when i saw your smile on Sunday

it was gone again on Monday 

i reach to touch your hair

when i look

you're no longer there

on the edge of a knife

as white as ice

and not so nice

filled with dread

moments from dead

a shot in the arm

there's no charm

in the crowded street

there's strangers to meet

decisions to make

is it real or fake

but it's my life

on the edge of a knife

watching the news

trying to choose

which way will it go

but i don't know

wishing upon a star

there's agents in an armored car

and a dark truck

people without luck

holding a big gun

spoiling our fun

running their own show

unable to know

how to stop fights

how to uphold rights

as white as ice

and not as nice

filled with dread 

moments from dead

a shot in the arm

there's no charm

but it's my life

on the edge of a knife.

on a southern horse

i heard Merl sing
after lunch time
on the prison floor
for a red hot dime

he sang real hard
meant everything he wrote
about a hanging judge

and a midnight rope

and a dark man
on a southern horse
underneath the tree
being held by force

long time ago
white as a sheet
in a rural land
with an ominous heat

 

remembering love
smiling at pain
trying to be brave
swinging in the rain

i heard Merl sing
outside his cell
just like Johnny Cash
deep in a wishing well

he sang real hard
meant what he said
that a Jim Crow's life
was how he was bred

long time ago
white as a sheet
in a rural land
with an ominous heat

 

and a dark man

on a southern horse

underneath the tree

being held by force 

Room 41

i'm sitting in Room 41
polishing and cleaning my gun;
i hear the copy cat blokes

as they're scorning my music hall jokes.

with no worries i'm out of their loop,
just spending time eating my soup

of the finest kettle of fish.

i'm framing my painting school dish:

it's a masterpiece of the new
with blue leather instead of a shoe.

 

opening all the heavy doors

look at the light show all around

full of the freshest air

sprouting from the cold hard ground

it's surrounding me on all my fours

and i'm running in place

keeping my own pace 

opening all the heavy doors

feeling fine

like a ripe grape hanging from a famous vine

where we sip and dine

on our dreams

yes, love, it's everything that it seems! 

a touch of my heart beating

realizing all my moments are fleeting

i'm facing ahead where my current steps lead

ignoring any obstacles trying to impede

my smile

yes it's been quite awhile

since i felt abused and poorly used

by some who thought me vulnerable and small

i've answered questions tossed my way across the hall

where monsters roam and spitballs fly

but i no longer wonder why

and i'm running in place

keeping my own pace 

opening all the heavy doors

feeling fine

like a ripe grape hanging from a famous vine 

where we sip and dine

on our dreams 

yes, love, its everything that it seems! 

a humble moment to reconsider

he was senseless in bed

she arranged the pillow around his head

it was a confusing day

no one had much to say

either the easy way or the hard way

was what he had last said

now everyone rejoiced that he was really dead

in this pleasant land

this Greenland land

where the natives danced and sang

and a church bell rang

then millions more began to ring 

globally celebrations under the sheets

happy marchers in the main and side streets

dogs and cats no longer being eaten

immigrants no longer being beaten 

the pillow was stained orange with sweat

and yet

the bands played with such joyful surprise

that all those lies

would be given an urgent moment to reconsider

what they had intended to do

now that truth was shining thru.  

saving the world

i'm looking for feedback and community:

Solidarity, Lech Walesa, Poland

unity

in this terrible hour

in this time when peaceful co-existence is imperiled 

in the face of a terrible menace

don't guess 

which way to turn!  

a group is waiting for you

to add your strength and your courage and hope...

yes, hope is not hopeless.

the saying 'Don't tread on me'

is really saying don't tread on us.

years ago,  i left my fellow Team 95 comrades;

it was simply another hot, dusty day in South Vietnam,

early 1970 and i remember it well...leaving hell

some said, and wished me well

others said don't forget us

tell everyone what you've seen, what you heard 

spread the word

of truth when back in the land of the big PX

in the land of the beautiful round eye

apple pie

and i boarded my freedom bird

heard the relieved cheers

saw tears 

and i went to march in the street

beat

the drums

sound the alarm

i felt that we had done so much harm

here to ourselves and to the people of that foreign land

and so,

and so

i drove to foot march the streets of Washington, DC

near the mall and the monument

where i was surrounded by thousands of American people

protesting as we could the continuation of a faraway

war

and many of our signs said STOP THE WAR

but there was more.

what we were saying was 

listen to the citizen speak,

the voters must have a voice

we deserve a choice!

we will not be shut out 

we will shout

we will persist

we will resist 

and i continually felt the presence of my fellow soldiers 

those left behind in Vietnam 

from where they watched

behind their sandbags and their towers

and their armored vests 

i heard them urge us all to do more

not only to STOP THE WAR,

to stop the insanity. 

a rushing wind blew and i knew 

we needed to find new words,

new messages,

new heralds who will take up the torch

carry it into any looming darkness

with nothing less to do than

saving the world...saving the world.

and so,

we are now here. 

we will resist together. 

visiting Caracas with Absolute Resolve

early one morning

they grabbed him by the balls 

they took his wife along for the ride, too,

shuffling blindfolded down those darkened halls. 

his bodyguards lay scattered on the floor

unable to protect anything anymore. 

a quick and bloody raid

USA made

in the dead of night visiting Caracas

without passports or visas or any intent to party 

uninvited the Delta Force personnel came

hale and hardy

locked and loaded

to kill and then to kidnap

the narco-terrorist fat cat

that the American foxy media said was a threat!

well, who will take that bet? 

the President and his wife, Cilia

both claimed their innocence

which made perfect sense

because that's what Trump always proclaims

as he blusters and babbles and defames. 

Ginsberg

Ginsberg saw the punch of heavenly insanity
through glassy homosexual eyes
across oceans of distance & nearing death
He wrote from his head the trade wind Howl
of demon smokestacks and collapsed cities
screwing a Buddha universe of astronomic atoms
where lived man who spit blood and broke heart
among hard machines made by harder machines
on a hard rock surface called a world
pregnant with firearms & hypodermic needles
in need of cash and the warm hot fix
of a thousand squirming angels in a passionate frenzy

Ginsberg felt this madness of America
& the naked copy world of cruise ships
underneath their starry night
with cots full of spent sperm and false hips
and wigs with plastic faces before He died
beyond a prison wall with His tender man
confessing eternal love within a soft earth womb
powdered dry like the Sahara desert
without relief from quick suicide or happy June weddings
with happy cake & wall street traders
pumping for their gymnasium memberships
when the dancing couple fell into a bloody hole
& found a habit without a flying nun attached
near the Harvard yard of peak nothingness

Ginsberg danced on strings of his own inspiration
with Beating poets studying the crowded beer hall
of ashcan lids craftily blown across the lonely street
to where the Brooklyn Dodgers once had played
before an admiring crowd of immortal souls:

on Ebbets Field the memories grow like Hell

 

the Crown Prince

it's near the new year:

the Crown Prince wants a rinse

and a do-over with a new Range Rover 

and an increasingly cozy relationship with his new pet

who is currently sleeping in the white house

like some drugged up mouse, 

fondling his cheese at his ease,

heedless of his lack of sleep

as he harangues his loyal sheep.

the Crown Prince knows his own stuff is cool

and the sleepy head is a demented fool

so the advantage is oil and money

no joke

but its almost funny

how he remains on guard,

parrying the sleeping mouse who holds no card 

and is losing his mind.

life is unkind.

the Crown Prince wants a rinse 

and a do-over with a new Range Rover. 

Louise Gluck: 2020 Nobel Prize in Literatrure

sad and strange

off the range

beyond the boundary fence

where you rest with barely a lick of sense

Louise Gluck

soft and slick in your metered brain

teaching poetry under the driving rain

of New England

where you stand with sharp words and fate

heavy on a wounded heart, the cemetery gate

opens as you wander by,

closes when you shut one eye:

a skeleton with bones raw white

rises to kiss your lips tonight.

we are the flowers

after the destructive fires,

when the newly bloomed meadow flowers

speak clearly with voices full of hope and promise,

the tiny sprouts of trees show gardens of green 

and small birds can again listen to a spring stream of

clear water washing over rounded stones,

i stand in awe, inhaling deeply and grateful to

be among nature in her finery:

hope.

once upon a time, long ago,

i had a brief tour with the

army, and there were no meadow flowers,

no joyful streams, no birds.

the words that came to me said hope wasn't a course of action.

No, it was 

planning and preparation.

precision and purpose.

know your foe.

rely on stealth.

shadows are your friend. 

hope isn't an option.

now, today, while flowers are blooming

i read the awful news of Bondi Beach,

a lovely strip of warm sand and shore and sea

near Sydney, Australia.

It's a celebration for Hanukkah. 

The city's Jewish community has gathered,

children and the elderly.

then, madness! 

bullets fly. 

A respected Rabbi, shot.

A holocaust survivor, shot.

More, too, too many more!

do we feel the loss? 

This tragic event, seemingly far away,

but suddenly Brown University in Providence,

Rhode Island, is looking for flowers, too.

During final exams, inside their classroom,

two students were killed.

Flowers will be at their funerals.

do we feel the loss? 

I know we're going thru rough days,

looking for hope, trying to define it once

again, hold on to it, cherish it.

Hope is here, though.

Immigrants to America hope.

I hope.

And am so blessed to be with my group of Soul Matters

friends.

You give me hope.  I hope i give you hope.

It is our course of action. 

It's in our smiles and our laughter.

Every word we share, every voice spoken,

every moment we acknowledge one another

provides us hope.

And we become the flowers, and the wild birds,

the trees being born, 

the freely flowing streams, and the life-giving sun. 

This is our reality; our hope. 

i couldn't sleep worth a damn

but
her breasts keep getting in the way

i couldn't sleep worth a damn
and the music was too loud
even if it was Kashmir
each heavy note came tumbling bouncing off the entrance door
i saw the stenciled sign splashed in hurried paint i hurried in
drizzled colors piled onto a dirty glass canvas announcing
Harmony Bar & Restaurant but i wasn't buying it
none of it none at all

her white shirt remained unbuttoned
while i fumbled
i dropped the ball but had a ball played the game
went into extra innings
she felt cold hot luke warm hot again
her nipples got the beat
each one
inclined swayed winked and nodded as i smoked
waiting on my park bench wearing a French beret
met a photographer who soon became a painter
read the newspaper headlines about the disturbance
waited until she touched me touched herself
i became erect & stayed that way

i couldn't sleep worth a damn
had a stiff one had a drink had a dream
i remembered Joseph Alioto and the bomb
his prostate cancer a bitch a hole in the invincibility wall
the streets of San Francisco pulsing up and down
round and round the Transamerica pyramid wild-eyed
his grave and everywhere parades of kids and more shadows
looking for the mafia but finding hills and bags of pills
and the Pacific Ocean and suicides
the Golden Gate Bridge the perfect foil
where inspired hippies danced by the incoming tide
outgoing too and in tune with their war
their camouflaged faces and Indochinese histories
black cats and panthers sitting on ice listening sweating the draft
their inner city jazz coming undercover coming underground
to Dizzy and Miles getting a fix on things some very good things
with sharp wit and sharper needles all at the appropriate time no less

i couldn't sleep worth a damn
living in my crummy flat by the fire department
on Haight-Ashbury with a famous singer
i can't recall his name his face just doesn't appear to me anymore
he played the drums in a white band not well but
only for a short while before dropping his sticks
into the depths into the drug culture into the abyss
ringing my bell at all hours on each every almost any floor
at the window
by the stairs
on the road
tugging at my brains spilling my guts onto the cop's desk by his answering machine
questioning me and digging for deeper mysteries that no man should ever want to know
most any time the elevator to the top floor sat waiting for the middle finger
and i started to write in a cold sweat typing a combination of words
emphasizing color, light, and the need for a change of pace a change of direction
i felt i needed a job needed a push a muse a mother a mouth a moment of genuine solitude
but no flawed insight please no three piece suit please no college campus guidebook
in plain view on a polished dining room table, no stained glass front door, no father knows best
no the prevailing mood wasn't enough no crowd control no ten commandments
no zeitgeist no leitmotif no full monty to unwrap the final vision to explain everything
in one big yellow star-bursting fireworks explosion so we can all just go to hell!
& so it goes for general motors general electric and the general population
all the crazy politicians jerking off in the planetary house of representatives
doing to us what they're doing to each other over the air waves and over cocktails
and over there and here in their hands a new generation looking for a masterpiece.

but i know where Jefferson once talked to his mistress, so maybe that's enough.

but
her breasts keep getting in the way

did you do as well?

in my coloring book, the lines were thin and challenged

me to stay within their confines

did you do as well?  only time will tell!

i slipped but i didn't fall

my blues and reds and greens and yellows

as well as shadow black

proved to me i had a fatal lack

of following directions as i drew

what i knew

was expected.

did you do as well? only time will tell!

when asked to sing in chorus

i had my own song in mind,

and not be be unkind

to myself

i sang what i felt

and the shelf ice didn't melt.

did you do as well?  only time will tell.  

Poetic gratitude

Poetic gratitude:

polishing politeness while canceling the crude

a garden filled with many different, colorful flowers

idling with a friend savoring our peaceful hours 

together with perhaps memories of Apollinaire and his friend Picasso

whispering Surrealistic thoughts before we go

into our private studio

to play her favorite Neil Diamond song  

we're not wrong

about the butterfly and the hummingbird

sipping nectar like a favorite word

wings beating like a fleeting heart

each second arriving for a brand new start

alive the puppy and the kitty with an intensity

shared with winds blowing wildly across the sea

goosebumps in the cold

refusing to be bought or sold

offering aid, a helping hand

leaving temporary footprints in the human sand 

building castles bravely at low tide

resting with a lover side by side

touching finger tips

touching lips

hearing the eternal call of the wild and a laugh

seeing a distant loon and a moose nursing her calf.

the overhead sky seems to be so expansive, so much

but it's always near enough for a simple touch.

rival queen

she was a rival queen

of Frankenstein's time

a touch of softness and a touch of rhyme

but not a pushover by any means

filled with mystery and secret schemes

joy and a blue heron flapping overhead

taking away the sense of dread

a wisp of willow, a whirl of sound

reciting the poetry of Ezra Pound

such was my love, the rival queen,

dressed for fashion in my latest dream. 

with young girls and boys

I've traveled the miles, heard about the Epstein files

hidden from view by the broken light socket

tucked deeply inside a Presidential pocket:

when his spokeswoman said he never got laid

by a preteen who didn't get paid

no naked massage with his little boner gleaming brightly

(was it really unsightly?)

no trolling whenever he went

into the dressing room of a miss whatever beauty pageant

he didn't really grab'em by the (you know!) way down low

where the hidden treats, tasty kumquat and ripe mango

wait for the rich and powerful playboy touch

to do whatever it is they want to do, often and too much

with young girls and boys:

for them, it's been holiday year 'round filled with toys

for the taking

and this isn't inventive or me simply faking

news.

by God, this is the real deal!

you get to choose

who should win or who should lose. 

South Vietnam, once upon a time

General William Westmoreland went south
Looking for his compass
Which he was unable to read;
He hired an aide with glasses
Who couldn't speak the language,
So they signed together with their hands.

In the growing darkness, they looked for a light
At the end of a famous tunnel:
What they found instead
Was a toilet.

They wanted an air conditioned room
On the uppermost floor
Of the Rex Hotel
But none was available,
So they demolished the building.

When the smoke finally faded,
They threw their hands up in exasperation
And claimed victory!

A crowd of astonished onlookers
Gathered their press passes
And headed to the five o'clock follies
Where a final briefing was in progress.
They took notes and stood in line to use the toilet.

Later, everyone gathered at the roof-top bar for a drink.

When they arrived back in the USA the following day,
they expected a parade.
They never found one.

of life and death

knowing something of life and death,
i sat with 20 men,
being just one of the small guys
on an tall bar stool
hoping for a summer of love,
aware that my youth died with the early spring.

i caught a whiff of their fragrant lies
between sips of the darkest beer.

then, playing fast, i watched a slow game of pool,
heard several languages,
and recognized one of them
(having traveled in my earlier days).

a sullen man sat down his hoppy beer
and left quietly through an exit door.

perhaps he had heard everything he needed,
yet was still in need of adventure
and looking for something more,
a double shot of excitement, say,
where mysteries filled the rear parking lot,
he danced on the hoods of cars
and flung himself into outer space

without even leaving the earth.

there was a drunken sailor heading home
with garlic on his breath and tattoos on both arms.

the navy man stopped at his dented car hood and looked on in amazement.

he watched the sullen man dance,
elevate, then enter heaven overhead
without a care for what he was leaving. 

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.