Mapplethorpe

The white mulberry tree
was draped in heavy net
My art was consuming me
I hadn't died yet
cruising New York streets
Black sheets on my bedroom wall
reading Blake and Keats
determined not to fall
Trying to keep my camera clean
My candle burning from both ends
wax dripping bluish green
yellow post-it-note friends
a taxi of similar shade
strawberry acid inside a Chelsea trip
all expenses paid
i smiled, lost my grip
shutter clicking black and white
i gave them quite a fright

Picasso's Art

the periods changed from blue to rose
who really truly knows
cubism and surrealism
the harlequin or the minotaur?
from hour to hour to hour
woman to women to young girls
dancers at your party wearing smiles,
symbolism traveled years and many miles
stretched seductively on your famous canvas
while the German bombs fell
and transformed Guernica into Hell
on Earth, this moment is now all right
in that hilly Spanish town tonight:
Marie-Therese Walter hanged herself
where you once built a studio shelf
armies of colored bullets in your head
another lover who would soon be dead
when you weren't able to drink anymore
and died older, near a Mougins floor
Jacqueline Rogue would shoot herself
you built that shelf,
too.
but what could genius do?

Carole

i drank my coffee facing you
as we talked about the new man
in the life of JoAnn
we talked about the good old days
while I ate a very large warmed cookie,
carefully separating it into small,
more manageable
bite sized pieces
i recall we did the same with our life stories
as you thought about smoking a cigarette,
your lips working the imaginary butt
while i spoke, slowly exhaling a paragraph
about Mike and his cauliflower.
did you laugh
when i said it gave him gas?
His death was unfortunate, as was Jim's death.
but you seemed strong, with sharp clear eyes
watching me take a sip from the paper cup.
i know being a widow
is hard.
we went outside and sat on the lone wooden bench
and you lit up
being alone is not the same as being lonely,
you told me
i thought the bright red vest looked good on you
as did the jewelry, fashionable in a silvery way

US Army

place of birth
Lancaster, PA
selective service number
41 1 48 61
Date of Entry:
29 Jul 1969
71B30
Vietnam Campaign Medal
Blood Group: O+
RVN: Dec 69 - Feb 71
HQ MACV USARV
Advisory Team 95
Tam Hiep, III Corps
SP-4
Honorable

Papa in Paris

everybody knows that Hemingway 

was in Paris 

just the other day, 

with the lost generation and Ezra Pound, 

marveling over all they had lost 

but suddenly found. 

Gertrude Stein and James Joyce and Scott, the significant others, 

some married, 

often with lovers 

losing their innocence 

like Papa! 

who should have known better but lied:

he went to go get her instead of the train 

then surrendered his own wife, 

long years before his took his own life.

and long before The Old Man and the Sea won the Pulitzer 

and he the Award of Merit, 

and he didn't even need to share it.

heartbreak

heartbreak
and the pain
plenty of rain
plenty of meaningless sound
swirling around the book store wall
sipping my Starbucks coffee until
it was all
and i watched you disappear
even though you were near
even though i wanted you in my arms
before the cash register rang
but no Angels sang
i tried to tell you how i felt
while i ate my tuna melt
while you talked of riding bike
i tried to tell you why i like
heartbreak
and the pain
plenty of rain

to kiss you again

and

i lied when i said i didn't want to kiss you again 

even Scotty Fitzgerald knew Zelda was in bed with a pilot 

not the airplane he flew 

before she was grounded

in a different sort of bed

yet he loved her far beyond his written world 

of Gatsby and a strange friendship with Hemingway

in France

and the dancing herd of the jazz age 

it had seemed all the rage 

to sail and sun and drink well before three 

yet he loved her when he no longer could write from memory

and 

i lied when i said i didn't want to kiss you again

paint it, white

you come to me with your bright eyes
asking me to sanitize
all your sad lies
all your self control
not knowing
which way to go
not knowing
how much to show
how much to reveal at the center
i'm not your mentor
it's time to enter
into a life time like a life line
where i can see you
where i can know you
understand you
when i believe you
when i hear you with your best friend
not caring who you upend
or where you send
all your self control
not knowing
which way to go
not knowing
how much to show
how much to reveal
make it real, real
make it seem right
paint it, white
paint it, white

a little exaggeration

the conversation is always gentle
about religion or the nation
without satirical overtones
only thoughtful hesitation
slows the solid muscles of a mouth
from talking about banking
and job losses or a carbon tax
and why the environment is tanking
it's probably the carpet which is solemn
impressed with dyes of decorum
there are people who dislike President Obama
and others who are happily for'em

death's an old joke

death's an old joke
but it comes fresh to everyone
subtracting from the sum
one less garden for the flower
one less minute on the hour
one less falcon that flies home,
flies away from home at his leisure
loses lift and can't find pleasure
breathless with rapture:
if i could feel sure of what you say
i would love you forever today
i would love you irrevocably
i would pull you closer to me
confiding intimacy
brighter and more daring
more tranquil, more caring
your large beautiful hands enfolding
light-hearted yet firmly holding
side-by-side in the hollow of our tree
i would love you irrevocably
i would pull you closer to me

death's an old joke
but it comes fresh to everyone

fairy tales

nightingales can't be fed
on fairy tales
or sweet French bread
they need the windy sea
and unbridled shouts of reality
untamed happiness and Italian wine
thick tobacco smoke, English rhyme
dark German beer, ribald song
these little birdies can't go wrong
with splendid Russian blood and art
naturalness and pounding heart
nightingales can't be fed
on fairy tales

dream 02/15

a yellow stone church with a green roof
white columns and a fresco
an old garden with dark trees
colored with the weight of new snow
and a black iron gate with signs of rust
underneath my hand i saw
its' broken hinge and one odd screw
balanced just before the fall.
then a clever face with a sweet smile
half-opened, i was dreaming
near to her, talking to her
looking at her eyes beaming
a constant glow and a short laugh
a philosophy and a voice
no sense of life passing by
our stillness and our choice
but River with madness and a chill
grim silence and an abyss
a point certain with an end
woke me and now, what did i miss?

my gym visit

the stationary bike heard me approach
didn't bat an eye
looked away as i
mounted and began to spin, again
with everything i had and more
like a happy whore
i dug my loins into the chore
like a stimulated race horse
on a hard and fast course
i wasn't the track jumper
not bambi nor thumper
just another Sunday athlete over middle age
trying not to turn the page
become Apollo, gray like the gym cement
speckled in dark sweat
and yet
no amount of exercise or lifting
can keep these sands of time from shifting

dreaming of clouds

i watched you paint my face
spreading colors on me
into negative space
brushing much too hastily
turning off all the lights
turning off the talk
spreading delights
across the canvas where we walk
into the spot light
i am your marble man
hidden from sight
being the best that i can
wondering what is right
but i'm sitting here for you
doing what i need to do
tasting your black and blue
in a studio class
dreaming of clouds
but i'm walking on glass
all the tubes and bottles perfectly align
none of them are mine

twice

fresh peaches and wild strawberries
in a tall glass pitcher with ice
and young ladies in their white dresses
with the smiles they rearrange twice
and twice i watched the young men dance
in black tuxedos wild with dreams
never asking in their moment
is this always how it seems?

Henry James or Dostoevsky

we shall never love anyone 
but each other
like a little sister or little brother
this lovely afternoon and evening

i'm very hungry now 

somehow

what's for lunch? i have a hunch
an endive salad and apple tart
where should we start?
a foie de veau with mashed potato
and a book by Henry James
or Dostoevsky 

perhaps two or three?

then we'll walk alongside the slow river
to some new old cafe
we know 

along the way

we'll have two drinks and
no one will know 

when it's our time to go
to the galleries and a shop window
opposite of where we walk
quiet and gay our private talk
down a stairway to the park
where fishermen work in the early dark

we were not lonely before bed
making love inside our head.

Campari

immigrant hair alive on the side of her ear 

thick with an accent 

her blue eyes shine a northern light upon her pleasant voice 

food or drink? 

offered a choice i chose both 

we talk long of people and places 

wine and song 

i find it very pleasant 

she is brilliant i am anxious 

she is resilient 

well-mannered 

with a bottle of Campari 

we behave perfectly with books on our laps 

opinions a few 

about Picasso and Pound or whatever we knew

it is all so perfectly fine

so whatever happened to the time?

blue suede shoes

i don't know really
what NASA found on the moon
but today i listened to
an old Pink Floyd tune
and thought about a trip to Mars
and Elvis, yes, and cars
i thought about you, too
how i'd love to roam the world
and be as one, curled
less lonely together
i didn't stop to ask whether
the idea was yours or mine
blue suede shoes are fine
but they're not meant for hiking
trails on an Andean slope
so pass me a rope.

little bells

your savage beauty
like a sharp needle and thread
ripped at my heart and
stole away my head
it left a red haired ghost
resting on my mattress
where my arm reached across
for a simple caress
we read aloud great poetry
inside the pulsing of our star
but there was always silence
when i asked you who you are

almost time for the rising moon
the dawn would come much too soon
we ran across a field of perfect flowers
stumbling into a symphony for hours
stood and heard the singing of little bells
awoke, felt the stinging of little hells

brown leather jacket

the brown leather jacket
a hard Texas drawl
the dour old person smile
these were the first things i saw
the light was sadly dim
coffee still being poured
i returned an awkward hug
felt reassured
this wouldn't be a long romance
more like a fast friendly chat
i paid my table bill
grabbed my hat
left the restaurant
no sense of defeat
just another person
i didn't have to meet
polite no doubt and warm
forgiving and sincere
but without personality
or any laughter i could hear

comfort time

when i'm down it's really low
couldn't guess which way to go
16 tons and falling fast
never winning, always last
when i'm down it's dark as night
crazy in the pale moonlight
desert country far from home
i'm traveling light, but all alone

baby's fine she comforts me
shows me all i want to see
tells me what i want to hear
never far, she's always near
baby's fine she comforts me

when i cry it's spilling milk
throwing tears as soft as silk (silk)
wrap me in a bed of sorrow
cover me up until tomorrow
when i cry it's losing face
salty skin without a taste (taste)
watching wicked hands of time
waving past this song of mine

when i hurt it's world is gone
blackness at the break of dawn
grinding gears inside my head
tells me no one hears what i just said
and when i hurt it's really sore
i'm in denial, i'm in denial on the floor
crawling on my hands and knees
and i'm asking for some comfort please

baby's fine she comforts me
shows me all i want to see
tells me what i want to hear
never far, she's always near
baby's fine she comforts me

Southern heat

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

he sang real hard
meant what he wrote
about a hanging judge
with a midnight rope

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

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

laughing at love
smiling at pain
trying to be bad
swinging in the rain

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

he sang real hard
meant what he said
that an outlaw's life
was better than dead

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

Mike

so frail
in a rented hospital bed
JoAnn always by your side
who knew you were dead
as you died
without your downhill skis
on a Blue Sky chute
deep powder and trees
tight enough for a single line
a homemade meal
a glass of wine
i toast your memory
as a friend of mine
on a mountain bike
sweet single track
and not wanting to ever
ever go back ever go back
hunting with the decoys
and the dog or a boat
in a tidal current
keeping afloat
in all kinds of weather
the fishing and the sand
the summer road bike rides
legs and arms fully tanned
Alaska waits
the long and straight road
your garden waits
perfectly hoed
the pool full of volleyball
missed shots and laughter
great times and loves and
all that came after
clear eyes and your smile
friendly and genuine cheer
stay awhile stay awhile
linger here
don't go
don't go
the grandchildren are near
the grill is lit
your place to sit
the kids are calling
their voices soft
while your voice is falling
put your tired hand around my arm
let me lead you away from harm.

Marietta bar

i sat at a round table and watched the wine
being poured more or less well into thick glass
but the music played by the dark eyed lass
was made for beer and the Friday night
regular crowd showed plenty of good cheer
their laughter constrained by the low ceiling
and rafter providing rich atmosphere
She was an Welsh girl with a Dylan Thomas curl
about her hair
i could have been at home pouring shots
but i was there,
listening to her mother while smiling
across the small space to her beautiful face.
A large group of characters filled this Marietta bar
with heavy anticipation and smoke
which was light enough to eat and we did so,
with gusto.
Martha and i skipped on the pie, while someone else
paid the bill
we had our fill, and Molly had her songs.
The lyrics were rich with the wild honey and thick cream of
insight which was a special delight
hearing from one so young
her truth had a poignancy
that many could see
and feel and know
Molly is now in Austin, but maybe Idaho
Martha to visit from Connecticut would have a long way to go.
Alone, i'm still sipping the wine
drinking beer,
and misbehaving fine.

the cleaning man

on the driveway
the paper like a little white bird
shit drop waits for the cleaning man
which i am
stooping at 7
with an eye for your grin
the headlines crazy at night
terror and fright
at day seem like a chambermaid's dress
all the stress
is gone and only the crossword puzzle
makes it into the house with me in tow.

lojka

leopold lojka with a big toe
driving in an alleyway
the wrong way to go
in Sarajevo
28 June 1914
Duke shot in the neck
Sophie in the spleen
the front seat was clean
but the damage was done

the little red hen

caviar on the ground without sound
bunches of little black hunches
waiting for liftoff
in the predawn darkness
i've been to the moon in June
danced at Spring Day in May
waited for the cooler
weather arriving in the Fall
saw Global warming and Al Gore
fighting an appropriate war
Inconvenient Truth and the marriage of Ruth
the Sultan of Swat
but what have i got
waiting without you?
and the little red hen in her little red den
watching the skies fill with lies
waiting for Godot who might never show
his face to Vladimir
i'm here but why aren't you near?
i've felt this pen on my lips
watched you walk with your hips
wearing nylons
and high heels
imagined your mouth near my face
not a word out of place
climbed a tree towards Paradise
on a Bible verse of melting ice
i'm sinking while you're thinking
of everything but me
set me free, set me free, set me free