Hem

i wonder what Ernest would think
if he could visit me in my house
in my room in my corner
and rest his naturally
heavyweight frame
on an over-stuffed chair
while a cold draft of beer cooled
his pencil-less hand?
Would he read my writing and
say I was alive or
say the stuff was dead?
He could often be stern
and steely honest, with an eye
hard on the stone fragment
of realism.
He liked Henry James, for one,
and I read The Blue Hotel
by Crane, another of his
favorite short story writers.
Mark Twain should be read for
Huckleberry Finn, he thought.
Once, he said that all modern American
literature comes from that
single book.
Well then, find it and read it
and come to your
own conclusion
before the conclusion
comes to you.

for you tomorrow

i'm coming for you tomorrow
in the rain if need be
over hot coals or
a raging wicked sea
it's driving me crazy
why can't you see, me
i'm coming for you tomorrow
i'm coming for you tomorrow
in the bright lights at noon
in the shadows or
under the golden moon
it's driving me crazy
why can't you see, me
i'm coming for you tomorrow
i'm coming for you tomorrow
in a big limousine
in the morning or
in a sweet silver dream
it's driving me crazy
why can't you see, me

candy and lovers

she fell down
on the soul of Saigon
in early morning darkness
her dreams were gone
under the sun
she flashed a smile
ran into traffic
stopping awhile
she dressed in white
dancing upbeat
ran into trouble
crossing the street
people loved her
kissing the air
arms in motion
hips everywhere
candy and lovers
wishes come true
fantasy night
calling for you
boys in a nightmare
looking for home
crying dancers
dreaming alone
they fell down
on the soul of Saigon
in early morning darkness
their dreams were gone
under their bed
they held their breath
needing a hope
facing a death
candy and lovers
wishes come true
fantasy night
calling for you

James Gatz

we row on
boats against the current
chasing the dream
completely spent
because the party is over
music packed and gone
only swimmers in the ocean
before the dawn
driving toward death
through blinding light
chasing money
through a careless night!
presumptuousness
the little flirt
smashed toys
bruised and hurt
and in the morning
my waking eyes
the last guest
arriving, heaves and sighs
scratched on the front step
an obscene word
still anxious for tomorrow
the sophisticated herd
starts the walk to work.

romeo, foxtrot, shall we dance?

dark green jungle of death
this Conrad hell stealing my breath
apocalypse
now they tell me
finally
the mist rising over an early tree
dawn and the sharp crack of fatality
the beginning of the end
rewound
an angry helicopter sound
full of pain
the dust chokes
the rain
it never ceases
never falls asleep
counting sheep
on the battlefield
morphine arm
buying the farm
destroying the hamlet
without regret
fighting for something
i don't know
as younger men come and go
smelling the blood of madness
a thousand mile stare
while nothing is there
apocalypse
now they tell me
finally
in a trance
shall we dance?

Emily Dickinson

twist your head
in either direction and the nose
remains in alignment
with the toes
your eyes
in that curious face
seem to revolve around
a skeletal space
of lips fat
above a dimpled chin
where hair grows,
whiskers your sardonic grin
the green dress
supports your shoulder
thin and bony
growing older
in your pencil-thin hand
the black distinguished book
borrowed from your mind
a clear inquiring look
cleverly in focus
lifes' postcard
in your unfenced unfettered
very public back yard
where your good eye
slowly stood
apparently alone
as though it could
completely see me
just now
and perceptively
somehow
through all eternity
verbally scheme:
what did it mean,
Emily? Emily?

Colorado 2010

i've recently returned from a flight
to Colorado and 6 days of skiing
the good mountains of Summit and
Eagle counties, the big Rockies
with the big steeps and big deeps
of snow and cold blue skies
i drank hot chocolate with Sam
and Karen and Hunter in the
Peak 9 restaurant, watching a fast
and furious snowfall add to our
pleasure, add to our memory
i went to ski hard and fast
i didn't go there to be a suspicious mind
i didn't go there to be other than myself
i went to revisit a friendly ghost and most
of all, i went to get the hell outside
to feel the steady grab of gravity
to feel the frost flail my face
to be exhausted each evening
to be excited each morning
i went while i was still able
to be child-like in amazement
mature in appreciation for all
nature provides, yet
i had nothing to prove

Queen will rock you

Queen will rock you
if you're not rock and rolled
ripped
into a frantic relationship
heart and souled
like a fuzzy teenager in curls
wearing fake diamonds and pearls
wrapped around the lead singer
teasing you with his little finger
oh sweet baby can you feel the heat
stomping and stamping on your own two feet
arms in the air
screaming everywhere
shaking your dreams all over your hair
looking for me i'm over there
i'm your sexy little teddy
and my friends all call me Freddy
i'm the population boom
invading your room
invading your head with a glorious sound
coming up hard and coming down
coming to strap you into the ground
red and blue
they're coming for you
they're coming for me
it's simple to see
kissing and crazy
being young
forever unsung
happy and innocent and true
Queen will rock you
Queen will rock you

snow and ice

we rode the bikes up a long steep climb
over gravel mostly but ice and snow
unmelted, deep made the going slow
we had to push the bikes up hill
when our traction was loose and unfound
the rear wheels spinning in search of solid ground
it was a tough slog but we kept moving
knowing ultimately we'd find the end
around that next impossible bend
with wet feet we ultimately remounted
and coasted into town where the hard road
in full sun, lay exposed even though it snowed
the past week, so now we're riding fast
heading back to end this sorta ride
before either one of us crashed and sorta died.

to apologize

desperate character
reading between the lines
in a tiny motel room
under beer belly signs
cigarette blowing drifting smoke
battered ash tray lid
by an large open window
former neighborhood kid
and whisky bottle sat
one wrinkled hand holding on
just off-center but still certain
it'd be there come dawn
still words upon the paper
written from a hollow eye
across the hall more laughter
followed by a silent cry
the feeling was sharp and stabbed
the light while the whiskey was fine
and in turn stabbed the memories
of another distinct place and time
before the old age and sore muscles
the death of friends and compromise
and evasion and the weariness of truth
clean sheets wrap and harmonize
all complaints fall asleep, some die
a reluctant death, but i
need to apologize to you
for what i failed to do.

the lady in the vest

the lady in the black leather vest
knocking at my office door
she came looking at the floor
told me what she came here for
i told her that i wanted more
she gave me a kiss
impossible to miss
i'm not pretending it's true
when she smiled i thought of you
told her everything i'm gonna do
the lady in the black leather vest
singing songs in perfect heat
she came talking to my feet
told me that she came complete
i told her that she was a treat
she gave me a kiss
impossible to miss
i'm not pretending it's true
when she smiled i thought of you
told her everything i'm gonna do
baby chains across her chest
showed no pain and met the test
the lady in the black leather vest
baby i'm no fool you were the best
the lady in the black leather vest

Hamlet

i watched Hamlet. 

before his death he wondered how to be or not to be! 

Claudius killed Hamlet's father! 

then he married the widowed mother, ex-wife of his brother. 

and i wondered if there was no other plot possible for Shakespeare?

or did all these events appear clearly delineated as he was walking along the Avon river?

later, i watched the Dali Lama announce he would resign,

take up writing stage plays in a well-worn orange robe with his baby smile.

he wondered aloud if he could lock himself away in his private room for days on end,

crafting a human interest fable on his family heirloom table?

he had an idea about a maid named Mable who wears a small white apron, serves a human skull on a small white tray for her employer who was named Hamlet but on their very first rehearsal day Hamlet would die tragically after a brief sword fight.

the maid eventually needs to serve herself and wash the supper dishes while the Dali Lama runs for President, chasing feral dogs around the Lincoln Memorial during a campaign stop.

the Lama hears the dogs of war crying Havoc! and something more but before he can make sense of the scene, an old gravedigger drops a noisy shovel while burying Ophelia in nearby Arlington National Cemetery.

everyone nearby stopped to pray but i couldn't hear the eulogy or what they might have to say or not to say,

at the service,

far from the Avon river.

death had come

my love for her could not save her
or make her pain feel any less intense
her love for life could not save her
or help her understand what made no sense
the special gifts that she collected
in sets and singles around the room
once full of joy and happy memories
filled the air with a silent gloom
my lonely walk next to gray seas
under a white sky by thunderous surf
i wore a black coat with a sad heart
searched for meaning on solid Earth
on the wet sand i held no soft hand
no silly laughter or quirky smile
i knew that death had come to claim her
and would return in a little while
my love for her could not save her
or make her pain feel any less intense
her love for life could not save her
or help her understand what made no sense

Maxime de la Falais

the death of Maxime was of natural causes 

at 86 it wasn't considered extreme 

her life was colorful artful in fashion and exquisite 

with really good friends and food 

she fed the Warhol brood 

in her loft apartment 

she lent 

Mapplethorpe encouragement in New York City 

she was a rare English beauty 

and silent lover 

lived her life proudly without unnecessary cover 

worked for Vogue magazine where she was often seen 

writing long lines for columns 

she moved to France to dance 

to write her memoirs in her golden hours 

when she died 

high society sighed 

in Provence where she was buried 

in rhythm and completely unhurried.

you're so sweet

you're so sweet
but i've moved on
i'm by the edge
of a brand new dawn
i'm on the edge of a wishing well
looking down at your private hell
i thought you'd be appropriately nice
but you're still as cold as ice
i thought i'd be your robin hood
and you'd be my lucky charm
but you were never very good
and i was never far from harm
you're so sweet
but i've moved on
i'm by the edge
of a brand new dawn
i'm on the edge of a red star night
where lovers smile in their special light
and you seem lonely and full of need
smothering me with your special greed
i thought you'd be my liberation
and i'd be your fancy guest
but you were a moments sensation
and i was never at my best
and you were never very good
so i'm doing everything i could
you're so sweet
but i've moved on
i'm by the edge
of a brand new dawn

THE LOST EMPIRE, MY ASS

the Empire sat impassively in the thick air
aware of all who clamor to come there
aware of those who mock its victories
the little people with little words
on an imagined platform no longer
before a crowd of adoring co-eds
with shampooed hair, eyes designed by
media royalty in Paris or Milan, or
before a room with background music
floating from the 1820s on a cloud
of powdered wigs, new men laundered
and fit with tans, starched from the desert
of their employment, no, sorry Derek.
this Empire is not defeated by any army
of warriors however Godly or dressed
for combat success, however full of poetry
full of nature sounds or hawk breath
no hard arms or thoughtful themes no furtive designs
no james bond-like character no kung fo
can pull down the dress of this Empire
and discover any funeral pom-poms
no skinny white legs no hard knees or
hard elbows no rude awakenings
no Saharan silence or dragonfly cry
these cliffs are of centuries and steep beyond
the mere rappel of parlor words
the beautiful hills are everlasting infinite
alive with the sound of a golden wind
no great swell of another teeming nation
can upset my Empire, at night it never rests
the fragments hold the center in the light
with a revolutionary mind we still see
Washington astride his fine strong horse
placing his fine firm boot on the envy of the waves
welcoming others still yearning to be free