Catch me if you can

the subcommittee
quit making hero sandwiches
eons ago
members are hiding
inside corporate pants
practicing the corporate dance
sweating bullets my ass,
this jive is about class
it's endless negotiation
it's seldom on the floor
before the hired gun
before the whore
plys her trade
it's all a charade
everything is in transition
behind a boardroom door
behind a cash bonus
on the marbeled floor
of a high rise
disguised as lies
in Never Never Land it can't be seen
by ordinary people with A Dream
it's in a murky purgatory
above a Ruby Ridge
while down below
driving on a collapsing bridge
made-in-China
not made in spades,
jobless recovery
the future fades
the giant banks and smart bankers
getting away and rich
oil spoils the Gulf
people bitch
the small middle class disappearing
into the welfare ditch
into trouble
unseen by Hubble,
into the great takeover
by the great moneyman
saying "Catch me if you can!"

Goldman Sachs Group

no one seems to know Goldman Sachs Group
the CDOs and derivatives and synthetics
and managing risk or not very well
packaged and sold or bought and
traded on the electronic exchange
unless you're a financial wizard
this splitting into senior traunches
might seem very strange
artificial and on the fringe
barely managing to remain in the
real world
nothing here is apple pie
no simple receipe for blueberry muffins soft and tasty
no push button or turn the key and GO
no one seems to know why the big meltdown occured
yet everyone agrees billions of dollars "up in smoke"
from accounts and statements and portfolios
and IRAs and real estate values
but grandma smiled with her money
tucked under a bedroom pillow, still wrinkled
by inflation although she could hold it in her hand
unlike an option spread or a put or a call
she might have slipped but she didn't fall
no one seems to know if they've been screwed
or insulted by smart hedge fund traders
who speak a language harder to understand
than Mandarin Chinese and harder to read
than Egyptian hieroglyphics
yet these high priests walk the high Temple steps
to gain their market elevation
above the huddled masses
above the hustling street vendors
sipping hot coffee
sipping soda and eating hot dogs
from a cart or a truck with a hungry hand
no one seems to know how Wall Street pumps the cash
into the great whirligig of a global market
but it has achieved a prominent position in minds
of business owners and investors
who shuffle like dull comedians
holding their cards playing their
concerns
behind masks of sublime seriousness,
hoping this Machine does not fail
no one seems to know Goldman Sachs Group

drops of orange

i wanted to sing a song tonight

visit you on a window sill

while the air grew cold and darkness fell

there were secrets that i hoped to tell

i'll squeeze some drops of orange

into a magic hat

and make believe i'm loving you

but i'm never coming back

i'll never find my way again

to your arms as hard as ice

in games you've played the gambler

with a loaded pair of dice

words i scattered on the floor

when you had me for a meal

fell apart so tenderly

you never asked me how i feel

and when i tried to taste you

for an honest sip of life

you flew just like a butterfly

and stabbed me like a knife

you put me through a ringer

like a dirty pair of jeans

i'm drying tears in loneliness

but it's never what it seems

you're always playing secrets

always playing with your hair

always shopping for another face

you never notice that i'm there

another day in paradise

and another day in Hell

i thought someday you'd know me

but you've never known me well

another day without your lips

another day alone

i thought someday you'd know me

but i'm leaving on my own.

Arizona: The Grand Canyon state

now we have to beware of Mexicans in Arizona
who may not have the proper papers
who may be undocumented
illegitimate
nasty
potentially dangerous criminals
who may be intent
on committing
nasty nefarious deeds
against the plain sweet law-abiding
gentle innocent devout law-abiding
voting populace of this
tender southwestern state
so recently admitted to the Union:
February 14, 1912 by which time the Grand Canyon
was already a national monument
formed by water exposing colorful rocks
dating back to Precambrian times, before
Hispanics crossed the southern border
before Glen Campbell got to Phoenix looking
for the girl he thought was waiting,
but she wasn't waiting;
she couldn't wait, she couldn't sit, she couldn't rest
on the heavy park bench and be comfortable,
she couldn't enter the air conditioned downtown restaurant
for an iced tea or an iced coffee without attracting
the attention of a white rancher, or
a white policeman, or a dutiful white citizen,
she was anxious about just being herself in Arizona,
her skin feeling marked with her imaginary Jewish Star of David
her forehead feeling marked for a phone call to curious local
Authorities, who wanted to question her,
who wanted to see her papers, who wanted to know
where she lived and
who she lived with and why
and when and if and how
and
Welcome to Arizona.

Father, may I?

as the Queen Mary docked
lower Manhattan priests ran defrocked
onto the grounds of the Statue of Liberty
where they simply went to pee
near the phallic gaiety
of concrete and steel,
of a soulless commercial city,
the famous town without pity.
these Fathers weren't into titty
to play with as sexual toys,
they'd much prefer little boys.

lam son 719

lam son 719,
or Dewey Canyon II,
an operation:

as was

Birmingham
El Paso
Hattiesburg
Springfield
Shenandoah I
Amarillo
Attleboro
Lexington
Baton Rouge
Quyet Thang
Resolve to Win
Toan Thang
Certain Victory

in an uncertain place
where the road meets the air
there was a certain death
but wasn't it everywhere?
23 February 1971
a hero's life explosively undone

General Do Cao Tri
died swiftly
in a helicopter crash
in Cambodia
i saw the funeral procession
from atop my compound wall
when i arrived just in time
with an army friend of mine
i could see the armored personnel carrier
and wonderful bouquets of brightly colored flowers
and i heard the marching band serene they played
spreading upwards and outwards music with a mournful edge
enticing, but there was nothing here to bomb,
half broken walls and a stony dirt road and the hot sun
and it seemed the war fell parallel to the road
where all the answers sat when there was no danger
i watched merely thinking what a damn good show it was
the General was buried in Bien Hoa's military cemetery
with his dress hat, gloves, sword, and baton
used "to spank the Viet Cong,"
he once said, before he was dead.
and Nixon said, before he was dead,
"Tonight I can report that Vietnamization has succeeded."
and very logically, i thought that he was conceited.

the moral order of the Universe

the moral order of the Universe
can not be found in the tea party

i second that amendment

once a week with a cosmic purpose
i'm making a domestic problem
for myself over an electric toaster
burning my bread
or whether to drink that third beer
with a lemon or a lime

i once carried an M16 fully automatic rifle
every day before breakfast i grabbed it
and at night i would clean the barrel

for 13 months day and night we slept together
like lovers in a tiny prison cell
like an arm with it's finger
without proving a point
about Constitutional rights or Aryan Nations
or Superman comics for a distraction
or small-breasted teenage blonds kissing my neck
and without knowing if God was on my side and i
had the opportunity to ask

i studied America by being an American
in a strange land
with many people talking and gesturing and encouraging,
shouting, and trying to hurt the bad when knowing
who the bad was proved difficult

i wanted to write poetry when i was twenty-four because
i was in love with a young lady and wanted
to please my mother

i thought the Universe
was not silent and i should toss out some random word
a descriptive phrase
a clarion call in prose to capture
an odor
a snap shot of a fleeting sound
a yearning
a death rattle
perhaps the color of a toy

i landed in Saigon in 1969 and had to admit i was not
a natural warrior sitting in an old air force hanger
waiting with a new green duffel bag
and wearing shiny black boots

i was isolated against a metal wall, my skin
sweating in the Asian heat, the wall hot the floor hot

i felt weak for the task ahead
not sure what that was
but i wanted answers
which couldn't be found on the cement floor

i kept looking for a wagon to hitch a ride in but it wasn't nearby

too many green men
nervous faces and legs kicking and screaming
this way and that

they must have had an important mission

i found myself liking them and knew any conversation
would be casual if i'd have the opportunity to speak


my helicopter ride to Team 95 where my official orders
commanded my presence
was brief and i wondered:

why did i feel important not having to take the bus or ride in a jeep
the long and dangerous distance to my assignment?

but i did feel apart
from the people i was sent to save

they looked like tiny refugees below our flight path
stuck in a blur of rice wine color paddy indifference
hooch ville squalor
in an Asian sort of way

30 minutes in air and i landed near Bien Hoa and became an
American soldier at war without any romantic notions

the door gunner said to me that i had to get out

i left. Johnson was the President.

i was still there when Nixon became the President.

nothing changed.

i saw alan king in his black afro perform his handshake ritual
but only with his brothers.

i saw Audie Murphy holster his gun, carrying the severed ears
of an enemy solider, which was a war crime.

i saw funerals and flowers, many dead.

i saw prisoners of war and the camp, the crafts they worked
to pass the time.

i was hot, as i've said. it was rainy during the monsoon, which i forgot to say.

i am back in the World, the land of the big PX, out of that Hell
out of the battlefield which was in the control of the Viet Cong and the
North Vietnamese soldier, those men and women with hot blood, as hot
as the sun maybe hotter

the idea of Nationalism stoked their fire,

and they were ready to accept death on a personal level
for their country.

i couldn't defeat such valor.

my Pacific crossing was an interregnum

now i walk the deck of my own landed boat
enjoying the submersion
of myself and my problems, listening with pleasure to
the cattle call of the new American revolutionaries

those who haven't yet had the opportunity to ride in a helicopter
in a combat zone with an ambitious driver at the controls

yet they face
the same issues i faced in Vietnam and that is knowing
who the real enemy is and how to proceed inside the chaos.

to carry on

there won't be an evening without a dawn
so
it's important to carry on
and on i carried
with the private thought of two
how your singing was crafted by angels
especially for me and you
and how your breathing would almost tire me
when i'd watch you
floating free
above the winds
across the southern sea
where the moon shines on like flowers
lingers on my garden walk for hours
when you touch me i may kiss you
go away and i may miss you
stay away and i may flee
this broken-hearted memory
and we're dancing in the sunset
and it's raining and i'm all wet
but you warm me with your spirit
hold me so close that i can hear it
the whisper of your friendship
like a sweet smile on your sweet lip
thanking you for what i've been shown
i'm wanting you now that i have grown
and it's raining and i'm all wet
but you warm me with your spirit
hold me so close that i can hear it
there won't be an evening without a dawn
so
it's important to carry on

no learning curve

one fact
there is no learning curve
for nuclear war
and more
it would be morally indefensible
as a first strike option
i'll say it again
it would be madness
yet Eisenhower and SAC
had plans which detailed
exactly that
millions dead
bluebrownwhitegreenmauveyellowblackred
one man
one mistake
Earth transformed
one big lake
one big pity
insane to fire bomb a single city
i'll say it again
it happened dozens of times
in Japan
one hand
one eye
falling from the incandescent sky
one thoughtless moment
millions die
would it matter why?
one wonders.

Turgenev

Ivan Turgenev
fathers and sons
the Russia of position and pride
a bumpy distant carriage ride
from school to home to widow
love, despair and death
that last sharp Cossack breath
hot across the peasant's brow
turning the page of history now
a mother or father in great gladness
succumbing to heavy-hearted sadness.
your Honor,
i'm sorry to say,
Nicolai Petrovich is leaving today.

The Waste Land: “The Burial of the Dead”

Ford Madox Ford
Ted Hughes
his old lady
and her fancy shoes
writing in their Paris flat
where she critically sat
listening to the news
with Ezra Pound
and Dorothy
who slipped underground
he to Venice
stressing clarity
& musical words
absent disparity
Robert Lowell
Robert Frost
at St. Elizabeth's
at any cost
at any hour
giving the inmate
a special flower
James Joyce
had no choice
he always wore glasses
to see
language and brilliant infinity
while Marianne Moore
went quietly approaching her door
but no one was there
and it didn't seem fair
that Edna St. Vincent Millay
who kissed all lips
had the softest fingertips
to write sonnets
which the modernists hated
and continually berated
they loved Eliot, though
especially the flow
of The Waste Land
Pound for Pound
despair
The Burial of the Dead is there.

Furnace Mountain

there is a furnace on the mountain
where the heated lovers meet
you and i have never been there
never felt tall when we saw the wall
of the mighty Eiger
never felt tall when we saw the fall
of the mighty Niagra
we're like players tossing a ball
and using our words instead of arms
for an embrace
i'd rather use my arms
just in case
i forget how to speak
and you've looked away,
what could i say?

facing Karma

civil war
cold war
fog of war
guerrilla war
man o'war
nuclear war
war is Hell
Tinker Bell
war of words
Turkey and the Kurds
Trinity and the open sea
concussive mushroom cloud
a dark shroud
a phantom creeping near
massaging skin with fear
looking for a new cafe
and after two drinks, he'll say
he needs another dragon to slay
he needs another place to eat
a chair, please, perhaps closer to the street
and afterwards he'll read
as happy eyeballs bleed
in a nearby shopping mall
selfish buyers walking tall
all their children sleeping
inside the lonely weeping
inside the paper bag
a single feather and a flag
facing karma

Midway

i'm reading about Midway
and the rising sun
on an Imperial navy which came with 4 carriers,
but left with none
on 4 June, 1942
they did what they had to do
the Enterprise, Hornet, and Yorktown, too
brave men flying confused uncertain crying
sure shot ripped burning choking bleeding dying
tears on an Oriental face
an American face
squadrons of men disappeared, no trace
no final goodbye
the blue color of the Pacific
cradled their last sigh
as the tide turned
more men would die

dust of the Holy

i would tell you
not to dust me, nor dance me
on the fine sharp brittle edge
of a darling dead poet

i am wrapped in wrinkled leather
and famously stuffed inside
my fatal gas oven,

screaming daddy words
like chiseling pieces of
hard dust, literary dust,
hallucinogenic personal dust:
dust like piercing shards of Hell
which do not fly gently

in the adjacent children's room
where they sleep under cover,
under blankets of soft candle glow
while more dust settles,
and falls and sifts like a splendid flour.

their pillow seems wrapped
inside the dust of mother's love.

i see the dust fill their eyes
and watch it take away smiles.

i feel the dust settle onto
my tongue as it whispers;
i am tasting the Holy Ghost.

i hear an anvil brightly ring
while the fire still burns,
white sparks and gray smoke,
the hammer and the forge,
hot coals and fine ash,
like dust rising into the warming air,

into the jet stream current
of an old and dusty Earth,
into the brief minute it spins
with no seconds to spare;

and ghosts on a midnight train
keep speeding into their dark dusty night,
without a map, without a hint, without a hope,
without a conductor waving the baton
which tunes the note,

into the bones of a family grave yard,

arms and legs and bodies of dust,
headstones of dust, obituaries of dust
young and old, triumphant and worn,
the great elephant seal of dust,

this roaring locomotive tossing me
with tracks across my head,
my feet and hands into blood,
into the chambers of a beating heart,
into the water with a virgin birth,
and when i hear  talk of dust,

i wonder why no angel
gave me wings.

in Philadelphia

they sit in Philadelphia and read
about the great universe
pulsing and throbbing with
sexually charged politics and
art and war and love, and
a cell phone chimes, someone
answers, and the Ben Franklin
bridge spans the Delaware,
and wet hulled boats like hungry
lips on a baby's mouth move
up and down that river with the
rhythm of an ocean tide.
they sit in Philadelphia and talk
about the great universe
beyond Rittenhouse Square
and the wide steps of their Rocky
art museum, and the skinny boats
slicing on the Schuylkill, and the skinny oars,
and grasping hands of the scull crew,
pulling evolution toward the finish line
for another campus victory,
and their private parties,
jazzed and blued, amped and camped,
where their private parts are kept,
polished and pampered,
sipping their thoughts on
foams of Pennsylvania beer
without distress or appearing dumb,
tasting wine any local grape could have died for,
and determined to be a local sports fan
instead of an interminably dull blade,
and beyond the Inquirer, too,
and then it was winter, and a snow
emergency closed most roads,
so they sit in Philadelphia,
waiting for spring.

good friday

I am 61 and write good stuff on a good day, and I don't mind a cold beer with potato salad.

Vincent Price

sons and lovers and little daughters
wearing come-on outfits crowded into the
run down run around movie house
on the downtown square where
orange popsicles went hiding
inside vacant mouths like
tissue inside a nose,
moths inside a flame,
and candy like a distant mountain
with an unclimbed summit,
sat uneaten behind a glass partition.
the Saturday morning matinee
(where i once took a girl who had
a shoulder under her white blouse
and as i placed my head there i
felt the melting snow of her
resistance drip onto my tongue)
was parting a curtain like a woman
might part her legs, slowly.
the girl was Cindy and Vincent
Price tugged at her skirt, blew out the
candle sitting near the sweet center
of her cake, and i sang happy
birthday inside her ear. 25 cents
was the admission, paid to a
fat lady with six chins or an old man
sitting behind the ticket window on
his stool, his eyes heavy on his chest.
each Saturday you never knew
beforehand if it would be the lady
or the man until you arrived
with your money. they both
made change without complaint,
sitting in the pit watching the pendulum
swinging small coins from hand to hand,
their fingers coarsely counting your money.
the large glass doors opened into
the cinema, and walking up the
hall to my seat, Hollywood posters
with colored pictures were hung,
followed me with guns blazing
to make me crazy, because they
were more alive than the lady who
took my ticket, stared hard at me as
she tore it, and handed me a smaller piece
than i handed her. Mr. Price is now dead
and Cindy is gone, as are the Hollywood
posters, rolled up and stored in
an alley basement or burned, as is
the memory of Cindy hiking on a frozen
lake without a soul to support her cold
shoulder, or a fire to warm her feet,
and the movie house is now closed, too.
The vacant space has become a bar, serving
small scoops of ice cream or brief intoxication
for 50 cents and a buck, to all comers
regardless of their nationality, and i
could easily enter sober without buying a ticket.