i just can't believe

there's a hole in my heart
where your sharp arrows flew
i just can't imagine
that you ever knew
that you would ever try
to be cruel so i would cry
and i just can't believe
that you would ever leave
baby, oh baby
there's a hole in my head
that your last words blew through
i just can't imagine
that you ever knew
that you would ever run
i'm feeling so totally undone
i just can't believe
that you would ever leave
baby, oh baby
there's a song in my bed
where your spirit used to sing
i just can't imagine
what loneliness will bring
what the sound of my life will be
without you lying next to me
baby, oh baby
i never wanted to travel to the moon without your shadow
i never wanted anyone without your sense of style
i never wanted to laugh without your laughter
never wanted to live without your smile
baby, oh baby
there's a weight on my chest
that my sadness has put there
i just can't imagine
that you haven't a care

Giverny, eventually

Montmartre 

on a steep historic butte 

with fresh strawberry tart 

unwrapped nudes,

excited affairs of the heart 

underneath a fine Parisian sky 

watched i 

seated outside my busy sidewalk cafe 

wondering what people say 

by the walls of the ancient Sorbonne 

in their studious Latin tongue. 

nearby, the spry 

Agile Rabbit 

sitting on his vineyard hill drinking cheap local swill 

with a painterly friend of mine 

asked Joyce if he really had a choice 

or was it just a rumor about the invisibility cloak? 

Perhaps another drunken joke 

about a man stuck inside his wall:

a shadow of a ghost before his eventual downfall? 

there's more that i should say: 

i recently talked with Claude Monet 

about his first impressionist flowers brush-stroked every single hour until 24 had been made 

he said he was adequately paid. 

i sipped my warm cafe au lait wishing this Paris memory would stay and stay!

 

but a wind and hard rain came up abruptly and took all the dryness away. 

Montmartre 

on a cobbled July afternoon 

in the shade 

stirring with an unfashionable plastic spoon 

i the tourist began to consume 

a Lebanese grape and a sweet pepper with a stem shaped like the quarter moon.

The Sun Also Rises

no one saw Hemingway shit into his green slop bucket 

so fuck it 

he's long dead now 

but i walked on a tour to his former studio 

and people in the know 

think it's cool he was an expat who came from money 

Hadley was his first special honey 

he wrote in a sharp narrative style making himself famous 

winning awards from the House of Lords on a hill near Paris 

i didn't give a damn that he grew depressed 

who could have guessed 

he'd loudly kill himself?

he still quietly lives on many a library shelf: 

the old street is narrow where he walked, drank, talked 

the Paris traffic passed by in its' familiar hurry: 

it did not appear aimless as it sped over ancient cobbles with edges smoothed by dreams 

which often bleed with age.

The Alps and Paris

i'm leaving for Murren, Switzerland
July 10th from Philadelphia airport
via Zurich and Luzerne. The Eiger
Guest House will be my home away from
home for 6 days of hiking and enjoying
the beautiful mountain scenery. I hope
to get on the high route, walk the
wildflower meadows, and see the Eiger
and the Jungfrau up close. Once
that part of my European journey is over,
I'll travel to Paris for a 5 night stay
in the Latin Quarter, where I have an
apartment rented, close to the Seine and
Notre Dame. I will be busy exploring.
Stay well.
Until the 25th of July, then.

traces

i think i'm going to town
and you may not be there
but i'll still have a quick look around

i'll look for the way you walk
and the style of your hair
i'll listen for your easy manner of talk

i'll stop in the grocery store
buying only what i need
sliding my feet on the linoleum floor

i'll look at all the faces
i'll focus on their eyes
& look for hopeful traces

patti smith is coming

patti smith are you for real 

or a photographic myth floating on the fog 

when the light is dim 

are you waiting at the exit or just coming in? 

patti smith where has Bob gone for his photographic kiss 

in New York City when the time is strange are you keeping it simple or forcing a change? 

patti smith becoming the night 

are you dreaming on the stage? 

what are you saying? as you escape your cage?

with your arms stabbing the air

your body swaying 

johnny's no longer praying 

'cause he's bleeding on the floor 

he ain't dancing anymore 

little joey has his little gun 

he's shooting up for a bunch of fun

patti smith, where you going with that song in your mouth?

are you packing heading south? 

down to the bad into the dark 

under the brooding trees in the county park 

over by the river and through the wood 

a rocking chair might do you good 

patti smith are you for real 

or a photographic myth floating on the fog 

when the light is dim 

are you waiting at the exit or just coming in?

441

along the river road
an old shoe and a broken commode
scattered bits of window glass
and an old outhouse
a dead squirrel, then a flattened mouse
more unidentifiable fur
of a him or a her
riding in the heat of summer
with a fried brain
in need of relief and rain
i was going east on four forty one
riding away from the sun
towards Marietta and the turn
beyond the fruit stand where i learn
my legs are really tired and the heat
is killing me and i feel beat
no car or truck or motorcycle
hits me on my carbon bicycle
as they go whizzing by at speed
after the corn field where i peed
i remounted and felt wonderful
i still had one cold water bottle full
and the memory of a special girl
and i mean that sincerely
i was thinking very clearly

since November

when i see you hiding in the bath
a secret wrapped around your head
floating above the water
thinking of what i just said
thinking of bed

well, now it's time to remember
that i've had you since November
and you've been with me since yesterday
but
that's more than i should say
won't you come again before you go away

here is my ring and a solemn vow
when a window is closed i'll reopen it somehow
when a kiss is as hard as nails
good loving fails

when i see you sitting in my chair
i'm still looking for you everywhere
and you thought it was a prankster joke
but i never spoke
and you took me at my word
although you never heard

when i see you hiding in the bath
in the afternoon before two
hair wrapped in bubble shampoo
thinking of what i just said
thinking of bed

well, now it's time to remember
that i've had you since November
and you've been with me since yesterday
but
that's more than i should say
won't you come again before you go away

here is my ring and a solemn vow
when a window is closed i'll reopen it somehow
when a kiss is as hard as nails
good loving fails

it's you i'm thinking of

now sitting on the couch
after a few beers
thinking about you only
brings me full of tears
walking in the sun alone
away from home
under the shady tree
no one but me
and i can't remember did i phone
i don't know why
there's no reply
i can't be singing
if there's no ringing
sometimes i just stare into space
i'm looking for you but can't find your face
i'm not afraid of any man
i just can't seem to understand
now sitting on the shore
after a long sleep
thinking about you only
makes me want to weep
walking in the rain alone
away from home
under the angry sky
i wonder why
it's you i'm thinking of
love
it's you i'm thinking of

whatever follows the dawn?

Sun King is so chill
but the fool on the hill
is still no easy pill to swallow
somewhere a heart is hollow
somewhere near the end
i'll have no more silly notes to send
but if i could only choose
i'd wear a pair of new blue suede shoes
i'd sweep you onto the nearest dance floor
ask you for a little squeeze and so much more
but you're not asking for anything
and pretty soon winter will pass into spring
and maybe you've never spoken that word
or possibly you haven't heard
all the winds of time are forward-blowing
all the maidens in love are happy knowing
dreams come true in paper back romance
i'm in a complete trace
but you're in a foreign land
hearing the lonely heart's club band
seeing everything while i'm not there
you're always telling me that life's not fair
now tell me how everything seems
you've exhausted all your womanly schemes
how will you feel when you hear my tires squeal
and the ride you wanted to take is gone
how will you carry on
whatever follows the dawn?

George and his brother

"This was not what I intended,"
George spat the words at Henry
as he shoved the chair aside,
"I could have been a contender,
but now I'm a bum, a bum, you hear
and without any Hollywood connections
and I'm not talking about Mr. Brando."
But Henry had already stormed from the room,
the door swinging in and out on fine hinges
and George's dog watching from the porch
seemed to follow with her retriever's eyes
the motion of the door, but couldn't ask
why the brothers argued, only knew
she wanted another bone to chew. There was none.
Henry had the keys to the Chevy parked in the
drive and inserted them into the slot, rotated
his slender wrist with a casual twist, and upon hearing
the motor come to life, he began to back away
from the small cabin, seeing his brother holding
the door, stopping its' movement, and yelling
words which were not meant to be generous.
Henry saw the mouth move, but could no longer hear
the individual words. He felt their sharpness.
He had already reversed the truck to where it nudged
the old oak tree, scraped a small section of bark,
and was ready to drive to town,
to escape George for an afternoon,
to relax with strangers on the tourist section of the
local beach, maybe to have a cold beer under an umbrella,
with a pile of steamed oysters for comfort and because they
tasted so damn good, were fresh from the beds.
Once more he looked over to his brother, and he threw his
left fist into the air, out of the open window, and
raising his clenched hand, he extended his middle finger.
It was stiffly erect, sending the message to George.
Henry shifted the transmission into drive and pulled out,
over gravel and unmowed grass, turned onto the public road,
and with a puff of dark gray exhaust,and the high whine
from it's aging engine, rounded the bend in his truck,
without caring for his brother or the dog.
He never glanced back. "Contender, my ass," he thought.