Kim the younger

Kim the younger
untested untried
they say he went to school in Switzerland
but then maybe they lied.
where's the mother?
where's the caring aunt?
they say he might be the next dictator
but then maybe he can't.
plated armor
artillery shells
they say he could be a mild-mannered man
but then maybe he yells.
nuclear land
irrational fact
they say the North is as hard as a nut
but then maybe they'll crack.

Irish eyes

It must be a good thing that Ireland
received multi-billion dollar support
for their banking system, since so many
important people cared so deeply
about it's survival. Now the pressing
question is what are the true costs to
the Irish people for this largeness?
The Germans who hold senior debt
of the major Irish banks are breathing a
huge sigh of relief because they should continue
to receive payments.
The British were worried about their entanglement
with their neighbor's economy and so kicked in
a big hunk of coin, too.
The Euro has been defended once again,
but the majority of people outside the Eurozone
seem unconcerned, unless they're invested
and watching the global markets unravel.
Are you sleepless in Seattle over the debt crisis?

willie

Willie Nelson
man busted for pot
but that's not all he got
man he's a really big time shot
hanging out the yellow bus window
putting on some really big show
listening to the country music radio
driving a Texas Ranger highway road
smoking a tire, smoking a load
playing with a sweet-sounding 6 string guitar
but the cops grabbed him before he went too far
sipping his memories in a rowdy Luckenbach bar

and sweet lucille she gave him a kiss
and he knew exactly what he was gonna miss
and mary jane she gave him a buzz
he knew exactly what it was
and soft sophie she gave him a drink
and he knew exactly what to think

Willie Nelson
always on my mind
and that's not being unkind
man he's a really big time find
singing Spanish Angels for his dinner
like he's a reformed Christian sinner
not quite a loser and not quite a winner
driving a Texas Ranger highway road
smoking a tire, smoking a load
playing with a sweet-sounding 6 string guitar
but the cops grabbed him before he went too far
sipping his memories in a rowdy Luckenbach bar

a simple envelope

i really liked the ring
you put in a simple envelope
but i never wore the string
i'm not that kind of dope

kitchen sink

gone i say
zombie bread in the toaster
petrified and
dried
eviscerated
tiny pieces of leg and wholewheat flour
burnt to a crisp
a black smell hangs as
my fingertips save nothing
in the smoking air of my kitchen sink
gone i say
moaning inside the trash can
the crumpled wrappers of dark chocolate Snickers bars,
and the strangled remains of eye ball potato chips,
the bony arms and hollow face of an energy drink
curiously as i wash the tangled breakfast dishes
they comfort me
prisoners of war
complete in their demise
while nearby
still sharp garbage disposal blades
on a cemetary hill
spinning a frightening noise
try to suck me down
but i'm heading out the door
a bright forehead and fresh black coffee
inside my favorite mug
gone i say

the book club guy

his stuff is pretty shallow but
he reads it with mad intensity and seems to
enjoy the stinging pain he inflicts on us, twisting
scenarios and contorting comprehension into
little particles of vanishing image.
mainly, his characters are dull.
our gathering this afternoon was small and grew
smaller as he read the material, using his arms to
illustrate his hands but never finding a
point while grasping at literary straws.
Linda excused herself for a potty break
and stayed away.
Georgie left to get a cappuccino
at the library coffee bar and seemed in no
hurry to return. Sally slept with eyes open.
Laurie was clearly languishing.
From across the table, Elizabeth gave me a sly wink.
and he kept talking about a serious misunderstanding
which developed between a young man and an older
woman inside an experimental laboratory where
they both worked as temps. his implications were small.
no dancing. no great oration. no jokes. no issues.
i didn't have to pee and wanted no coffee, so
kept my seat, but damn, i thought, why couldn't there be
any excitement? a touch of tension? a grab of hair?
a little league ball field was nearby and i thought about
batting practice and sliding into second under the
fielder's tag to put myself into scoring position.
i imagined my drag bunt down the first base line,
the pitcher unable to get over, the catcher unable to
remove his mask, the first baseman frozen with
indecision and i'm safe, now on first and third, and the dust
is still rising and my team's parents holler and scream.
meanwhile, they kept arguing in the lab, he said. why, again?
something about a forgotten anniversary or a missed appointment.
a librarian appeared with her hair neatly combed to
remind us of closing time. no one looked at their
wrist watch, yet papers were shuffled together and bags
were opened and shut. finally, to our unmasked relief,
the reader knew it was time to end the session, adjusted his
spectacles and folded his blue book.
he needs to find a better voice.

Front street

ice man
coal man
working by the dirty road, man
standing near the locomotive
on the river-side rails
flipping my lonely coin into the free air
i'm not going anywhere
it could be heads
it could be tails
and if all else fails
there's an old outhouse in my small backyard
and a Friday night poker game with unmarked cards
and cold beer, not much
but lots of laughter and such and such
and i'm driving a richer woman's nice car
she's telling me not to go too fast too far
but i'm the best looking guy in this whole damn town
and no matter what she says, i'll get around
ice man
coal man
living on the Front street, man
pulling those big blocks of ice
for their summer time party chill
she tells me i could just melt away
but i know i never will
living on the Front street, man
hauling tons of black coal dust
not for fun
but because i must
she tells me i could just burn away
but i'll be here for at least another day
ice man
coal man
working by the dirty road, man
flipping my lonely coin into the free air
i'm not going anywhere

62

talk about Silvio
mostly Italian
drifts on the garlic air
crossing the Mediterranean
to the little island of Cyprus
but in Seoul the Han River
was crossed more than once
by armies crazy in mad pursuit
of Victoria's Secret
and the latest quarterly report
of positive earnings, i'm told
the outlook was good
the gypsies of Romania
still roaming
having babies at 10
play cards
cheating at seven
hawking illusion on the Pont Neuf
one leg wooden
one crystal eye
a showman and a thief
picking the pocket of any hitchhiker
braving the crowds on St. Marks Square
looking for Napoleon
crying in his royal palace
as the rains came to flood the stone
life was never the same again
for Lewis and Clark on the Missouri
searching for the Pacific sky
reading TIME magazine by the Columbia River
and retiring at 62
before Marilyn Monroe lost her skirt
over the windy grate she smiled
and the Hollywood musical had a rebirth
working the high clouds
above Grindelwald
under the Eiger where lovers marry
with their bright eyes
drinking steamed coffee
planning their next hike
without the United States Supreme Court
dark robes inside an empty office
unable to find a map
Isaac Stern tuned the sweet song
the students played in Tiananmen Square
as Chinese tanks fired their diesel motors
while the moon rose over a simple flower.

separate ways

buy me a car
i'll drive you to Philadelphia

where we'll float
along the Schuylkill
into the hills
high above Manayunk

we'll pitch my tent at Valley Forge
the camp fire will warm us

George Washington slept here
with our nation's flag
sipping coffee near the turnpike
the chocolate donut uneaten in his hand

i'll smoke a pipe in my red robe
you'll answer your cell phone
while the tourist stands on a cannonball
saluting the Revolutionary Army
invading the King of Prussia Mall
pushing their shopping carts
in front of the angry eyes of security

and the car could be any model you choose

a mini or a maxi or a big blue suede Cadillac
with bull horns angled on the front bumper
reminding us of the wide open spaces
long gone

but maybe in our memory

we'll go our own separate ways

i'll pull up my stakes
you'll put on your Indian dress and wear
the feather you found on a nature walk

the Delaware River might be a better place
for me to go, i said

you said i should hurry
the tide was about to change

sitting in the front row

Sun is dumb
rolling in a barnyard
chicken feces and cow dung
scattered in straw
the mud
the broken rows of corn
with footprints searching for a foot
the foot searching for an inch
the inch searching for a worm
the worm tight in his little tunnel
surfing the net with a terabyte
instead of an overbite
i saw the rooster on his fence
sipping a mug of whiskey
mostly empty
reading the Atlantic magazine
a smudge of ruby lipstick on his cheek
watching the gray squirrel
scratching closer to the oiled black sunflower seeds
in an eastern Pennsylvania breeze
overhead in the cold air
the scrawny hawk
with his GPS map
wearing aviator glasses
looking for a hero just for one day
found a dead rabbit on the rural road
but he was hoping for a lover
a large group of cattle
puzzled-looking large brown eyes
shuffled across the wide open field
of fast food fat green grass
and watched the cars
looking for America
the cat
his jacket oh-so-casually
tossed across his right shoulder
gazing curiously
adjusted his iPod to the Bee Gees
the chipmunk
leaving a note before walking off the stage
waved to the singer
sitting in the front row
and sleeping.

anymore

if you don't think you're killing me
why are you crying on my pillow
near the darkened hallway
with your jacket on the floor
and i can't take it anymore
the dog is walking by my feet
another one is dead along the street
near the stop sign where you handed me
a cigarette
already lit
and placed it in my mouth and smiled
but i refuse to be beguiled
there was a large canvas on the wall
full of color
where serious philosophy
dripped like wet paint onto your fancy dress
hiding your caress
and peeled away the shine
you can't call me just anytime
the bar was happy the beer was cold
people laughing young and bold
i ate my salad watched you walk
with a little skip
across the grassy field to the studio door
and i can't take it anymore
i smelled the perfume on your wrist
and told you it was beautiful
i tried to kiss your smile
but you told me it wasn't real
how was i supposed to feel
i heard you went to visit your mother
you're not crazy about doing it
but it's not such an unexpected chore
i just can't take it anymore

commander of the faithful

Mullah Omar
how many young girls
did you satisfy
worshipping inside Kandahar

with your long beard
covertly pressed
and unsheared

against the sad window glass
missing every class

cracking under the afternoon weight
of narrow-minded hate

and how many sensitive folds
did you manage to count

was it a forward-leaning
or a backward mount

holding your penis
like a mathematical genius

looking at the sad night sky
watching the brilliant planet Venus
flying by

rising high over Afghanistan
like a troubled man

waiting for tomorrow
while sipping a perfect glass of sorrow

on your way to the frontier
a burning memory and a tear

a half look back with your single eye
and not a mother fell down to cry

Mullah Omar
if you're really dead
buried in a simple shed
you won't be back to Kandahar