her colors were nearly perfect

a juicy little number
which one i can not tell
her colors were nearly perfect
inside her oyster shell

behind the door to Heaven
a full red glass of wine
her colors were nearly perfect
revealed in her design

we tripped into a concert
sound poured into my eyes
her colors were nearly perfect
they painted her in sighs

the bright cloud full of rainbows
each one a lovely sight
her colors were nearly perfect
i watched by candlelight

with morning soon approaching
i saw when i awoke
her colors were nearly perfect
delightful as she spoke

a stupid joke

white knights
heavy in armor to the burning town
they rode uninhibited
smartly up the wasted hill
looking for another thrill
red-eyed charging down
slashing sword cuts and falling heads
young ladies
swept from beds
dust panicked by the winter storm
cold bodies once warm
oh, the blood blowing in the grass
blindly moving
traveling fast
and the drums and horns fingers playing
flags flapping in the breeze, swaying
the crippled air no flowers there
no pretty people stopped to stare
underneath their fallen sky
no effort to explain
no one left to try
that last bite of bread around
each mouth without a sound
an element in the darkest smoke
a distant laughing
a stupid joke
"dead dirt roads lead nowhere,"
said Mr Hungry to I don't care:
and this became the final end
my bewildered friend.

Fall just takes my breath away

Our beginning wasn't really the beginning;
it only seemed that way since
the eye was fooled by the rising tide.

Your mind reassembled traditional
elements and showed me a completely
new composition, which helped
conquer my fear of the impossible sea.

My mind wondered what was real
between the said and the seen.

Your colors unique,
circled my listening ear.

The quiet bedroom wall and 
the stone fireplace beside the
extraordinary autumn rug,
kept us rapt.

One hard head and one bright egg
wrestled on the soft fat pillows
in front of a red oak blaze, where
only the most prominent
could tickle the Universe.

And i believed in you completely,
because no abstraction walked in hiking shoes
instead of conservative sneakers.

When a person emerged from between the lines
it was hard to say who imitated nature best,
but we sang full-throat ed and
never the same song twice.

Moments began to pass when I would
gasp for air without you.

It's impossible to escape the questions,
but it is possible to find tension
where the sun
becomes an expanding green spot
on a strange white canvas with a
painted black curve reaching inward.

Your words in my throat,
looking for their answer,
know i am back from the war.

But when you want to see me, you can call me and
tell me so.

Fall just takes my breath away.

Pablo before 1943 or after

When his beret basque tumbled,
I saw the minotaur
Down on his knees
With a young lover in his head.
Moments before he
Had been sitting
With an older fur coat, her square
Shoulders set by a heavy jaw
Inside a small restaurant
Much-frequented by
His friends.
This Paris cafe sold everything in limited quantity,
Even refugees from
The history of art.
Near it's front door
A pair of blue windows
Against the slight evening breeze
Stood open.
There, warm flesh and
Cool champagne
Talked of anything on
The interior courtyard where
Pigeons with peas,
One fair and one dark,
Were disguised as young girls.
Miscellaneous clutter
Atop a checked tablecloth
Included the sculpture of a skull.
White costumes and pale faces looked
For the slightest gesture
To take on meaning.
An other-worldly atmosphere
Could be felt on the winding stairs,
where Matisse went to find an idea
about something French.
A yellow lemon and many glasses
Remained on the long table,
under which Malraux could be seen hiding.
"Come," the wounded minotaur finally
Whispered to her tapering fingers,
"Because you find me interesting."

not missing the two

look to me

i can give it to you

no one will notice what we're doing

they haven't a clue

walking to Paradise

while missing a shoe

but we're not missing a beat

i felt you

heard you come on to me

my wooden spoon fell to the floor

i enjoyed my tea

watching the water boil

while missing the three

but we're not missing the two

I can feel the hug

It's what is felt
That hurts the most,

And not having you
Except as a ghost

In private moments
Short and spare

When I allow myself to know
That you're not there

You won't be coming home again
Late or soon

But I see you smiling
On the rising moon

I'm alone and was given
No simple choice;

Yet when the room is quiet
I can often hear your voice

Then looking everywhere
Under chair, and bed, and rug

I can't find you anywhere
But I can feel the hug.

was his art

The cigarette
near the coffee cup
on the square white table top
exhaled toward Picasso
a puff of anguish
for his heart.

A salty tear
rising from one chair
wore the hideous mask
and an immortal series
of a weeping woman
was born in torment.

She saw Mother
and dead Spanish babies
underneath the rubble
of a democratic dream
bombed in 1939
by a Fascist imbecile.

And the painting
became a statement
before the sudden fall of Paris in June
and his fading thought of Dora:
a lonely eye drawn on her sobbing cheek.

In fact he knew
with more than dreaming
that the only thing that counted
in his life
was his art.

when the music stopped

Near the shadow
long legs of an Argentine dancer
under breasts without a cover
lift for my inquiring touch.

Behind me in the soft twilight
the marble stairs
and Greek Doric columns
smell old and masculine.

And she formed a simple tango
with her musical movements
on the second step
while I held the note.

On the near floor a white piano
with black keys
to open her heart
if I should want to.

Two swans appeared
on the terrace
which she noticed
only moments before.

Two sides of the same coin
rolled over
my tapping foot
without making a decision.

A bowl of cherries
held in her hands
was offered to me
along with three glasses.

But nothing kept her happy
when the music stopped.

this intersection

the dials on my watch
pester me
with an urge for speed
instead of languor.

it was so when i thought
of the twinkle in your eyes
as i slowed
into this intersection.

the mid-day traffic
honked like geese
on some confusing journey
without a map.

their flight leader
twisting his head
looked for the horizon
which wasn't there.

i sat in my car
in traffic
when i saw your face
through my rear view mirror.

in this short period
i heard their motors reverberate
with anticipation
while you fell asleep.

farm boy

farm boy came with his plow
the girl pointed to her garden
a red dawn tickled the hillside
where they stretched
hand in hand
watching for snakes

they were a good match
digging in the dirt
pulling weeds
planting seed
and watering the grapes
before a harvest

mushrooms grew on their feet
when they ran into the woods
cheese crumbs on the trail
where they walked
smelled of winter
as they stopped to drink

Kurt

On a snowy night mid-December
Kurt Vonnegut
climbed into my room
with heavy heart and a deep sigh.
i was sitting on my folding chair
close to a wood fire
watching my empty cup.
i had expected him before seven,
and it was now eleven,
but his mustache told me he was
running late.
he said he had been trapped inside a woman's wall
where there is usually no escape,
unless one is an author
with a quick wit and an even quicker pen.
he settled easily on the floor,
and turned to face me before he spoke.
his first words softly whispered were
"Hocus Pocus."
his white hands cautiously folded in prayer.
i noticed a small atomic bomb on one index finger.
i told him i dreamed of time travel.
he wished me good luck,
no matter how bad things got.
i asked him about his wounded knee,
since i saw him limp.
he told me about Dresden,
and in a voice filled with ghosts,
said "It was a crematorium."
we both fell silent.