folding you

it wasn't an illusion

your ass shining like the shimmering sea
under the harvest moon
under my firm grasp

all your beauty
shaking like a little girl
spooning her soft raspberry jello
before her philosophical studies begin

i thought i could take you!

you drove me senseless instead
into the clouds where a phantom
with invisible arms
asked me my name
and i gave him yours instead

but my hands were not the mirage
as they held to the pleasures of your body

what went and came out and in
here and there and slowly
folding you to my soul
was much more than a musical note

which a little boy plays in his sleep.

Santorum

i heard his political speech!
the television spared me none of the whip,
and on my back his words
put a lovely red gash where
a bloody pain poured out.
in Santorum whom gods must love,
the simply faithful have found
the Red Sea newly parted;
and with the sound of chariots
echoing from behind,
they give their deepest love
to follow another malicious boy.
without regrets they jostle and jest
and bring me close to unhappiness.
i can not sell my soul to them!

rising from the earth

knowing something of life and death,
i sat with 20 men;
just one of the guys
on an open bar stool
hoping for a summer of love,
aware that my youth died like the spring.

i caught a whiff of their fragrant lies
between sips of the coldest beer.
then, playing fast, i watched a slow game of pool
hearing several languages,
and recognized one of them
(having traveled in my earlier days).

a sullen man with the darkest beer
moved quietly toward the exit door.

he had heard everything he could,
yet still was in need of adventure
and looking for something more,
a stiff shot of excitement, say,
where mysteries fill the parking lot,
he soon danced on the hoods of cars
and flew into outer space
without even rising from the earth.

there was a sailor going home
with garlic on his breath
and he stopped, and in amazement
watched the sullen man
enter heaven,
without missing what he was leaving.

Her name is Rose

i entered the home.
how beautiful the peacefulness of her bed.
shallow breathing beneath the night shirt
resting in her throat.
she has a slight fever,
with strawberry blush on both cheeks
and the clear murmer or a deep hum
persisting like small tidal waves
filling her childhood sand box:
the collapsing castles
collecting Kings and Queens
soon to be gently overthrown.
she slept during my visit with soft eyes,
and waiting lips which will not kiss again
a favorite lover's neck,
resting quietly in her old world.
the thick glass vase by her night stand
complete with roses of red, white, and charming shades of yellow,
simply uninterested in the urgent voice from the close television,
sacrificing themselves to quench her thirst for momentary beauty.
she is actively dying.
not seeking the graveyard or the wall
where trellises with measured silence
watch people pass into their garden,
her name is Rose.
the framed collage hangs
filled with pictures of happy grandchildren
and treasured daughters.
un-sipped orange juice capped on the nearby tray
grows warm.
she grows cold.
her auburn hair waits for the comb
which waits for her.

lucky number 7

entirely in gray
i didn't know any other way
to paint you

& on the stair to heaven
where i found my lucky number
seven

i waited completely
to saint you

on the shore
where i asked you for some more

i had to wait in line
but that was fine

i could be number six
if you promised not to play
any tricks

or number eight
if you promised not to make me wait

entirely in gray
i didn't know any other way
to paint you

& on the stair to heaven
where i found my lucky number
seven

i waited completely
to saint you

Joe Alioto

but
her breasts keep getting in the way

i couldn't sleep worth a damn
and the music was too loud
even if it was Kashmir
each heavy note came tumbling bouncing off the entrance door
i saw the stenciled sign splashed in hurried paint i hurried in
drizzled colors piled onto a dirty glass canvas announcing
Harmony Bar & Restaurant but i wasn't buying it
none of it none at all

her white shirt remained unbuttoned
while i fumbled
i dropped the ball but had a ball played the game
went into extra innings
she felt cold hot luke warm hot again
her nipples got the beat
each one
inclined swayed winked and nodded as i smoked
waiting on my park bench wearing a French beret
met a photographer who soon became a painter
read the newspaper headlines about the disturbance
waited until she touched me touched herself
i became erect & stayed that way

i couldn't sleep worth a damn
had a stiff one had a drink had a dream
i remembered Joseph Alioto and the bomb
his prostate cancer a bitch a hole in the invincibility wall
the streets of San Francisco pulsing up and down
round and round the Transamerica pyramid wild-eyed
his grave and everywhere parades of kids and more shadows
looking for the mafia but finding hills and bags of pills
and the Pacific Ocean and suicides
the Golden Gate Bridge the perfect foil
where inspired hippies danced by the incoming tide
outgoing too and in tune with their war
their camouflaged faces and Indochinese histories
black cats and panthers sitting on ice listening sweating the draft
their inner city jazz coming undercover coming underground
to Dizzy and Miles getting a fix on things some very good things
with sharp wit and sharper needles all at the appropriate time no less

i couldn't sleep worth a damn
living in my crummy flat by the fire department
on Haight-Ashbury with a famous singer
i can't recall his name his face just doesn't appear to me anymore
he played the drums in a white band not well but
only for a short while before dropping his sticks
into the depths into the drug culture into the abyss
ringing my bell at all hours on each every almost any floor
at the window
by the stairs
on the road
tugging at my brains spilling my guts onto the cop's desk by his answering machine
questioning me and digging for deeper mysteries that no man should ever want to know
most any time the elevator to the top floor sat waiting for the middle finger
and i started to write in a cold sweat typing a combination of words
emphasizing color, light, and the need for a change of pace a change of direction
i felt i needed a job needed a push a muse a mother a mouth a moment of genuine solitude
but no flawed insight please no three piece suit please no college campus guidebook
in plain view on a polished dining room table, no stained glass front door, no father knows best
no the prevailing mood wasn't enough no crowd control no ten commandments
no zeitgeist no leitmotif no full monty to unwrap the final vision to explain everything
in one big yellow star-bursting fireworks explosion so we can all just go to hell!
& so it goes for general motors general electric and the general population
all the crazy politicians jerking off in the planetary house of representatives
doing to us what they're doing to each other over the air waves and over cocktails
and over there and here in their hands a new generation looking for a masterpiece.

but i know where Jefferson once talked to his mistress, so maybe that's enough.

but
her breasts keep getting in the way

Columbus & his new adventure

a new Columbus pulled an old anchor rope
from the deep blue waters
and felt the sharp salt splash of a strengthening breeze
when his sidewalk positively crossed 4th Street and
Lincoln Avenue under a fading street light
in a part of town where arias are seldom heard.

in the near distance,
a young Portuguese woman was walking up and down
the adjacent store front block wearing her red St. Johns outfit
which was tightly form-fitting, making it apparent
she was new to her job but had the support of a fancy wallet.

when she looked into the sky, which was seldom, she would see nothing,
heard only the noise of steady traffic, and felt a slight pain from
the broken heel of the shoe on her left foot.

passing people stopped to watch her
as she wobbled in and out of dreams.

she looked in all directions, then removed both shoes,
tossing them into a steamy dumpster,
where a black cat was seen eating the remains of a dead rodent.

it was made dead because it no longer had a head, and the cat continued
to chew without hurting the poor thing.

but now the cat and the woman's pimp were both busy,
their appetites like a song heard on the passing wind
when hungry ambitions come to play.

i saw her again by the waterfront in lower Manhattan
floating upon the wave of night
smoking near the dawn in ragged clothes
wearing a wig
uncertain how to laugh
with broken glass on the street like a directionless map.

i imagined she would set sail
on a precious voyage toward somewhere else
and was waiting, as do all living bodies,
when an early sun put an arm around her waist.

as for Columbus, his new adventure was too dangerous to write about.

Yosemite Falls

trust me
and i will go to the lower part of Yosemite Falls
and work closely with your hand,
offering a touch of serenity to the
often clamorous air of the valley floor.

our path, flowing like a river
into the color of higher trees,
can been glimpsed as it
swells and narrows up a steep wall of
natural  rock.

without doubt,
the hard climb can seem easier
when we define the effort as a flight
of our imaginations.

towering Half Dome may seem too far,
and the well-fed deer too casual,
but you walk nearby,
more stately, more historic than the granite,
and more interesting that the passing of the seasons.

it is quite plausible that we should reach the top,
briefly summarize the essence of our hike,
and find a view as intimate as our kiss.

and all the marks we left will disappear.

the motion of your beauty

i started an oil with you
in the quiet privacy of a small room
where skin was often warm and wet.

the shades were drawn in my favorite Parisian tones
with a sensuous deep charcoal
while you rested as a beckoning figure with slightly brown eyes.

without the covers,
i climbed willfully onto your sculpted hills,
slipping onto a fingered backside, giggling on the way down
this most delightful slope.

jokingly, you moved independently under my touch and said
"You must be the Olympian master."

the flower near your left ear did not distract me
with its orange softness.

knowing i should complete this canvas,
i am continually intrigued by the motion of your beauty.

our white pillows and their silk wrinkles will become a scandal.

The Mekong delta (remix of Saigon)

The 514th Battalion was used as bait
and their ruse worked, for a government informer
noticed the marching soldiers and took notes.

His report reached 7th Division
headquarters and a sortie was pressed rapidly
into operation, mainly due to the recommendation of
an American major who insisted to his
ARVN counterpart that action be immediate.

The troops of President Diem came in on choppers
early the next morning, without music, expecting to
conduct a quick two hamlet sweep.

An American Captain and his fellow Lieutenant
unslung their AR-15s and joined the Vietnamese officers.

They scanned the terrain, immediately noticing that
the small huts to their front appeared empty.

What they could see were several old women and young children,
paddies, and fields.  It seemed unnaturally quiet.

They decided to rest before proceeding.

Even under the shade of a clump of coconut palms,
sweat began to form in the increasing heat.

A rank animal odor familiar to the Mekong delta
came into their nose.

Without discussion, the Vietnamese captain wanted to curtail the operation
and withdraw.  After all, he concluded, going forward could be dangerous.

The first hamlet might be deserted, or it could be the site of an ambush.

At that instant, a Viet Cong wrapped his finger
around the metal trigger of a Thompson machine gun.

He waited for a decision.

His gun was captured, oiled, and lovingly cared for.

It was only a matter of time.

Apollinaire's Death

the Seated Man might have been concealed,
yet his presence was felt
in the rough texture of a simple paradox:

Picasso's self-portrait, another deep enigma, or both.

but the simple seat had barely a leg or two,
and a hat or none at all.

his flat presence like a carpenter's square
full of angles and the sharp thin lines of construction.

many faces or none?

working at Montrouge just before 1919,
the chair master tossed his cubes onto the icy white.

He,  the ultimate magician
with a proud brow and curving smile,
spoke to his friend before the coughing
death in a Paris apartment where poets came to pray.

It was 202, boulevard Saint-Germain-des-Pres at 5PM
when the final silence descended, pulling the unfinished copy
over Apollinaire's head.

He was 38 when he died.

Breton was already at his door, defending the avant-garde.

Cocteau was already on his way out, although he didn't know it.

and upon feeling the sad news when a widow's black veil
touched his cheek, Picasso went to his bathroom mirror and
began to draw.

he drew a lonely man.

nothing was as synthetic as it seemed.

no blue eggs

the accentuated shadows under my south window
were of her eyes.

her fragrance was palpable.

the chickadees would sing as they drank
before flying,
but no figure could be seen.

she was alive and present at that moment
in my imagination,
but what an expression she gave
to the excited gray squirrels.

with her mystery unsolved,
in spite of the straight classical nose
which framed her face,
the red headed woodpecker tapped insistently at my suet.

her sinuous lips at breakfast
could eat a cereal bowl full of serenity,
and still kiss the sun before dawn.

in my early morning studio,
while sitting on an upholstered chair
without decoration,
her mind and body seemed as one.

then our shared laugh became the brush with which
we could paint.

my big black cat went outside looking for winter birds
and found her hair, spun into a beautiful nest.

though there were no round blue eggs inside,
he began to purr.

Anne Waldman: School of Disembodied Poetics

The linguistic hole

that only Anne could notice

(from her sidewalk on MacDougal Street

in New York City),

was near the intersection

where words meet for a smoke and to drink

deeply of philosophical phrases,

huge swallows of rebellious inspiration

which often led to something similar to enlightenment.

But no death has ever been reported as having been caused

by falling into her hole.

Anne had the wit to slam you down with ideas

which carried the weight of shamanistic visions,

often frightening

and which frequently became part of her daily attire.

She currently likes to wear silk scarves, for example,

the more outrageous the better.

Her comments can be outrageous, also.

The 3 Gorges Dam, she casually said,

displaced over 1 million Chinese,

none of whom visited Bennington College

or walked the streets of Berkeley, California

in anything resembling a mad poetic panic.

She did both!

Gregory Corso once told me that she gave him a hand job,

but he often lied from his faculty seat in the private office

he shared with his image.

Allen said she was his spiritual twin, but he sometimes stretched the truth, too.

And if she is incendiary, it is only because her love of jazz

twisted her tongue,

and now when she speaks a trumpeting flame can be seen

erupting between her fine front teeth,

scorching paper as she writes.

Only a few friends allow her to whisper in their ear.

And because of that, she has become a sensitive woman but with a war dance voice heard even

by reclusive Comanche Indians living many miles west of

the frontier settlements around Austin, Texas.

When the Indians dance, they chant the name of Neal Cassady,

in hopes of enhancing their stamina.

They dance in dust for many moons.

To be different, when she dances, Anne invokes the name of Jack Kerouac, and the School of Disembodied Poetics at Naropa University.

She’s dancing there now in the faculty lounge, wearing a scarf,

a bright flame shooting from her mouth.