looking for a stranger

going to the seance
a table on my knee
looking for a stranger
but at the door is me

a seeker and a soldier
in uniform or out
looking for assistance
and i can hear them shout

an organ boy is playing
his candle burns at ten
all hands are simply folded
in prayer once again

a rushing then a rapture
starlight in fine eyes
and everyone can notice
everything he tries

going to the store front
a dollar in my pants
looking for a stranger
to offer him a chance

and he sees me coming
in a mirror on the wall
but the music grows in volume
no one can hear me fall

a crowd is approaching
all listening for a sound
looking for a stranger
he's lost and can't be found

and everyone is leaving
hearts beating as they go
i ask them which direction
but no one seems to know

my front door

so
our love is no damn good
and this is what it's come to be
you never really wanted me
like i thought you should:

holding open my front door
see, there's nothing up my sleeve
i'm watching as you leave
while i ask for more

but
there was never any sugar in my tea
no spoon stirring my morning coffee
and on the top no cream
no nighttime lover's tender dream
an unmade bed
where my soul craving touch waits still unfed
under the spreading chestnut tree
i found no woman stands for me

so
our love is no damn good
and this is what it's come to be
you never really wanted me
like i thought you should:

holding open my front door
see, there's nothing up my sleeve
i'm watching as you leave
while i ask for more

The Dark Knight Rises

master master
i hear you are between heaven and earth
that you have invented everything
including earth and heaven
and hell where you jostle the devil in passing,
falling on your knees before God
who presented to the community of Aurora, Colorado,
a sold-out midnight premier of
"The Dark Knight Rises."
Veronica Moser
was 6 years old, brightly blond and blue-eyed.
She'll always be 6.
She was in attendance with her mother, Ashley,
when a popcorn piece fell to the carpeted floor and her young hand
reached for it, hitting it with her finger tips at the same time
that a talentless bullet sliced open her tiny skull, splattering blood and bone fragments
all over the new pair of blue jeans she wore.  Veronica's mother screamed and
tried to reach for her fatally wounded daughter, but a mad bullet
ripped at her neck and a second crazy piece of hot metal slammed into
her abdomen, splashing mother's blood onto the still soft skin of her dead child's face,
soaking the floor near their feet, and the cushioned seats now unoccupied by Batman fans.
master master
i hear you are a loving lord
but 12 dead moviegoers and 58 wounded in the largest mass shooting in America:
master master
explain yourself to Veronica, who didn't get a chance to eat her popcorn.

Saint-Raphael, France

oh and how he came to loath her,
filled with heated sperm
she refused to taste,
as he stood watching his erect penis
swell into a giant head.
but at first she was a trophy,
and his time was spent
drawing her into an affectionate sketch near
his summer studio on the productive coast.
it would have been unthinkable to color her face
as an emerging vagina,
with her smile turned into a vertical slit
of pink and rose hues,
her pouting mouth uncoiling a seductive tongue.
no, he would love his mistress
with an innovative lust, but
not the bride:  for her, the traditionally representative way,
intrinsically feminine
and radiating with sunny freshness.
but then the problems!
from his balcony, he saw the physical and psychological monsters
climbing to her window,
opening the view, and one took her leg and one
took her mind,
setting the stage for his theatrical ballets on the beach
where one mistress loved to swim.
and the bandstand
below his opened window had a pagodalike top and beyond
was a sea of blue ink as far as his eye could see.
with this and more he would eventually have his metamorphic way,
distorting even the first wife.

Gypsy earrings

her gypsy earrings
heard about the party for the major players and their friends:
among them six former lovers and
a famous poet, who would return the
following evening to ask her (and only her)
for a liaison.  of course, when they were alone,
she acted demur toward him, and claimed
to hate being put on exhibit or to be coveted
so ardently, with entertaining wit.
yet she quickly accepted, asking him to make her
a subject in an important piece of literature.
and he quickly agreed, asking her to recommend
a Spanish dancing school of impeccable reputation.
this was not mere politesse.  they were intent on
pandering to each other, almost from the start.

Le Tricorne (1919)

her thin fingers were magnified,
while tiny lines of Russian smiles
were seen dancing on the stage,
waving to the audience from a
perfectly classical ballet position.

and there was sincere applause for the flesh-and-blood
physicality, but grace and beauty
shared all the jumps and spins and bows.

in the scene-painting studio on Floral Street,
Picasso had mixed light chrome with pure white,
to produce the beauty of old ivory, which added richness
to the sets of Le Tricorne, which needed it especially in London.

Massine played the Miller, speaking with his feet
in a stomping fit of flying sentences, tipping his hat
to the ladies and the admiring men, all thinking
they were watching the future Gene Kelly, while dreaming
of an umbrella and a cup of warm tea.

apparently it was raining,

or soon would be.

Ulysseus

my mariners!
come with me to tackle weeds;
to choke the fragile brown grasses
which grow beneath our feet
in this new east coast heat wave of 2012;
to rip stubborn roots out of the rocky soil;
to ogle women wearing unIslamic dress;
to drink to the stars our Gods placed in the local stadium.
we're old, but old guys can still get it up,
use the mower
and the axe,
the digging iron and the shears;
to make a path to the far horizon
of a boundary line my neighbor might have drawn.
but we can smash through any fence that sucker might
have made and hurdle over any barrier!
my son has his own mind about our property;
i have mine.
i want a hand-built gazebo and will toil excessively to complete one.
he wants to sit by an evening camp fire
where the wet wood hisses and crackles in a small depression of the burning Earth,
entertaining his community of friends with endless songs of compassion.
i must dig the pit,
like Lyndon Johnson dug America into a deep hole in Vietnam,
while tugging at the ears of his unhappy dog.
i have no puppy to lift, and he had his important work to gather
thousands of uniformed men and send them packing, few of them proud
of his leadership or his ability to tackle stubborn weeds.
my mariners!
we still have tasks not unbecoming men who've watched tv on a
Sunday afternoon, when the seas were calm and the ladies hot.
i will travel great distances to find a long-eared pup,
even if the winds begin to Howl and my arms grow thin.
so let us venture forth,
out of the sand traps and through the woods,
beyond sight of the devious scoundrels of Bain Capital,
setting sail for a seldom visited national park
where we may govern ourselves.

Fender bass

the ice was dull
my blades were sharp
the water underneath a bottle of Perrier
the classical woman on her Viennese harp
the thin man on his Fender bass
bringing another case
for poor Sonny
who died when his head hit a tree
like an arrow splitting a knee
it was in the dead of winter
in the American west
but we go on with our lives
imagining they're the best
they could become a dime store novel or a penny
a farthing or a pound
a fatal fall from every grace
or a trampoline rebound
when time runs down
and the entrance runs on and on
day after day
what more are you willing to say?

celebrating another fourth

i knew i could pull it off working straight ahead
through the night and daylight hours
coffee and well-fed skipping bed
through the bombing and all the confusions
taking only a quick lettuce salad
with small yellow & red tomatoes
with pesto and green shadows
of extra virgin olive oil
i still can feel the recoil of an M16 machine gun
see sparks above the wall
celebrating yet another fourth
just before the sticky night fall
under banner headlines no longer crying
the bye bye by lines
i'm skipping an invitation
so i can carry a wounded child
to the nearest medical aid station
where i can continue my less than social ways
hiding in the haze
of an incomplete life
but my work is slowly getting better
each and every single polished letter
standing alone on a public stage
like a spotlight on a naked page
surviving through each day
like a madly whirling rotor blade
drawing a picture of machine powered flight
sketching the blue of distant Saigon
tossing back a glass of the finest French red wine
i know there will be time for friends and family
on the fifteenth or the seventh
when the writing disappears
it casually reappears
as all smoke needs go somewhere
said The New York Times but
i'm on a methodical tear
a big bender
on another bridge
a knife-edged ridge
leading me to a perfect body of water
and near the summit
in a tiny bed of the wildest bravest flowers
i can worry about an afternoon storm
even as the sky remains clear
since it doesn't matter if
i've already taken in the view.
and you?

Queen

into the water
warm and wet
diving into the deep end to see what i could get
reading the paper at a quarter to four
too many pictures i can't see them anymore
into a daydream
mister
can you tell me what it might mean?
a picture on the diving board
and it's a Queen
and her Lord
she's painting the town
he's polishing his sword
and she's spinning on music
pulsing and high
dancing on memories
no longer shy
asking for a new number
and he's holding a nine
saying he's sorry
but she wanted a sign
into the water
warm and wet
diving into the deep end to see what i could get
driving the freeway at a quarter to five
too many people i can't get out alive
into a daydream
mister
can you tell me what it might mean?
a picture on the diving board
and it's a Queen