2014

i went sipping wine
it was nothing exclusive
had it with a friend of mine
and he seldom shared a glass
so i felt pretty special
almost but not quite high class
it was an aged Pinot Noir
inside a fancy hotel
when i asked for advice
he told me he couldn't tell
with his arms crossed
yet i no longer cared
i put a towel around my neck
and simply stopped and stared
he might have been a candidate
but he couldn't part his hair
he tie was never neat
he overfilled his chair
he lived on shore front Jersey
near a sandy beach
where beer was always cold
but champagne was out of reach
and we began clapping
and heads all glanced our way
i grabbed a passing waiter
he tripped and dropped his tray
and lots of scattered shrimp
and a lady with purple lips
spread over the thick pile carpet
the waitstaff looked for tips:
happy hands and happy girls
noise makers, ice cream swirls
a chocolate mousse and brandy
hot coffee, sweet Jasmine tea
dad and mom with kids galore
a friendly maitre de by the door.
such a sight rarely seen
at the start of two thousand fourteen.

his old bone

went walking in my yard
the dog came along
he thought i was lonely
but he was wrong
although i could never tell him
i was thinking of you
he started sniffing around
for something better to do
i kept thinking of you
but that cat couldn't party
turned the volume down
i started dancing
never hearing a sound
the moon rose higher
stars popping out
the dog began howling
so i gave him a shout
he went walking in my yard
and i came along
i thought he was lonely
but i was wrong
he couldn't be bothered
and let it be known
he resumed his digging
found his old bone
went walking in my yard
the dog came along
he thought i was lonely
but he was wrong
although i could never tell him
i was thinking of you
he started sniffing around
for something better to do
i kept thinking of you

On Front Street

standing in the middle of Marietta's Front Street
in either 1945 or late '44,
i saw an old man wearing suspenders
hanging loosely from the trials of a personal war.
and he still retained a wry smile
even though he was nearing his own last mile.
he was a coal man and knew where the chutes were;
he filled the winter bins to keep out the cold.
in summer he delivered blocks of ice to the well-to-do
and searched but never found his pot of gold.
he kept his hair neatly cut and trimmed around his ears
and as far as the war went he didn't show any fears.
he'd walk across the railroad tracks to the nearby river,
wondering when he looked both left and right
about life upstream in the distant big city
or downstream beyond the foothills trailing out of sight.
he heard about Malmedy and fighting across the seas
but never actually saw a man beaten to his knees.
he had a son in the Pacific and one in Italy
who was wounded by shrapnel at Anzio near the beach;
there was no correspondence during the duration
as both boys were busy and far out of reach.
he died in September of '48 on a hospital operating table
when a young doctor misidentified a formaldehyde label.

four or fourteen

Christie has her fingers on the keys
black and white
whichever ones she could squeeze
harder and harder until one of them says please
she hung with masks of women, boys, and men
painting them originally on cloth
and doing them over and over again
like a dancer with an injury to her toe
she practiced with her music
until she didn't know which way to go
and she came back into my life
like a thin handled two bladed knife
cutting right into my heart
and i never could figure if this was just a new start
or would we always remain apart
she was known to be in love with three
and i felt no special sympathy
or was it four or fourteen
since the last time she was seen
Christie has her fingers on the keys
black and white
whichever ones she could squeeze
harder and harder until one of them says please

a John Deere

i found a trophy woman on the open road
she came completely all the way from North Dakota
driving a shiny green tractor with an inside load
she never seemed to do exactly what she was showed
she tossed Canadian pennies at people drinking at my bar
wearing her blue dress with a high fur-lined collar
she raised her arms to heaven and pointed at a fading star
it didn't seem to matter to her how near or how far
she said she was pampered and had a bone of contention
i said she felt cold like a hard winter on the prairie
she said that was never her intention
her berating kisses finally grabbing my attention
i found a shiny black leather whip in my dominant hand
remembering i was overprotected by my mother
she said i could play cowboy and she'd understand
we found a universe in crazy no-man's land
where i repainted her dress in bright colors mostly red
she was not comfortable on my checkered carpet
but when we tried for sentimentality, we both bled
a wound was found mostly inside our head
there was no going back from the things that were said.

Two Women Rushing on the Road

the road past my front door seems longer when the moonlight
plays tricks with shadows falling through the nearby tree tops
bared of all dying leaves by a forceful southern breeze.
nature has never divulged to me how she decides which
leaf will tumble, or which flower will bloom and in what shape and color, or
which small fish will be picked at random by the roving heron
as its' swift dark eyes look steadily for the slightest movement in shallow waters.
i sometimes see my own reflection in those waters
and realize i look haggard and sick, evidently not the youthful
image which once played so freely in my newspaper mind.
Venus was particularly brilliant in the night sky when i went outside
for a lingering moment to pee, my hair cut short to give myself the aspect
of a more mature man.  no one could see me in the darkness.
love?  is it always a distant planet, a target outside my field of vision
which i cannot reach?  Even with NASA launching me, should i fail orbit?
a young dog barks initially in a low tentative voice and begins a throaty
rumbling growl and i simply ignore her until the barking takes on an urgency
which might be alerting me to a dangerous situation at Three Mile Island.
it's happened before when Jimmy Carter was the Commander-in-Chief,
and i use that memory as a backdrop for possible future dangers.
i've applied multiple ice packs to my temples to no avail.
two muscular women went rushing down the street, under the glow of
star light, moon light, and street light and seemed to abandon their worldly cares
with each running stride as they ran and they did not see me pee.
they did not see Venus, either.  maybe they noticed the moon, which
was as full as an erotic beach ball, but how could i know?
there would be many more runners, their hair streaming out behind them.
but i am in anguish and need to collect myself, like a set of different size stones,
putting each piece in a certain place and remembering why.
my ice packs have melted, like massive glaciers in the northern territories
of Canada, and my neck is now wet and might attract attention if i should
walk into town.  i could take the dog, but she'd scare away the heron.
or buy a costly new car and hire a driver? but  no, i'd prefer to walk.

where the ferry docked

i was not interested in the dull
but she had a passion for it
which i found regrettable.
i would much rather read the
fully pornographic book than
flip through merely indecent pages.
she deplored the lurid,
discovering pleasure while reading Oprah's book of the month,
apparently forming opinions based on it.
she would never pay any price,
while i once knew how to score drugs, very good drugs.
i wanted to dine and drink and dance and make out
with gorgeous women who did not always come free.
i wanted to wear a dinner jacket even when she didn't want
to go out for dinner, which was often.
i wanted to mingle and nuzzle a neck with my day old growth
and she wanted to knit a pair of socks for a neighbor's child.
i didn't know the neighbor had a child.
and although i had only a few more months to live,
i was not yet done.
i still wanted to be where it was both high and low, stealing so many
wives away from their husbands as possible.
i shared a box with the Lincolns, but it was a play she didn't
want to attend.
the play was set above the sea, close to a Grand Hotel and
opposite the place where a ferry docked.
i took that ferry and never returned.

the French beret

She wore a black cap;
it was a little French beret.
He painted landscapes without much to say.
The wine was red.
I couldn't hear much that was said by Ned;
he was the most abstract and carried more body fat
than I remember from before.
A piano was on the floor
and a sax played soft music by the front door.
Money was put into a bowl.
On her face was a dark mole
and one breast was flat.
I saw newly upholstered chairs and sat.
More than a dozen but less than twenty eight
people arrived late.
Hand-blown glass ornaments were cleverly hung
but no Christmas carols were sung
even in season and, no, I didn't ask for a reason.
It was Friday night, after all, and I'm not very tall
but still managed to climb the stairs past the still lifes mostly in green
where I didn't want to be seen.
I saw no unsigned paintings and only one sold;
at least that's what I was told.
The gallery inside was cheery and warm, the outside cold.
Hanging around were a few artists and one cat
wearing a thin collar but no hat?
She asked me if I'd eat some Swiss cheese
and I opened my mouth to say please.

when Johnny hits the drums

i held my gun at last light
aimed it at a mad man at the door
after his untimely death
i found him on the floor
i took all his clothes
and now no one knows
when the morning sun comes
which way my shadow goes

i went down to Mexico
you came looking for a sight of me
what you found was nobody
i lost myself at sea
nothing much there grows
and now no one knows
when the morning sun comes
which way my shadow goes

i imagined late at night
you would find me in my easy chair
it was a hard place to be
when you looked i wasn't there
the wind always blows
and now no one knows
when the morning sun comes
which way my shadow goes

the Bridge School

she took me to the Bridge School fund raiser
when they played jazz in the aisles.
i loved the music as it nosed the shoreline and tip-toed
in youthful slippers
into the surrounding amphitheater.
and the kids loved it, also, as their parents danced to
a suspected Neil Young song and tried to sing
A Horse with No Name, but that was America.
wearing a high-collared jacket,
David Bowie sat on stage with his acoustic guitar,
Major Tom commencing countdown by his side,
an electric bass already communicating in his hands.
they were all waiting for the trip into outer space,
but stayed for the entire performance
which was designed
to help heal a sacred inner space,
either physical or otherwise.
and above us only skies.
they knew you had to have Heart and a caring soul
and they did, both sisters laying it down
for the introduction of Tom Waits
who waited on stage with a microphone
like a king of the musical world
opening the royal door for
Queens of the Stone Age
who were seen turning another lovely page
with their tailored jackets and trimmed hair.
a young girl in her special wheelchair
keeping time with her head
stayed for the entire performance
which was designed
to help heal a sacred inner space,
either physical or otherwise.
and above us only skies.

as a requiem

i ask myself
cubist or classical?
they're two sides of a coin,
either bawdy or comical,
like bits and pieces
of an exploding psyche
which arrive in time
neither early or late,
perhaps to celebrate
or insinuate
or copulate
in a loving yet reproachful adieu.
but arriving in time nonetheless
like a nostalgic currency,
i held the coin
and felt the weight of a loneliness
which could not be spent
or lent
no matter how things went
on the town square
under holiday bunting,
or at the county fair
with wind instruments at my back
and cotton candy in hand.
the six men in a village band,
their little flutes and rustic oboes
and a black clarinet in a flat key,
listening while i hummed Tipperary,
found me in a garden
which my father had once loved.
there everyone saw the coin
and couldn't decide which face
they preferred.
i demurred
and said it appeared to be furred
in chinchilla
so they thought it was my favorite dog
but it was only a ghost;
the one i dream of the most.
i ask myself
cubist or classical?

remain in touch

she said she would remain in touch
i didn't think about it very much
at the time and went my way:
there was so much more to do and say
we both loved food and wine
she said she'd try to drop me a line
and i said don't bother i'll be fine.
outside there was a watercolor sky
i never knew that birds could fly so high
they disappeared into a solitary sun
blinding me as the day had just begun.
there was a knocking at my door
but i had already answered it once before
long ago and there was no one there.
she said she'd come in but didn't know where
i said it was nice to see your smile
she said she could only stay a little awhile:
that life was complex and no one knows
like a moon lit tide it comes and goes,
and in the winter wind a chill air blows.
outside there was a watercolor sky
i never knew that birds could fly so high
they disappeared into a solitary sun
blinding me as the day had just begun.
there was a knocking at my door
but i had already answered it once before
long ago and there was no one there.
she said she'd come in but didn't know where
we would remain in touch
i didn't think about it very much.

imagining a star

imagining a star
it's not who you want to be
it's what you are
in a big stretch limousine
that's not a car
your leather belt carried low on your hips
a fancy pearl necklace
strung out just below your lips
a former seamstress
full of charm inside your skin-tight dress
with Napoleonic looks
and a physical caress
imagining a star
it's not who you want to be
it's what you are
in a big stretch limousine
that's not a car
your celebrity fuels a contact high
an electric organ
wired for sound colors the sky
remaining in tune
introducing the last song too soon
with your love for wine and dine
and a well-used silver spoon
imagining a star
it's not who you want to be
it's what you are
in a big stretch limousine
that's not a car

Stevie

she was a gypsy
with a notion in her hair
growing apart from everyone
without a care
she would sit in her chair

talking about her eyes
using show and tell
to cover up her lies:
saying what she wants in disguise

no gold or silver dust
just a color on her nose
it was easy to uncover
whichever one she chose
she went where the wind blows

talking about her eyes
using show and tell
to cover up her lies:
saying what she wants in disguise

one man a lover
twenty women and a friend
she thought it was impossible
nearing a bend
her road would reach the end

into the shadows
her party went until four
singing love songs for everyone
still on the floor
she asked for nothing more

talking about her eyes
using show and tell
to cover up her lies:
saying what she wants in disguise

a white grand piano

sun, sea, sand, and sex
in his grasp, a tightly held glass
salsa and tex-mex
one rounded ass
and one concave.
in the shade of a straw hat,
still acting brave
wreathed in flowers and belly fat,
his monstrous appetite
and full-length face
ate everything in sight,
enjoying the chase
standing up or sitting down,
famously sincere,
into the imaginary center of town
with nothing to fear.
hysterical for a new start,
dressed for dinner
but reluctant to depart,
growing strangely thinner
wine, tea, pastries, and caviar,
sausage and beer
looking for you as you are
with nothing to fear.
willing to know,
to memorize the part
on a white grand piano
of a genuine heart.

After the May 15, 1920 Opening of Pulcinella

they had a ball
in an extravagant dance hall.
Stravinsky got drunk
and threw out a trunk
full of pillows and hats,
and a great many cats.
the Prince, a celebrated dandy
sucking on Persian candy,
paid the full bill
for all the expensive swill,
mostly champagne.
The post-Pulcinella game
was a big hit.
all the beau monde came to it
in a procession of cars,
most directly from local bars.
Picasso, of course, and Massine,
among the first to be seen,
were at the front door.
dancers already on the floor
included Olga, the Serts,
and several infamous flirts.
the opera was an excuse
for their consumption of aged juice.
many shared a laugh and an epiphany.
the party went on until 3.

when the night comes down

when the night comes down
without making a sound
sometimes when you're not around
and all the world feels dark and low
i'm left wondering, wondering
which is the right way to go
and i really don't know;
no, i really don't know.
when my pillow cries
my room explodes in "Whys?"
sad little pieces of sighs
and all the world feels dark and low
i'm left wondering, wondering
which is the right way to go
and i really don't know;
no, i really don't know.
when my heart feels cold
it feels like i've been sold
can't remember what i'm told
and all the world feels dark and low
i'm left wondering, wondering
which is the right way to go
and i really don't know;
no, i really don't know.
when the night comes down
without making a sound
sometimes when you're not around
and all the world feels dark and low
i'm left wondering, wondering
which is the right way to go
and i really don't know;
no, i really don't know.

charming in green

the nude on the bed
she stayed covered in red.
her landscape of sighs framing my window,
i looked for the gold at the end of her rainbow:
and i'd like another romp at home
with the lady wrestler on my mat.
i had dinner with her the night before:
we couldn't leave it at that.
she dressed charmingly in green:
her smile in candlelight could always be seen.

and, oh
flying off course i danced with a clown
from out of the circus he joined me in town
one time early morning after the war.
we drank to an idea that became a trap door;
locked and loaded i kept looking for more.

and, oh
i asked a gentle man for his Biblical crown
and in his confusion he shot me a frown.
we rode the night train to the end of the track,
arriving in time to take it all the way back.

and, oh
the nude on the bed
she stayed covered in red.
her landscape of sighs framing my window,
i looked for the gold at the end of her rainbow:

and oh,
shaken awake by a violent wind,
an old ghost suggested i might have been pinned.
i was subdued when he came my way,
waiting to hear what more he would say

and i'd like another romp at home
with the lady wrestler on my mat.
i had dinner with her the night before:
we couldn't leave it at that.
she dressed charmingly in green:
her smile in candlelight could always be seen.

OMAHA

on the beach
the entire man was jerking
as only half a man can.
nearby, his separated left leg floated in the water
being tossed by the swirling waves,
the newly issued combat boot loose and twisted on his foot.
the right leg was no where to be seen.
a gold chain remained hanging on his neck, the French sand
obscuring the girl's name etched on its' shiny surface.
his US Army helmet was gone, as was most of his head.
were he able to look, he would have seen a high tide
floating the remains of the American assault onto Omaha beach.
Bravely, a Ranger stumbled out of the surf aiming to join up
with a few survivors heading to Pointe du Hoc, where
they would fight in a small perimeter, their guns aimed
at the enemy trying to kill them.  A destroyer close to
shore was providing fire to keep the Germans at bay.
when Eisenhower learned of their advances later in the morning,
he knew the European invasion was started, but could not know
how great the success would be.
the skies improved in the afternoon, but the cost was high
and would continue to rise with the clouds blowing to the east.

child on a beach

so far as being a leftist bourgeois
who left his wife for the bar
and an endless party:
had i known this accusation
i would have been greatly relieved.
i was no more than a lost child on a beach
searching for an answer to a question
so far out of reach,
combing my thinning hair
to where
it could best show my face.
a man i didn't know said that art should be abstract
but he overlooked a simple fact:
it should be direct,
more appropriately understood like a penis fully erect.
he asked to inspect the gold watch chain
on my coat lapel.
but i had nothing to gain
so refused
and then moved
to continue my lunch at a different table.
i had a friend die by not knowing he wanted to live.
he wouldn't answer his phone:
my only complaint is i had something important to give.
i wanted to show him
a compromise
which i thought was wise.
when a lonely woman asked for her second whiskey
after her third beer,
she never explained to me
how it would help her return to the land of her birth.
i wrote a short story trying to explain
how it all fit together and they wanted more detail
but i had nothing to gain
so refused
and then moved
to continue my meal in a nearby farm house.
within a week i had a wild idea
to eat a literary mouse.
i dressed in my tailored tuxedo
instead of a comfortable Speedo
and thought of myself as the cat in the hat.

Everyone called him Gus

Monday was the 11th of November, 2013.
It was Veteran's Day.
It was also the first Veteran's Day I did not get
a phone call from Gostisha who had called
faithfully every year since 1972, which was the year he
returned from his Vietnam War tour.
We were both in the US Army and
 met north of Saigon in early 1970 at the
compound for Advisory Team 95.
Interesting times, those.
But he always called.
He was from Santa Clara, California.
I knew he was feeling bothered by things, but
how bothered and what things he didn't say.
He didn't want to burden me.

an afternoon banquet

the nudes in the forest
kept hiding behind trees.
i saw one rose-colored buck running
and wondered what he sees.
the leaves fell on water
and made the finest sound
like diamonds and pearls which
a friendly huntress had just found.
an overhang of rock
and ferns worthy of fame
inhabited a narrow stream bank:
no two were the same.
a cascading hillside,
a moment in repose:
the pleasure of mixing in nature
as i fondle your nose.
an afternoon banquet
of absorbing each thing
came to a pause when following birds
and i started to sing.

The Revolutionary War

sweet honey
can't you give me more of your money
i have to pay for the revolutionary war
there's a stranger knocking on my door
and i'm busy making love on the bedroom floor
sitting in my studio
watching a woman play with her stiletto
i'm trying to follow her track
the details are written all over my back
we're sitting in a red armchair
she's teasing me with her short dark hair
asking me questions about advanced math
i'm asking her for a date in the bath
sweet honey
can't you give me more of your money
i have to pay for the revolutionary war
there's a stranger knocking on my door
and i'm busy making love on the bedroom floor
sitting in my garden
watching a woman growing cold and harden
i'm trying to swim at the beach
something that nobody can show me or teach
i'm sitting in a pale blue sky
she wants to know but i can't tell her why
asking me questions about toast and ham
i'm asking her to see me as i am
sweet honey
can't you give me more of your money
i have to pay for the revolutionary war
there's a stranger knocking on my door
and i'm busy making love on the bedroom floor

Picasso's little cube

Pablo Picasso died on the field of battle,
a bottle of Spanish wine in his hand;
he went laughing his head off:
a bull on a long one nights' stand.

he once painted the Paris canvas,
made a clown inside a monkey's head.
his party rate was as high as a cloud:
he said Monet was dead.

while up in the main saloon,
he took a running jump.
his friends watched from a mountain top:
Pablo said it was a dump.

Olga was his aristocrat;
a Russian princess of the stage.
he rehearsed love with forty women:
but kept her in a cage.

when he inhaled he sketched two breasts,
fine lines drawn firm and dark:
he confidently transformed
his little cubes into art.

the last one standing before he sat,
waves washing over his blue wall.
his Spanish heart had a vision:
describe what he imagined he saw.

abstractly dancing on Mediterranean sand
or in bed with a girlfriend on top,
caressing life was what he loved:
he said he'd never stop.

the war could not be stopped

the man had gone off to war
and as you probably know
he took a child on his back,
pampered head to toe.
they made such a strange scene,
arms waving to the sky
in spite of bullets incoming
and the toy lamb they both watched die.
with the boy on his shoulders,
the man stood his ground
poised with his ears alert
for any threatening sound.
he saw an old woman
who tried to speak but fell;
she looked to be beyond saving
as far as he could tell.
he learned she spoke in anger
about the wasting and the death
of fine young men and women
called to draw their final breath.
each home in town was damaged
and far into the countryside
were people walking aimlessly
with nowhere safe to hide.
leaning into a hard wind,
he wrote a letter to his youth
pledging to turn away from stories
which promised everything but truth.
his child's eyes seemed to linger
out of focus and looking down
to flower shops and candy stores
where nothing sacred could be found.
the shouts and screams of men;
explosions and flying steel
so hot it buried innocence
he didn't know how to feel.
in the air was pure adrenaline
when a missile quickly dropped.
no early warning would have helped:
the war could not be stopped.

fear of loneliness

the bedroom with the two brass bedsteads was empty
and i was all alone but not free:
there is a price to be paid
if you want to join in my captivity.
i am less neat than a folded plain white napkin
and have no trouble with solitary ways.
i come from humble origins but love food
and drink red wine on most days.
loyal to a fault i would follow you like a puppy
with my tongue touching the floor.
if you showed a serious interest in my poems
i'd sit you down, smile, and lock the door.
i'd sketch a watercolor on your skin.
i once preferred a woman with special looks
but physical qualities mean less to me
than a lady who admires her books.
it's certainly true that i'm a fool with time
and it escapes me how to watch my money
as one second it performs an act of contrition
and the next begins anew with something funny.
i want to touch and walk into the woods,
enjoy discussing events of our world's history
but there is a price to be paid
if you want to join in my captivity.

another hit of blow

i  watched her read a poem
she said it was a letter
it wasn't until she got some nerve
that i could hear her better
she said she felt a little down
realized she had nowhere to go
there would be no exceptions
she took another hit of blow
she regarded herself as an artist
her anger had no limit
she offered me a small sum for my love
but she would have to win it
and out of courtesy to a fellow traveler
no one was at fault
it proved to be impossible to
bring her advances to a halt
i didn't want to meddle
i watched her hold a sign
it appeared the words were all misspelled
she told me it was mine
we moved to the Upper East Side
no charges could be brought
i heard her scream for rescue
at least that's what i thought
a boxer pounded with his fists
and a dog peed on her shoe
if there was money to be made
she knew this wouldn't do
i watched her out of compassion
she suffered from the start
but she sang my favorite song again
once more and with heart
she said she had a sweet affair
the man was a recluse
the more he tried to chain her up
the more that she felt loose
she said she felt a little down
realized she had no where to go
there would be no exceptions
she took another hit of blow

but hey Donnie!

but hey Donnie!

not Casper the Ghost or Lonnie

not hey Jude

'cause you were always rude

a mean and miserable dude

hey Donnie!

you dug a pretty big hole
& it might have been a war hole
or a hot piece of heavy ass hole

who can know which way you tried to go?

when you thought you were a big time dime

i thought you were a waste of time

but the candy girls thought you were sweet
they sucked up close on easy street
they rolled juicy joints on your factory floor

asked for money and you gave them more

you told them it was nice 

but they said you were ice

but hey Donnie!

not Casper the Ghost or Lonnie

not hey Jude

'cause you were always rude

a mean and miserable dude

they wanted you in black leather pants
you wanted an hourly romance
they wanted you to act 

but you wanted them to dance

but hey Donnie!

not Casper the Ghost or Lonnie

not hey Jude

'cause you were always rude

a mean and miserable dude

you liked riding in your stretch limousine
longer than the biggest block of New Orleans

on an early Sunday morning
you could pop up without warning

posing for pictures without a point 
running hustles in every joint
parties rocking with hardly a pause
your friends all dressed like Santa Claus

or Mrs. Claus

whatever the age

it was all a stage

but hey Donnie!

not Casper the Ghost or Lonnie

not hey Jude

'cause you were always rude

a mean and miserable dude

so to justify fortune and fame

you've relied on a tin-horn name

to polish the unwashed masses

and make fun of their asses

you swindle and waddle and wade:

and your reputation is made.

but hey Donnie!

not Casper the Ghost or Lonnie

not hey Jude

'cause you were always rude

a mean and miserable dude

you were a master at this game

tinsel and tickle and fame

wearing a smile on your head
it wasn't so much what you said

hey Donnie!

not Casper the Ghost or Lonnie

not hey Jude

'cause you were always rude

a mean and miserable dude

you dug a pretty big hole
it might have been a war hole
or a hot piece of heavy ass hole

but hey Donnie!

Rosie

she took me out to the shack
i'm never coming back
and i'm never gonna stop
i'll stay until i drop
she's a little girl called Rosie
who put a rivet in my heart
i can feel her in the morning
and i can see her in the dark
she took me out to the shed
i'll stay there til i'm dead
but i'm never gonna die
i'm too love-struck that's why
she's a little girl called Rosie
who put a rivet in my heart
i can feel her in the morning
and i can see her in the dark
she took me down to the creek
we stayed there for a week
we went swimming all alone
i had her for my own

first names

first names
i paid dearly enough
but i must admit i liked your stuff
the smartest of the whole gang
and you wanted a ride in my Mustang
out of devotion it's a machine of perpetual motion
the first and second law
it started up quickly and broke your fall
you wanted to do what i asked you to
first names
everywhere in demand
together, with no one in command
the highway a distant road
you wanted to lighten a heavy load
the game of chance is so much less than mischievous romance
the first and second law
it started up quickly and broke your fall
you wanted to do what i asked you to
first names
and i paid dearly enough
but i must admit i liked your stuff

Blue Eyelids

i've never touched a woman
who wasn't a princess or a queen
and i suppose i started out very Spanish
but ended completely unseen
i once was thought to be European
another time considered perfectly Korean
with blue eyelids and drinking like a hole
i held a cigarette in each hand
and had a tattooed dove on every finger
it made me difficult to understand
these birds flew uneasily over a woman in red
her face of legendary beauty looked perfectly dead
shortly before her death, she gave me a bag of jewels
to buy a new dress
but i have to confess
i pinched her little mouth and kept the money
i bought a souvenir bayonet and jar of honey
so she sang a sad song
about all the men who done her wrong
the settling of accounts and broken jaw
she took her time and touched them all:
her lords and masters when the moon was full;
she took it in stride but i thought it cruel.
i kept a respectful distance watching from a castle tower
while her story unfolded
late into an early morning hour.
and i still remember that night:
i zig-zagging down the road aiming my light
trying to make it to the next scene
dreaming of a princess or a queen
without a royal kingdom or a spoiled child:
a woman who drove men wild.

where i came in

this is just where i came in
nose to nose and chin to chin
my feet inside these shoes and close to you
and if you want to hear more talking
let's get together and go walking
it's a special place
where we can maintain our pace
and it's still the same
if we're in full sun or steady rain
we'll have no reason to worry
and no reason to hurry
just a little hop, skip, and we're in each other's arms
sharing the tenderness of each other's charms
making out while we're making time
everything is lookling fine
this is just where i came in
my feet inside these shoes and close to you
i can tell you that this is everything i want to do
almost to the square in Heaven but not quite
but there can be no better view when you're in sight
this is just where i want to be
my feet inside these shoes and in your company
this is just where i came in
nose to nose and chin to chin
my feet inside these shoes and close to you

a 1968 Camaro

i had just bought a new car
a 1968 Camaro
when Martin Luther was shot
and Bobby Kennedy became the next to go
i heard the news reports
each evening they talked about a foreign war
they counted all the men who died
as though they were keeping score
they wrapped each soldier in a body bag
sometimes only pieces and parts
a letter was delivered to the family
guaranteed to devastate hearts
o damn, Sam, I'm in a big funk
getting higher getting sick of this shit getting drunk
kicking the can farther down the road
no, man, I can't carry this load
but my car stayed plenty mean
it roared and all four tires smoked
girls climbed in and drank cheap wine
got loose and joked
a folk singer rolling a stone
and a Beatle singing "Give Peace a Chance!"
one man said he respected women
another had his hand in her pants
and the moon shot became a long shot
while more bombs fell
i had just bought a new car
and i drove her all the way to Hell.
o damn, Sam, I'm in a big funk
getting higher getting sick of this shit getting drunk
kicking the can farther down the road
no, man, I can't carry this load

Table 4

come for me tomorrow in the bar at table 4
I'll be sipping from my whiskey glass
and waiting by the door
I'll be looking for your friendly face
the smile that lights your eyes
but I'm not waiting for a woman
who hides herself in lies
i've never liked the cheap disguise
you've worn with whos and whats and whys.

I'm reaching for the candle stick
a matchbox in my hand
the smoke making circle eights
i can never understand
rhythms from a local band
falling on my face
bright musical notes and voices
sliding by without a trace
and dancers swaying hit a beat
houselights sweep the floor
they're looking for a friendly face
to come walking in the door
but I'm waiting for tomorrow
sometime to pay my bill
the waitress whispers in my ear,
"It's clear you've had your fill."

come for me tomorrow in the bar at table 4
I'll be sipping from my whiskey glass
and waiting by the door
I'll be looking for your friendly face
the smile that lights your eyes
but I'm not waiting for a woman
who hides herself in lies
i've never liked the cheap disguise
you've worn with whos and whats and whys

Two soft eyes

she played a woman with a tambourine
to all the men yet seldom seen
two eager eyes and musical mouth
she started north and headed south
took her time and drove alone
in a rented dress she called her own
sitting closely by her side
the night time lover she hoped to ride
she thumbed his book and read a page
learned that love was all the rage
memories played her face at four
caught her looking out the door
she played a woman with an appetite
for all the men to grab a bite
her give-and-take and full-page smile
started fast and stayed awhile
she played a woman with a tambourine
to all the men yet seldom seen
two eager eyes and musical mouth
she started north and headed south
took her time and drove alone
in a rented dress she called her own

Heaven, it's a white wall

Heaven, it's a white wall,
a black satin sofa and a new football.
tossed into the mix a juggler doing primitive tricks
and a bed where I can get my kicks
far from the public square.
I find it best watching you from there.
into a coma
with a cook and maid and an Ivy League diploma,
a chauffeur and a nanny
with a sweet young fanny
on her towel near the beach,
never too far out of reach.
across the floors wild paintings of whores
pointing south to the famous exit doors
personally bought for a cheap nickle and a cent:
I've no money left for next months' rent.
It's not strange, it's the way:
there's so much confusion without a clue of what to do or say.
I've turned my pockets inside out
and found they've been filled with shades of doubt.
a broken string on a new violin,
a red guitar and shot of gin
heard 'round the world one happy night
to make a point about appetite.
Heaven, it's a white wall,
a black satin sofa and a new football.

Chasing Ghosts: Camp Lemonnier

Anne didn't know of the camps' existence
and probably never even heard of Djibouti,
but there it was, not too far from Yemen and
close enough to Somalia for easy pickings.
As soon as Rummy completed it, he knew it
was a masterpiece, a fighting outpost fit for his daily brag. 
Cheney, as savage as always,
also wanted to be where the action was.
Having outmaneuvered the CIA, he set his sights on stateless actors,
people who were about to disappear into his black hole and travel 
deeper into secret black sites hidden carefully inside his black ops world.
Rummy and Dick smoked their cigars, but W wasn't old enough to join them.
They wanted to kill:  to find THEM, fix THEM, and finish THEM.
In a sort of targeted killing, the killing began.
America had the best instructors in Seal Team 6 and 
Delta Force and the US Army Rangers and, shh, quiet, please. 
Initially, there had been some talk about interrogation, and water boarding
but that passed along with a digested supper and before nightly prayers.
The Joint Special Operations Command wanted to go further and they would.
Their clever lawyers worked up a plan to claim extreme action was within legal bounds.
Lethal drone attacks smartly flew from bases far from any American campus,
so student term papers could still be written in a sleepy atmosphere.
Anne didn't know who was piloting the planes,
but it couldn't be Captain John Yossarian, since he was a B-25 bombardier
flying from memories collected during World War II.
The cat fight between the Pentagon and the CIA continued as a small skirmish,
not liable to detract from the larger mission of giving prisoners
rectal examinations in the hope of finding weapons of mass destruction.
And body cavity checks were carried out and diapers worn
by members of the White House staff,
so they wouldn't need to urinate or defecate on themselves.
Congressional involvement?  The boys figured a workaround for that:
If there's any interference, kill'em.
This inability to understand the enormous historical resonance and relevance of
our dance with death is a failure of the current generation.
Someday, there will be no one left to say "I'm sorry."
Anne didn't know it would end this way.

Oh, say, can you see?

yogurt and chicken soup
on the floor with an old ash tray
amid traces of faintly red saffron-at least it looked that way-
it was all too taxing for me to stay.
black on a blue background
was a word in capital letters: SURPRISE!
with great energy it appeared before my eyes
naked of everything, including momentary lies.
and a funeral taking place
nearby but i didn't say a word
i couldn't hear what it was i thought i heard.
i saw a friend but he proved to be a bird.
he gestured swimmingly
held a fancy feather with a wink
of multicolored passion mostly clothed in hues of pink.
i had been an admirer, now didn't know what to think.
the audience whistled
and rushed into another fighting song.
i thought it was a religious hymn but once again was wrong.
in the short run i couldn't stay too long.
i am a pessimist
with dozens of umbrellas by my side
in my wretched apartment is everything i try to hide:
my library book about Copernicus and an unused TV guide

Picasso's Penis

Picasso imagined his penis
like an opium pipe
ready for stroking and sucking,
constantly ready to continue the quest
for his new goddess if she would promise
to swallow him like an aspirin.
for solace, he once painted a scene
as background for a famous ballet of a
massive horse head slightly smaller than his ego,
full of color with two sturdy testicles for ears.
in his studio he was the absolute master of any
situation involving female breasts, enlarging,
distorting, and playing with realism like a suckling infant
new to the sea and the sun.
once, when an idle princess asked for his autograph, he was
seized with disgust and drew her face as a black vagina.
she asked him about his idea of fashion and he said
it consisted of a bathing belle playing with beach balls inside his private cabana,
the curtain shut, her spacious mouth wonderfully open.

The sea was a blue wall

The sea was a blue wall
and I made off with it.
Watching me under the hot sun stood a brilliant boy
who sold me two pennies
for a dime.
He left me knee deep in poverty.
The full moon told me he was a visitor
that I could never lay my hands on,
but I wanted my change so
I approached him before the next war.
His mind didn't focus.
He muttered something about the rising sea
and I said I'd sell it to him.
He was a famously hard bargainer
and beat me down.
I sold him the sea for a small sum and
someone said that was a bad move.
Perhaps I should have donated it to the Louvre,
where it would always be protected.

What to do?

i only desired to live,
to enliven and to give
which is not a selfish thought.
into the final rounds i fought
as bullets and explosions of pique
stacked like flak high and neat,
went ripping past my face.
how can i maintain my personal pace,
sometimes at 25,000 feet,
without sounding a general retreat?
should i remove my Air Force oxygen mask,
i ask?
in the course of a fast life, i sometimes get carried away.
there's not much more to say.
while i never learned to ride a horse,
which is, of course,
a requirement for a rural cowboy,
i had a hard plastic one as a calvary toy
when i was foolish and young,
before any final song could be sung.
but i never think very far ahead,
satisfying myself entirely without thoughts of the zombie dead,
looking for, say, a fine pipe to smoke
often after i awoke,
imagining my bowl filled with tobacco and current news
i strike a match and pause one second before i choose:
should i use a porcelain toilet if the need arose,
or watch the sunrise while standing on my tippy toes
to get a better view?
What to do?

call me a fool

baby needed to be within reach of Paris
and i needed a new pool
i went swimming with all her gamblers
and they called me a fool
they took my money and gave me a raise
i stayed with them until my dying days
casting stones but they wanted praise

she had a fondness for poetry and morphine
and i needed a new fix
i went looking for a magician
and he taught me his tricks
he took my money and gave me a raise
i stayed with him until my dying days
casting stones but he wanted praise

babe opened her back door to the highest and low
and i needed a new dance
i went looking for a sweet young love
and she found me in France
she took my money and gave me a raise
i stayed with her until my dying days
casting stones but she wanted praise

she chose to spend her summer in an all-girl band
and i stayed in my hotel
i went looking for the doctor's room
and knew i wasn't well
he took my money and gave me a raise
i stayed with him until my dying days
casting stones but he wanted praise

Dachau: September 2013

A blue umbrella
with pink pants and a black shirt,
standing under an overcast sky
near rusted strands of barbed wire
and an empty watch tower,
listened as a heavy metal bell in a slow tempo
rang a deeply soulful sound
which could be felt as it
marched slowly across the roll call yard.
Other tourists made the visit and spoke in low voices.
The ghosts made noises, also; in urgent whispers
they held up bony fingers to draw attention
to the squat crematorium where a brick furnace
sat in stony silence under a domed roof where shadows could
be seen hiding like sad children far from home.
It was quiet now, the oven doors open and cold to the touch.
There was dried blood high on the wire outside and a work bench made of
wood inside a large room where bunk beds, stacked with military precision,
squeezed tightly together, equidistant from one another, row on row,
building on building, man after man after man and woman, too.
Outside this camp, the many adjacent homes were sheltered by healthy green-leafed trees
as continual explosions of purple petunias and red geraniums rioted underneath their windows like happy kittens purring and playing during another day in denial paradise.
A time ago, beginning in 1933 and lasting into early 1945, while skeletons and stench were hidden
from their view by flowers and trees, young neighboring kids went to school and
dreamed of becoming doctors and dancers, clergy and brew masters;
the parents dreamed of being left alone.
A memorial to the former prisoners stood with steel arms outstretched, bent, twisted, open mouths forged by imagined screams demanding to be heard, previously welded in dark sparks by an artist whose bright eyes  managed to see through millions of innocent tears.
"Never Again!", they said, expecting an answer from the living.

The Dolomites

For the several hundred people who regularly
read and follow this blog, I would like to remind one
and all that tomorrow, Monday, September 2, 2013,
I will be traveling to Cortina, Italy; my plans are to
trek the high mountain trails from valley village to valley
village for 7 days.  I will not have access to the internet,
although I will be writing.  Stay well, brothers & sisters.

that woman from Zanzibar

who's that woman in the car?
she looks like she might be from Zanzibar
she's the one gave me an island kiss
when i bellied up to her bar
i have to admit i thought she was pretty young
i paid for the right to show my tongue
but she grabbed her key and tried to leave
all i could hold was her empty sleeve
the band played before they went broke
i took another pull of a hell of a good coke
and the lady with her skills dressed up in drag
hit me another shot with her Gucci bag
if i could find my way without making grand detours
i'd get down on all fours
and if that hurts too much i'll get a new tattoo
of red hearts and a big blue suede shoe
in a tight circle singing Elvis slow
are each of the women who want to know
am i a thief or a circum-navigator?
a cocktail in a glass or a bloody traitor?
oh, one lady gave me pain and i bled
out of control for what i said
staking everything on just one card
she has me figured out so that makes it hard
with another shot of stiff morning rum
an afternoon whiskey and even some
ticket to ride or a naked smile
i won't be leaving here for awhile
who's that woman in the car?
she looks like she might be from Zanzibar
she's the one gave me an island kiss
when i bellied up to her bar

nothing

nothing
nothing nothing nothing
long live the lovely end of time
perhaps a naughty child could find a simple rhyme
nothing else will do
i smoked my last cigarette looking for you
and everything's up in smoke
i'm not a genius but i never got the joke
that's life nowadays
lost in a blur disguised inside a haze
nothing
nothing nothing nothing
long live the lovely end of time
i never found my fortune but i'll always have my dime
nothing else will do
i spent my last day on Earth thinking of you
and everything's up in smoke
i'm not a genius but i never got the joke
that's life nowadays
lost in a blur disguised inside a haze
nothing
nothing nothing nothing
long live the lovely end of time
your dress of diamonds i can not claim as mine
nothing else will do
i spent my last day on Earth thinking of you

3 in the morning in Paris

he wore a tie with a starched collar,

and told me a thousand times

not to holler.

it seems i have no heart

since into the arms of the city of Paris

i went for a new start,

in through a half-French door

i went mostly to settle an old score.

stuffing myself with drink and smoke,

i got down to business;

headed south, went broke.

got to the corner of a crowded square

didn't know what to do when i got there!

but before i died,

i mounted a high horse and replied,

"My dear friends, I'm watching the death heads go by."

they kept swaying past exhaling a heavy sigh

at three in the morning.

i felt as strong as a bull!

without a fair warning

my face was made up like a laughing-stock fool.

it began to rain a thin winter mist.

a grieving woman nearby said she had never been kissed,

and i saw red and she saw blue.

what more can a color-blind boy do?

i straddled her stairs and flew

sniffing and tapping my heels in the street,

completely out of the chill and into the heat:

a vulgar nuisance and a potential cheat.

i jumped into a passing taxi and the hard back seat

leaving the warmth for some solitary cold,

i saw statues of soldiers charging cannons;

they fell young and bold.

my great black Mercedes flashing chrome

i finally escaped Paris and headed for Rome.

oh, my love!

there's nothing to forgive, my love
i was simply entranced
i'm expecting to meet you tonight
in the southern part of France
but don't ever think
i had too much to drink
i was tempted to reply
to that look in your eye
you mustn't feel sorry for me
i saw what i wanted to see

the hurts you don't know how to take
i regret like a thief
they kicked me out of your dressing room
and they swallowed me in grief
but don't ever think
i had too much to drink
i was tempted to reply
to that look in your eye
you mustn't feel sorry for me
i saw what i wanted to see

oh, my love! what a dream you are
carrying flowers and jewels
advertising your kisses and pointing
to all the eager young fools
but don't ever think
i had too much to drink
i was tempted to reply
to that look in your eye
you mustn't feel sorry for me
i saw what i wanted to see

the Doctor will see you now

he was a strange madman
and i was shot up just fine
i'll tell you about it later
after another full glass of wine
yeah,
look at him dead asleep
a scandal in the afternoon
cats are dancing in the street
and dogs howling at the moon
yeah,
look at him in the hall
a burning eye for all the men
who thought he was irresistible
i never saw him laughing again
and that's in the past
behind the neighborhood door
the big Doctor with a golden chain
performs operations on the surgical floor
yeah,
and every time he came
i wondered if it was fair
snapping his handsome fingers
and shaking a foot in the air
yeah,
it could last forever
at his age he pays them well
keeping out the rain and bad weather
he'd rather be a buyer than sell
yeah

a piece of crust

it'll liven you up a bit
if i could have a little tit.
a nibble before tv?
i don't want to miss out completely,
so before i retire,
what would you desire?
i'm getting a cramp,
so please turn off the lamp.
oh, watch how it dims!
i could satisfy your crazy whims:
your small face and feet,
affectionate with everyone you meet,
wrapped like an enigma or a mystery
solely for me,
hovering tightly over my smile,
makes me laugh for a little while
in your delightful apartment.
come on, was i sent?
i'm not a pizza or a Prince.
d'you want my lipstick, since
you need to fix yourself up?
here, have another cup
of Major Dickason's coffee.
what's that you're trying to tell me?
i have the ugliest legs in town?
well, your teeth are crooked and brown!
and i'd like another piece of crust
with my pie, if you must.

Hello Mademoiselle

Hello Mademoiselle.
i came to buy some butter
and left drinking from your well.

strange things flew in the air!
i grabbed my hat and found a coat
hanging by an empty chair.

i went out and slammed the door,
ran down to a whispering beach,
sat listening on the shore.

an echo exactly at midnight
cried softly in moonlit boots;
it paused at dawn in white.

i saw a top hat riding shotgun
in a Rolls chauffeured by fate
when an immense sun,

rising on the high tide line,
stuck a feather in my cap;
it was not at all by design.

i was left feeling naked and hot
but it's a part i play, wondering
if that's everything she's got.

very solemn, straining every nerve
i stood up straight to leave
but fell frantic into a curve

where i peeked across the room
and saw rushing directly at me
the grasping hand of doom:

all those fingers winking
two or maybe three times a second
encouraged me to start thinking

that i were in a fancy show boat.
hanging by an empty chair,
i grabbed my hat and found a coat.

an exhausting night

when you lost your temper
i went running out the evening door
i'm gonna tell you all i did
and not a single word more
i admit i had an exhausting night
it's not always easy knowing what's wrong and what's right
out of time i began following my parading line
but found no angel to share a drink
so what was i to think
i had fallen on my back and still was warm
she wore no wings and her dress was torn
she was nothing if not a big surprise
i had taken her bullet between the eyes
and heard a dog howling death
i was taking my last breath
when i thought of you
what else could i do?
she held my head in her mouth
talking in an accent from the American south
but i didn't force her to say it!
and i wasn't going to play it!
it wasn't quite seven and i was already in Heaven
where the glass was broken and the bar was empty
she took my name and tossed me her key
there's hell to pay if i can't always get my way
can it ever be that one and one equals three?
but there are no more songs to be sung
your name is on the tip of my tongue

the death of her vagina

the death of her vagina
was confirmed by the young doctor,
who was a descendant of the last King
from Hungary.
she offered to read his palm if he could
change her fate, but he was in a mad hurry
to visit a new asylum where there was every imaginable
disorder of life, so
he told her he would include her in a manuscript of his travels
if he ever got around to writing one.
she offered to be his screenwriter if he could
change her fate, but he said he didn't like the movies,
and, anyhow, any film couldn't be successful if all the actors
died before the final credits rolled.
he headed for the exit, and she again offered to read his palm if he could
changer her fate, but he told her he lost his
right hand in the Great War and wouldn't show her the left one
because it had killed a man.
not without ambivalence, he shook himself free and
pausing at the doorway from where he looked over his shoulder to
see her concerned face, he earnestly said,  "The only choice is to live!"

Kingdom of Jordon

He wouldn't listen.

"Don't you see,

I don't agree!"

he said.

She wailed and sobbed and howled,

tossing a soiled rag.

"You couldn't have put it better,"

she hissed.

She was obviously pissed.

He was a skinny man with a thin

wisp of chin hair, very Arab skin, brilliant

chocolate eyes and the nickname of

Flash Gordon.

She was a heavily built,  powerful woman

with hair on her face which ran in her family

from the Kingdom of Jordon.

"Ah! I see!"

she spat.

"I should write your address on toilet paper

and throw it away, it seems."

"Of course," he said as he re-lit a cigarette and blew

smoke in her face.

"You live in a world of dreams!"

and that much was true, as anyone who knew

her would say:

former marriages, divorces, new lovers, ball-and-chain

relationships, or sudden infatuations mixed with the

current hearsay,

but she always broke through whatever the cost.

"At least I'm not lost!"

she screamed in reply;

"And you're still here, and I can only guess why!"

Painting Her in Bed

fitting a naked woman into a square frame
(if she's a mature woman is she still a dame?)
that is the last thing i wanted to do
but the old woman who lived in a shoe
knew there was always one breast too much
or a belly or an ass or a hip and such
and the thigh
in several sketches elicited a man's sigh
for there wasn't any more room for all the flesh
squeezed as tightly as possible inside black mesh
and now her eyes staring straight ahead
made her look like a dangerous female instead
of a tall slim methodical curve
(around which i might stupidly swerve)
keeping time, in perfect rhythm, feet together
her movements unaffected by the weather
she looked perfectly balanced and serious
smooth, diplomatic, almost, dare i say, imperious
but certainly alluring and fit
and i'd like to get a piece of it
with my head in my hands and not missing a word that's said
all this time i'm thinking of painting her in bed.

2 many eyes

I've got as many eyes as you want
and every body's agreed
one frank step forward
and one ready to bleed
your shoes under my bed
I'm not even going to ask
what you're thinking about
I'm removing my mask
but i still have my legs
it's always the same
three steps backward
it's a strange old game
as if in a deep trance
this used to be called romance
in the grip of frightful pain
violating me with your whims
what do you have to gain?
go to it, my dear!
starting over from the start
watching from ambush
like a robber stealing a heart
I've got as many eyes as you want
and every body's agreed
one frank step forward
and one ready to bleed
I'm ready for something
starting over from the start
my hand inside my jacket
massaging my heart.

Paint It Blue

Chain smoking for a cause,
wild eyes fixed on Santa Claus:
his handbag tossed into the back.
The taxi being driven by constable Jack,
gasping in delirium with a new bouquet
of pepper and spices lighting the way,
the trumpets of Jericho inside his head
trying to remember what the Good Book said.
Rushing through traffic at breakneck speed
like a rolling stone forgetting to bleed.
Hairpin turns disappearing under the floor,
adrift in the middle of an American shore.
Strong-smelling urine and long, twisted wires:
smog alerts and climate change fires.
On one side along the northern walls
sitting on steps below Niagara Falls,
he pointed his light but found no relief;
the frenzied citizens called him a thief,
asking each other why they were there,
leaning over the railings in great despair.
No gesture or pose on the southern line
(where humans watched reruns of Andy Devine)
could illuminate what it was all about:
the sound in the distance an improvised shout.
He must have forgotten and no one else knew
the gas tank was bleeding and covered in blue.
Jack headed westerly with his date,
found the valley office and pulled in late:
women's names and graffiti of all kinds
written in obscurity behind yellow lines.
He grabbed an eraser from a school room cage;
the silicon citizens flew into a rage:
a handful of anger and Hollywood Park.
So they hopped in the taxi and drove east after dark
to the sandy beaches of Atlantic City;
they didn't have anything to say that was witty,
their beards harboring fresh tobacco juice.
It was soon time for cooking the infernal goose.
Who is it? Oh, simply man and his desire:
the boardwalk shudders as they're changing a tire!
In any case no abstraction can be made.
They fled that taxi where it laid
in a blaze of footlights and dying laughter.
Paradise and Inferno were what they were after.

99%

I'm a wounded veteran,
ninety nine percent disabled,
at the mercy of the softest blow.
i keep my head held low
just like any honest politician,
if one can be found.
and my cellar is full of lies
dressed in suits and ties,
yawning, stretching, and preparing
for another daily hike
or a low blow to the belly
outside of my neighborhood deli.
towards devout young sinners,
i had no other choice but to go.
"We'll have a party," i thought,
"and look what all I've bought!"
it's not as complicated as it seems:
it's like catching a cold or an airplane,
just a question of times
and unsophisticated rhymes
or simply good connections.
business is business, so I've heard.
and that's what astonishes me:
I've had a hundred chances to be free
yet remain around the dining room table
protesting loudly or not.
like you, my little reader under light,
I'll ham it up with you tonight!
with handcuffs and old revolvers
or pink shrimp and Russian caviar;
our whistles echoing in the street
like steam engines full of heat.

A Plate of Radishes

i had a laugh at myself when i saw how fat she was!
she had her eye on me like a frog on a butterfly,
and i pulled a wing out of my pocket to fly away.
i didn't know what was in her mind, but her hair
turned on her head with the wind,
and what does she do, but begin towards me with a big
smile and a drink in one hand.
so we drank to my health at the curb and talked about the
salamis she smoothly unhooked from her bra, as she had trained for it many
times before.
her technique is perfected and the meat,
it never fails to taste pretty good, as i later learned.
as i said, i wanted to break free or trip her up just to get her goat,
but she was stubborn and her big secret is that she would smear me
with blood if she didn't get her way, so i don't put up a fight, but ask
her for another drink, which i drain in a gulp.  the only trouble is that
its almost noon and other women are running in circles nearby,
bawling and beating their fists in the air, making a hullabaloo, and
i can't hold my glass for the next toast.  i'm all tensed up when i make
my wild dash for freedom, but the plump lady, who had no right to
lay a hand on me, reached out like i was a plate of radishes, and worked
me over.  it never fails, stem and all were eaten.

Shiny Cars

we were buried at sea
in an old neighborhood.
she had been homesick for it;
i didn't think it would do any good
eating cans of soup on the front porch
with sweet potato chips.
the good lady forgave me my youthful pranks,
kissed me on the lips.
watching shiny cars passing on the street,
an unexpected crash!
i had no intention of behaving myself;
got thrown out with the trash,
became more unstable than ever,
hitting the ceiling and the booze,
swimming like a happy duck
couldn't choose
until foreboding overcame me
and i ran out of luck.
put down roots on the wrong side
often for laughter;
other times out of fatalism:
died sometime before noon or shortly thereafter
but still returned by nine o'clock
like a schoolboy crawling to his retreat
on the porch i sat with acting ambitions
watching shiny cars passing on the street.

Naked Footprints

it might have looked like a tree
but it was me
taking a massive dose
the universe is a process of digestion
from the east to the west coast
there's gangsters in our midst
playing cards with their schemes
slamming aces on the table
making holes in our dreams
and all i can do is groan
sinking to the bottom
and all i can do is moan
as i lay with open eyes
staring at your open thighs
at times thinking i was hypnotized
contemplating all that was sacred
on the fingers of my left hand
and it might have been marvelous
if only i could understand
naked footprints on the shifting sand
forcing my legs to work
as if it were midnight on the city street
and the fountains were silent
and i couldn't sleep
down like a dog across the doorway
staring at my crocodile
pursuing my own vision
against the Gods for another mile
and all i can do is groan
sinking to the bottom
and all i can do is moan
as i lay with open eyes
staring at your open thighs

Living is a Magic Art

a verbal thrust
and a counter-thrust
on the stage with an actress
beginning to raise her voice
with perfect diction,
like a heroine for all the fair wise ladies.
a golden lotus with a tortoise on her tongue,
slowly singing,
she looked thin and young;
more than 50 years before her death,
she had the unusual quirk
of possessing a talented smirk
which many in the audience abhorred
yet i adored!
struck as i was with the demon of a late love,
she held me on a string
like a fish struggling in the net
before being taken to the shop window.
on the way, i kissed her on the mouth
and the back of her neck,
taking advantage of everything i could get.

Saint-Tropez

give me back my fine cigar
on Saint-Tropez
beneath a shining star
a boy with so much more to do
can't write a single letter
without the color blue
and he had the gall to want it all
sold several lives in packs of fives
found misfortune selling on the beach
where everything was within his reach
took a healthy puff, filled a lung
couldn't hold it in, was much too young
beneath a shining star
give me back my fine cigar
on Saint-Tropez
inside a speeding car
a girl with so much more to do
can't find a way to walk away
without her silver shoe
and she had the gall to want it all
sold several lives in packs of fives
found misfortune selling on the beach
where everything was within her reach
took a healthy puff, filled a lung
couldn't hold it in, was much too young
beneath a shining star
on Saint-Tropez
that's what the fortune teller says.

The Trayvon Martin verdict

i have two new pieces in mauve
with frames made of old oak,
full of character lines reminding me
of a face etched in heavy sorrow instead of a smile.
after Trayvon there isn't a whole lot to cheer for,
but come this fall there will be pigskins wrapped around
air bladders and stadiums filled with crazed fans waiting for more action
and less talk, while hot dog relish and sipped beer stain their academic shirts.
These passing moments will run on, like a hurried sentence,
as giant scoreboards blink excitedly in an epileptic fit of commercial exuberance.
in America, a tight end is both a blocker and the way she wears her jeans.
yet there is a silence at night, once the lights are turned out.
and there is a darkness before dawn which can blind the most sharp-eyed
hunter, but only the early walker can see the early bird.
from here, a close planet casts its reflected light on the waters of a nearby free-flowing river.
in my basement, a well-used, hooded sweatshirt
filled with tears and burn holes from a day working as a welder
said more about my past than the Wall Street Journal
has ever said about the future of America, which a party guest said
would come to an end around the year 2050.
i was intrigued, but our discussion was brief.
between puffs on a cigarette, she spoke in hushed
Mandarin Chinese, learned in elementary school partly as a result of
globalization, but also in an attempt to study if a bilingual brain is better at reasoning.
i reasoned she was pretty smart and we shared predictions:
what i predicted was that, in 2050,
there will still be handguns for sale from my local dealer, especially the Beretta,
Sig Saur, Smith & Wesson, and Heckler & Koch models.
by that time, Trayvon will have been dead for 38 years,
deprived of any future opportunity to learn a different language,
and without his own two new pieces in mauve.

Cat in the Hat

promises on the evening news
pointers from the left and right,
leaving it up to me to choose:
are there too many angry reds
or impossible blues?
but i don't want a fight
and i don't need to discover
secrets hiding underneath a deep dark cover!
inside the mouth of a favorite lover
the flowers still bloom!
winds coming through an open window
of my second floor bedroom...
papers scattered on the lonely floor
and i can't read them anymore!
but i don't want to bitch.
tell me if you know which is which
or what it really means when NOW is where it's at.
hey, look, there's a corporate cat in the hat
half-way between walking tall and party fat
even Doctor Seuss could tell you that!
you've got to give me something before bed,
much more than mommy and daddy ever said
when they kissed my head
they closed the door.
i heard their footsteps disappearing
and never saw them any more!
will someone please turn on the overhead light?
it's the one with a big green power switch.
but i don't want to bitch.
tell me if you know which is which
or what it really means when NOW is where it's at.
hey, look, there's a corporate cat in the hat
half-way between walking tall and party fat
even Doctor Seuss could tell you that!

Black Bread

my friend said,
"The world i knew is a long time dead
and it won't be coming back!
Black bread
is what is left!"
i felt he was not quite normal,
wearing his lucky charm, acting formal
in spite of the civil wars in Syria and Egypt.
tears kept flooding his eyes;
maybe he clearly saw the lies
blindingly bright in an atomic stupor,
for he kept swatting at his ghost
as it tried offering him a toast
of the finest South American wine:
he thought it was made lousy by design.
i knew our star was in decline
and the glory days were gone forever,
but it all happened in such a short while
when oil refused to flow,
and crops would no longer grow.
to his young boy he solemnly wrote
"The sun gradually consumed the ice..."
but he, of course, was being nice.

Stephen Hawking

with the sun filling his eyes,
Stephen knew it would be impossible to talk
in a half-hearted way and so he perceptively
continued exploring the universe which was found
spinning on his left shoulder.
i understood it was his universe, and i kept looking at my own shoulders
by shifting my eyes left and right.
i discovered there was little to be learned by watching his face,
or listening to the inflections in his curiously new
artificial voice, but he was brilliant in the manner of Cousteau.
in his overwhelming presence, i often found myself
reaching for a well-read book which he added to
his collection in just the last moment and i learned that all last moments stretched
into eternity, bursting like exploding stars from any room he happened to be in.
when he talked about eternity, he was able to smile with his words dancing on
faint breaths of air, and as those moist nouns and verbs raced over the hard towers of
Stonehenge, i kept reaching out to motion with my hands, rearranging pebbles.
sometimes when i stretched, i found my own voice, although i never saw a Deity, even
though
i saw
Stephen sleeping in his chair, hair unkempt.

little Jack Horner and Molly

Three Musicians and Two Nudes
all of them Castro Street dudes
dealt with life on their San Francisco street
near a corner where little Jack Horner sat watching his thumb
as he pulled in a trick
and pulled out a plum
everyone in the crowd thought he was dumb
eating his Christmas pie and listening to jazz
he took a ferry to Alcatraz
he made his way back home
and gave five guys a happy wave;
they thought they were saved
but he gave them the bone!
on the subject of Chinatown
he juggled balls inside his pants like a circus clown
near the popular Anchor Oyster Bar
one shot would soon become twenty-nine
he said he felt very fine
he made his way slowly over to Pioneer Park
and fell asleep in the dark
everyone in the crowd thought he was a cheat
when he reappeared like a Jesus on Lombard Street
and he wore his pants baggy like a dwarf
panhandling tourists down on Fisherman's wharf
in the heat of the day or up really late
he often camped out near the Golden Gate
with his California date
a sweet thing named Molly
who came in on the F trolley.

Tinsel Town

We're going down to Tinsel Town
'cause seriously we're sucking blue
but I've got the fix
standing right in front of you
a brown coat with shoulders slumped
young ass happily humped and humped
over the park bench at two am
asking you repeatedly to get it up again
but your appetite was getting old
what once was hot now turning cold
bottled booze still much too weak
we haven't been this fucked up
for nearly half a week
and man, the railroad stars coming out tonight
each one of them looking to get a bite
with you sitting on a cushioned chair
feeling cool, almost debonair
a silent rider with tickets to the show
you wanted to attend,
but couldn't go
i found the carpet stained with cigarette butts
and little drops of sweet honey
i tried to laugh but it wasn't funny
we're going down to Tinsel Town
and man, we'll be spending all our money
'cause seriously we're sucking blue
but I've got the fix
standing right in front of you

eating my cake

in the absence of a belligerent dadaist,
i drove to the gravel lot with Pink Floyd
playing Time rather than keeping it under
the mattress where i normally sleep,
under wraps which i frequently toss when
i jump up, shouting Vive Dada! each morning,
mostly just to piss off some people i know.
when i parked over loose stones, a storm was brewing nearby.
i was able to hear the claps of thunder much like an
agitated audience waiting for the music or some words
to have a certain predictability, when,
with the house lights low, they shamelessly caused a scandal by yelling,
stomping their feet, holding obscene signs,
mostly just to piss off some people i know.
and it soon began to rain in an unsophisticated fashion,
like a fuse of an iconoclastic stick of dynamite having been lit,
then finding packed gunpowder in a fizz of explosive spite.
i stayed inside my car and missed the wetness of it,
eating my cake,
mostly just to piss off some people i know.
when my lunch was finished i somehow or other made a fuss
with a persuasive lady who offered me an explanation, and i would
have stood up had i been able, but i was worn to a pulp by
worries and sirens and traffic carried here from another city.
so i sat undeterred as the bourgeoisie became the intelligentsia,
leaving my car only when the rain stopped,
mostly just to piss off some people i know.
and when i did, i saw more of myself than before.

The Old Lady and her Shoe

today she weeps in such a way
there are no tears ever found upon her dress,
on the cheeks below her eyes,
or on the hardwood floor.
according to accounts, she once drove a car
far into the night, into the early morning hours
they even said.
at her side was a favored pocketbook she could use
for shopping, if a store's lights might appear at 3 am
on any lonely rural road.
they never did, even as she neared the gulf coast
out of gas, drifting to a standstill.
according to accounts, on another trip she veered off the asphalt
and hit a fence, taking out a telephone pole, smashing
her Honda Accord so that it was deemed a total wreck.
she suffered a slight knee injury which, according to accounts,
required a few small stitches and anti-biotic.
contrary to her widespread belief, she could no longer play the
card game Bridge, or even Blitz.
her family decided to confiscate her license.
soon it was said she lived in a place without color, but her fingernails
remained powerfully red.
inside her new room were placed many family photographs, but she struggled to
identify the faces, naming only a few.
imagine her satisfaction when an idea came to her!
she looked comfortable in her wheelchair, in the new
room which was decorated to resemble an old room from her former life.
these days, according to accounts, she remembers her own name
and not much else.
although she has plenty of shoes, her left foot is swollen, sensitive,
and usually wrapped in a thick blue sock.
her right foot wears the shoe, usually a sneaker.
and she is finally living a modest existence, one she never dreamed of
as a young girl.

dog bones and the river

the cat was in the fat!
i can tell you that
but not much else
the dogs were into bones!
i still hear their groans
and contented sighs
the damn radio lies
so i try my best to ignore it
shit!
the river was more beautiful today
than i remember
weren't we floating happily just last November
when the wind grew intense
since then, we've been building a fence
which is newly grown
i offer you my moan
sitting with you at the outside table
our busy waitress was efficiently Mabel
i saw the name tag over her small left breast
the vegetable wrap sandwich was the best
you've ever eaten, you said
you saw the scab on my head
i watched the water flow, it's always downstream
where i followed my dream
like a galloping pig
i offered you my fig
but you said you prefer to wrestle
we ended up at an English bar
where sailors drank from a whisky jar
couples were dancing everywhere
tossing feathers into the air
masses of whores and bad champagne
we left before it began to rain.

the smile

your ebony hair,
like a shadow without the moon,
fell fashionably across the sky
and landed loosely on my head.
i watched your rosy cheeks
and nowhere have i found
a more gratifying smile.
your coral lips and pearly teeth
always came knowing when to talk
and where to eat,
and when we were alone,
i showed you a ripe strawberry:
its' juice ran down your throat.
you were smart enough to know
where you were going,
and in the end,
followed in my footsteps,
even if i was mad.

Doors

i thought i must be deranged
when the good doctor said it was basal-cell
carcinoma, but don't panic, it's small,
something like a centimeter in both directions.
sure, nature fascinated me, yet my interest
did not extend to admiring any form of cancer,
much less an ugly welt growing on my own sun-stained neck,
refusing to heal by tossing that unwanted small scab to
grow new, healthy skin over an existing resistant red hole.
i could reach it with my fingers and have my
way with it, touching and picking in some delightful
effort to convince myself it was simply a game, but
since the medical man stood by his opinion, i would
soon need to visit an experienced dermatologist to
have my unwanted friend removed before i fell in love with him
or her?  wait; does a cancerous growth have a sex?
within seconds of leaving the doctor's office, i saw my
reflection in a swinging glass door (the one next to two
fat men studying a painting of trees which seemed
to my eye to be unfinished) and my hair was combed perfectly
and wonderfully blond.  a young boys' suit fitted around my
shoulders, pants perfectly creased down to the ankles, and with
a smile which would turn out to be genuine, the image,
in our brief moment together, privately told me
"This will be the year of doors."

Apples and Gypsy earrings

"How about them apples,"
the girl with the Gypsy earrings
was heard to say in a common language
all too familiar to men of a certain charm.
being the apple of her eye, i claimed to be familiar with
all the varieties she kept hidden underneath her piano.
in fact, i loved her apples and often thought of decorating them
with shiny cloth and sequins to suggest the sparkle of
wet lips about to take a hasty bite, or maybe, possibly,
the stems should be adorned with fringes, and the skins
with Spanish tassels, for a more progressive
mark on taste than that left by dull orchard growers.
once, bobbing for apples toward the end of a Halloween party,
i kept tactfully quiet when asked if i wanted the red one.
almost from the start, the color never was important.
and thinking about an apple a day has kept me healthy,
especially when i look onto my tree-shaded garden and,
nearby, see the Gypsy girl dancing against the sunlit sky.

Something silly in Philly

i sent her a photograph
before the war
but that's in the past
where i can't go anymore
one day i got a big surprise
when my unbelieving eyes
saw her in an appliance store
near the boardwalk on the Atlantic shore.
her hair cut short,
she was pushing a nice intelligent man
into a plastic garbage can.
i didn't just avoid her, i ran.
i heard she married him
and like charcoal and ink on paper
spent two years working
his head into a fine black taper.
he went no farther than St. John's Wood
before he became a former lover,
like modern art toiling mostly undercover.
her next affair lasted only so long:
she played the viola and wrote a song
for a lively Russian officer
who was an admirer of Andy Warhol's
screen printing of Marilyn Monroe.
he perfected an alcoholic drink with some potato
and called it Vodka before he became hooked on drugs
and threw himself under a train in Spain.
her bereavement was essentially without pain.
she's now rumored to live in Philly
or in a suburb nearby
and for the life of me i have no idea why
i'd even think of her again.
it's silly.

Saint-Martin's-in-the-Fields

in an alien madhouse
nineteen frogs and a tiny field mouse
danced as if possessed on the altar steps
of Saint-Martin's-in-the-Fields,
the great Anglican church in Trafalgar Square.
the fact that they used the score to
Beethoven's Seventh Symphony
for their musical accompaniment
was one of the more fashionable touches
during the afternoon performance.
another was the red shoes each frog wore,
which had been expertly hand sewn and fitted;
the field mouse wore his elegant military cape.
they looked forward to buying new clothes
before they left London, but preferred the
anonymity of plain suits when not on stage.
unfortunately, they were certified insane
by jealous competitors, admitted to an asylum
where they were forced to remove all their jewelry
and had their final air of mystery confiscated.
once that happened, their show was postponed.

a sacred fire

simply wearing modern dress
no better time to confess
i know nothing about costume
sitting style less inside my weekly room
spraying the walls with ten dollar perfume

once i was a self-made man
who talked better than he ran
with a keen eye for the frivolous
who boasted of knowing what he could only guess
looking for more i came away with less

methodically still writing
with perfect nails for biting
i would gather fresh material for a feast
but was never able to slay the beast
who expected much but found in me the least

ashes of a sacred fire
when burning hot could inspire:
a nervous little gypsy smile
followed me for a day and a welcome mile
so i stopped to kiss it for a while

scattered seed corn under a shadow

in a conventional but relaxed way
i sat at my desk in my bedroom
flipping through pages of disorder,
looking for grains of dust.
there were piles of old Atlantic magazines,
rumpled socks, and album covers stacked
knee high with an Elton John record at the top.
Rubber Soul was like my evening shirt, starched
and out of sight in the middle of the pile.
that one, I didn't see.
but Goodbye Yellow Brick Road was nearest,
and being within reach when i leaned backward,
i thought sometime i'd give it a suitable play for
my friends while i wore some incredible costume
with long sideburns and designer glasses.
but my current book, Neptune's Inferno, would have to be finished first,
and in it i had just landed on Guadalcanal with the US marines,
certain that Japanese soldiers were watching from the
nearby jungle, as i deepened a taste for adventure on an
island in the south Pacific no one really seemed to want,
but soon too many would die defending to the last man.
Shelley had already written a line in his "Adonais":
"He has outsoared the shadow of our night."
Shelley knew the honored glory of the combat dead, and i heard
his hymns in my head, but soon my ancient AM/FM radio,
catching the light from the rising sun, chimed in with a
hissing We Didn't Start the Fire by Billy Joel, the piano
man, who was to become a friend of Elton,
although he never wore an awkward outfit.
by the time the Guadalcanal campaign ended in early 1943,
Billy was not yet born in real life.  when he did become famous,
he never started a fire or knew that a day would come when not
a single participant in the epic of World War II would remain alive
to tell his tale.  i quickly grew tired of thinking about Jamaica Jerk Off
and turned down the volume on the music so i could hear
my own breathing.  in the predawn, all i could see were
men in individual foxholes scattered like seed corn.
and i finally found my lost wristwatch in a pants pocket, but
decided at the last second to leave it there, unmarked by a date of birth.