ambush

in an ambush
22 men dead
my green shirt red
all the buttons lost
i called to Joe
who fell nearby
i heard him cry
he had no buttons, either
and we were young
when the jungle flies came
they didn't stop to ask
us our name
their tiny legs
working their way near.
but mothers listen
we are still here

celestial blue

the new guy in town
underneath a movie marquee
waited for romantic reruns
because they were free.
he was hanging with Lola
who was inspecting her hand
hoping to sing
in a street fighting band.
when she couldn't remember
the words to a song
she started her lyrics
and they quickly went wrong.
they watched a TV
which sat on the floor,
explaining life
as it sped by their door.
his wall clock kept ticking
with seconds to spare;
her chair still kept rocking
but no one was there.
the little kitten,
celestial blue,
looked in their mirror
and saw her way through.
she couldn't be certain
what she saw with her eyes;
she thought it was earth-bound,
but reached for the skies.

Self-Portrait

i watched a raconteur
and his lower lip
speaking with a generous heart
upside down and back to front.
he proposed to offer me a new head start.
i asked him for a different angle,
not a simple circle or a square;
even the confident critics wondered:
will anything important ever be found there?
but i was determined to stay
because most of my friends were already away,
and once as a very young man
i sang soprano in my Sunday choir
with everyone God-like no one a liar.
often trying to wheedle my way
to the front of every unpainted line,
i was in a hurry not wholly by design,
eating flat bread and sipping wine.
i didn't have much intellectual integrity;
was heavily wounded in a war.
when asked to kill wondered what the hell for?
listening to the famous bugles call,
there was more to dying than what i saw:
the saxophones performing in toxic smoke;
and song birds hitting high C as they choke
on a very rough patch of desert sand.
i heard him once say this was the Promised Land!
while others might find that hard to understand;
the only clue i have is my name
on the bottom right-side of a stretched canvas
where my thumb plays a hide and seek game
with the palette by always changing colors
or do they simply stay the same?

the Hessian Trench (1778)

we saw that the snake vine had
overwhelmed the slender tree
like a father Superior who had spanked a child
bound and gagged by his bedside.
we were far from a narrow gravel road and the stream we crossed,
looking for the ghosts of Hessian soldiers and their trench.
walking like genial dwarfs through the woods,
we kept trying to follow a faint trail of leaves,
descending and sidestepping and stopping; it was
after twelve noon but before one when a weak sun
tried to loosen us up with some warmth.
we came close to other vines, ducked and jumped,
continued past brambles, got stuck, got unstuck, stepped over fallen logs,
and occasionally would hear a whispering pine.
we found no other hikers, no one else out to explore,
no deer, no bandits, no dead red fox, no soldiers.
we climbed a huge rock, slipping our way to the summit and
our embrace more emotional than rational.  Like lookouts,
we peered into the forest for a clue, steady in the breeze.
the Hessian trench must be somewhere, and the ghosts,
while waiting, are still hiding in their dungeon.

Chapter 25

you didn't care what happened to me
when i fell down on the floor
drunken and musical
looking for my piano
i was dressed on the fringes of the world
holding on but with no where to go
simply making notches in my headboard
looking for those thrown overboard
tallying my numerous lovers
i saw everyone naked under empty covers
while you kept making jokes at my expense
from the other side of your busy fence
one story about a cancer ward when i died
finished elegantly and completely by Chapter 25
i was lonely but still alive
and then buried with my pet mouse,
almost falling victim to a suicide
by gassing myself inside your house
you once drank an entire bottle of Anis del Mono
and dropped to the floor whimpering and sad
about all the misfortunes you've ever had
life was so good before it turned bad
dressing for the ball with your jar of paint
unsure if you would become the Devil or a Saint
you left me to join the Trojan war
and i left you to check the water level in my glass
but it was nearly empty and i wanted more.

Louise de Coligny-Châtillon (1914)

before we began smoking opium
i was already your devoted slave
unafraid as any other former jailbird might be
to feel your whip strike approvingly on my ass
you've forcefully sodomized me with your love poems
filling my orifices with your urgent singing
opening the gates to my body without difficulty
while i've spread myself wide to your intense advances
i remain the recruiting office deliriously hungry
for your enlistment: there are no obligations!
the application merely asks for your most sincere depravity
and my madness is fully guaranteed
if we prove to be a combustible couple,
of course this relationship cannot last, so
i'm going to give you a very good tip:
i burn for your disdain.

the strange thing

i was sitting on my large canvas
and a war was soon to come
i drew the Portrait of Mistress Mills
sucking on her wounded thumb

with a face as flat as gravity
one finger pointing neither left or right
while a soldier with his hurried face
set out to take a bite

he was reaching for his mustache
when he heard three men at the bar
spinning outrageous stories
of old searches for a star

a flipperlike arm began poking me
inspiring my gigantic shout
while the boys continued with their stories
but i was racked by doubt:

i was sitting near an animal
and the woods were soon to close
there was a palpable urine fragrance
and i tried to hold my nose

it appeared to hover overhead
like a fine mystery in a box
and when opened it wasn't too difficult
to see the strange thing was a fox.

hat pin and needle

i saw two trees
and a woman with a pear.
she held onto her fruit basket
refusing to share,
brushing watercolors,
smearing her eyes;
she read a hand-written message
scribbled in lies.
i wore a hat pin and needle
and started to dance.
it felt like compulsion,
like singing in France.
my guitar strings were wooden;
my bottle brown beer;
when i called to the lady,
she refused to come near.

Eva Gouel (1885-1915)

she should never fall ill
so long as she keeps taking her pill
and her drinking continued all day long
while he kept singing his own selfish song
and she thought it was all for fun
but he treated her like a tangible pun
mocking and socking like a busy seamstress
and she could only ever guess
that he liked whatever he did
sometimes he acted like a man, sometimes a kid
a case in point when he split the joint
he hid her away in a box
turned her into a pair of pretty socks
into a still life of a ham
or tossed her with a Spanish thank you ma'am
when their busy life produced a lull
he painted her head into a skull
since he evidently couldn't change his theme
and cancer took her away from the scene
all her lingerie stayed on the floor
he painted her into a chair once before
and now he'd do it again
his psyche was his only Zen

watching your lips move

walking in the woods at night
looking at your bedroom window
when i saw the light
and i was just fooling around
watching your lips move, never hearing a sound
my feet firmly planted on the ground
but you never knew i was there
as thin as a breath of fresh air
the guy you said was better than most
floated past memories like a forgotten ghost
and he had the wind at his back
carrying lonely tears in a heavy sack
and i've seen them slipping away
like shadows you'll never know what they say
but i can still hear them cry
whispering like a shooting star in a moon-lit sky
walking in the woods at night
looking at your bedroom window
when i saw the light
and i was just fooling around
watching your lips move, never hearing a sound
keeping my feet firmly planted on the ground
but you never knew i was there
as thin as a breath of fresh air