white fruit watching the moon rise

i am always in my arm chair
or a chaise lounge,
sometimes watering my shrubs
but only if i can reach them.
otherwise i read, and am often seduced by a book,
embarking on a secret affair with each page
as i finger it's edge.
when the air is dry as in a drought,
my shrubs become a flight
of brittle stairs which i climb with a white rose
in my hand, looking to solve actual mysteries.
what i find most clearly is that
i am inspired by central figures, those large
cubist personalities always at ease in traffic,
steering toward facts rather than faith,
wanting to show each one a flower before i pause to solve a riddle.
if it's summer, a fragrant scent will be painted
on my nose and the only evidence it's from a
fresh rose is the petal inside my mouth.
when it's winter, a nearby beach is closed, all the people
are painted black, and the sign says NO SWIMMING.
a life guard is on duty, but only to ensure there is no nudity.
my white can become snow or a star or the moon and sometimes
it will remain a rose.
like a watercolor, i can make it become what i want,
the colors wrestling, running, and caressing each other.
before it is eaten, i would sign and date a basket of white fruit
and present it to you while watching the moon rise.
that's a fact.

hard-working hands

on her wedding day
near the park in Montreal
my dark-haired woman
said "I do" and almost had it all

a little French
and a special glass of wine
all her friends looking on
thought that she looked just fine

once a little girl
sitting alone on her bedroom floor
hoping to find a dream
by opening every door

she dreamed someday she'd find a Prince
has been looking for him ever since

a mister right who's never been wrong
someone to help sing her favorite country song
to carry the weight of life
when it gets to be too much
the man with hard working hands
and a tender touch

on her wedding day
with our friends and a smile
my dark-haired woman
said "I do"and had me stay awhile

a quiet dance
and a special kiss for me
we'd always have that day
as a favorite memory

once a little girl
sitting alone on her bedroom floor
hoping to find a dream
by opening every door

she dreamed someday she'd find a Prince
had been looking for him ever since

a mister right who's never been wrong
someone to help sing her favorite country song
to carry the weight of life
when it gets to be too much
the man with hard-working hands
and a tender touch

in the trenches (with Apollinaire)

my wounded head was bandaged in cloth black
as i made my way to the front of the assembled crowd.

ahead of me was a noted celebrity, and i thought i
knew his name.

but no, it wasn't who i guessed.

it was Matisse!

he certainly wasn't my best friend or even, in
such circumstances, an intimate acquaintance.

and i saw Cocteau with a green face who
seemed eclipsed 

by the expressive music of tonights' show:

i could always
count on his envy, so clear and simple, like a sustained whole note
held for an indefinite length of time.

eternity, i thought.

he was upset and tried
to grab my attention.  

when he spoke,
i noticed also his tongue and teeth were green.

he invited me to contribute a poem for his next play which
was due to open a month later.

i wrote a piece about androgyny.  

he loved it and promised
to dress the part of a liberated woman.

later, when he gave birth,
he unbuttoned his blouse and released two helium-filled balloons.

five little pigs

five little pigs
tails twisting in the wind
noses flying high in the air
acting like they've never sinned
but they couldn't quite get it there

five little pigs
channel surfing a TV show
passing whiskey in a bourbon bottle
huffing and puffing, taking a blow
their old engine at full throttle

five little pigs
smoking a stack
packing their bags for Phoenix
and they weren't supposed to be coming back

sipping sour home-brewed beer
they kept drinking until they made it disappear
and I heard their rebel yell
one pig stumbled and the other pigs fell

the air was thick they couldn't see
a big bad wolf cut down the last tree
it was an old big cottonwood
they wanted to save it but never could

five little pigs
squealing in their pickup driving away
i wonder where they are today
there is no water underground
and no good cropland can be found

i'd just like to know
which way did they eventually go?
five little pigs
last seen near San Bernardino
out of gas and out of wind
acting like they've never sinned

Chasing Ice, the Documentary

the Paris Opera
never knew the documentary film
Chasing Ice
but it was a dandy
of insane beauty
and extravagant still photography!
just the sort of thing to get the beau monde to turn
out in force, but in an entirely different place and time, of course:
before the death of planet Earth,
the dance halls were full of squares
and suburbanites filling their pickup trucks with fossil fuel,
while flashlights were stationed at
every crossroads, looking for business as usual.
their rays of light would help the endless procession of cars
find their way to the top, where they raided
the rooms upstairs and tossed pillows, ensuring
that the party be kept going until three in the morning.
the fortune hunters and the artists tried to understand
what caused the ancient glaciers to disappear, but they
framed each other with water that kept rising from the melting ice
each held in a thick glass full of the finest Kentucky bourbon.
men were overheard to say life was hard and would finish shortly,
so a vast quantity of champagne was also consumed, often with caviar and toast.
very drunk, they found a mattress and went looking for some head,
which they always found on another set of shoulders.
the invited guests began to believe this was all a dream.

Woman with a Vase

into the wind:
the air had come over from the one side
and left a mark
on the water's cold edge.
the sun shining down caught the steady breeze
shaking the beach with bits of light.
and where it was dry:
a child's toy, two women talking about life,
distant organ grinder music, a plastic fork,
an assemblage of bric-a-brac, and so forth.
with a flower vase carried in her right hand
which held ointment instead of fresh cuttings,
a drowning girl sat nearby on her shadow,
her bald head a mystery.
she looked up and saw a cloud
about to block the sun.
a kite fluttered overhead
when a young boy unrolled his string.