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.

unicorn blood and magic

We stood in the middle of the dirt road
radiating hostility,
trying to make sense of the latest threat
flying from the white saloon in downtown Tehran.
a tyrannical and mean-spirited religious
man had been making wild charges and
it was our intent to call him out.
but he didn't show at high noon, as we had been led to
believe: one old man looking like Gary Cooper passed by, but
he was wearing a black cowboy hat.
the Iranian's main advantage over us was the fact that
millions of the faithful believed him when he
said that watching Harry Potter movies would
create an urge to drink unicorn blood.
we love unicorns and never want to see them harmed!
the Potter movies were entertaining, too.
horses and movies are fun, so we needed to give this
stone-thrower a great big bitch slap.
we're willing to wager he's never seen a live unicorn or
spent a single day in intellectual surroundings;
it's magic that he even has a voice.

hide and seek

smiles escaping her lips
soft spoken messages swivel her hips
my favorite glass of Jim Beam
still full of little sips
if you know what i mean

in late afternoon
a private song but it ended too soon
i never really stood a chance
to sing the entire tune
of the fateful romance

exhausting supply
waiting for morning and another lie
it kept adding to my grief
in crazy costume i
slipped away like a thief

now to disappear
it would be so easy to reappear
and my favorite game of  hide and seek
i'd rather be near
than turn the other cheek