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.