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.