Please be careful

"Please be careful."
it was all he said
he wasn't as dull as expected
that was all in her head
and there were no roadblocks
nothing physical could be seen
she disappeared into a silence
as if into a dream:
it might have been dangerous
she might have been tied up in chains
she might have been overcome
by torrential rains
the first time that he saw her
he was too shy to speak
he held her and he loved her
and he kissed her for a week
her toes in a warm bath
he cooked for her every day
yet when she was anxious
he didn't force her to stay:
he seemed almost too innocent
he talked with the softest word
and when she spoke and called his name
there was nothing else he heard.

North Korea

trying to live in Heaven
found myself in Pyongyang instead
passed security at the train station
found a cheap hotel bed
it was summer and i needed help
and no one was putting on airs
i went looking for an elevator
but ended up taking the midnight stairs
i flirted with a poor maid
for twenty won she gave me her best daylight frown
i stopped suddenly and looked harder
everyone else kept looking down
i heard my door knocking
it opened so I went running outside
a man in a military suit followed me
i was determined to find a safer place to hide
and i was hungry and needed to eat
i saw a dog's ear on a dinner plate,
a little boy with a single piece of white rice;
his sister wanted it but she was much too late
there were starving people sleeping on the road
i knew they had no private hotel
and i wanted to get some needed sleep
but i didn't feel none too well:
a quiet doctor led me to a riverbank
we heard a marching band
and when the lights began their search
she offered me her hand.

trying to live in Heaven

i was too focused on her smile:
her eyes are brown and sparkle
i spent an afternoon redecorating the house
i was just about finished when she called
it's been five years since our first kiss, i thought
i remembered how she laughed when she said,
"our bacteria like the exchange!"
she was a cook and a farmer
before she became the skipper of a large sailboat
i used to plow a field when i was younger
i wore a beard at the time
she likes to sit by her gas fire and read
whatever she wants to read
i make her black coffee and read
whatever i want to read
she especially likes Chardonnay
i like Merlot
there was a deadbolt on her front door
she would want it in the lock position
when we pretended to be Zorro and his sword
i could stand it for about four days
it was like trying to live in Heaven.

tossed pillows on the floor

inside was where the imaginary summer wind blew
in December when it was cold and snowed outside
and the town folk stranded by the wind-whipped sea
settled down with me to take a sip of avant-garde tea.
no one understood the price we'd have to pay
each distance could have been very great or too far
and in the end i refused to commit myself.
i pulled another great book from the factory shelf
to read about a relentless game of quid pro quo:
i was determined to come out ahead.
i tried to get some recent work done,
willing to toil until the rise of another stainless steel sun
but it was dark and all the poets were still asleep;
a number of painters had a supply of drawings
which enabled some of them to eat a meal.
i slid into my car and got behind the wheel.
there would be bouts of drinking and suicides
and i covered my entire face with ragtime,
adjusted the radio, and pulled the top down
to the nape of my neck to hide my frown.
i found a studio assistant in a guest cottage
and she agreed to bring me back down to earth.
she used a black satin sofa and a cafe chair
while i tossed pillows on the floor seemingly without a care.

She was once a dancer

this is new
the first time that i walked this way
i went into a local stadium looking for the game
but nobody there came out to play
i saw a sidewalk pigeon
who kept eating her black seed
she talked to me in excitement
asked me just what it was i need
so i pulled at her heart strings
i found a new mandolin and guitar
we enjoyed tremendous popularity
but never really got too far
she showed me her friendly joker
he wore a golden crown just like a famous king
i fell into his blind circle
and never saw another goddamn thing
i wore a top hat in the day light
i had a mistress on the side
one man I met said he knew all the secrets of life
but he always lied
so I walked away from my hometown
the first chance i had i sat in the front row
surprise might be the great new source of energy
but i didn't know where else to go
my hands were cold in the darkness
a blue moon floated overhead in the sky
the upper body of a girl was buried like a still life
and i simply couldn't figure out why
i promised her a toast
she promised me a new start
but she was dying from all her failed loves
and i had a weak heart
I woke again the following Monday
hurried over to provide whatever help i could
she told me once she was a dancer
i told her once I had been no good
and in the center of a great hall
i found her white gloves folded on the plaster floor
she thanked me with a fine kiss
and i never once asked her for anything more.

what i most feared

in pink georgette,
the bathing belle
held my hand
at the very last moment
before the stage curtain was raised.
i heard a cry
and was so excited by the sound
i dropped my cigarette,
narrowly missing a sexy gigolo
crawling on the floor
in his swimsuit
which was little else but passing fashion.
i had difficulty getting a grip on my lines
which made it difficult for me to hear the music
and the rubber slippers made it difficult to dance.
but in the long run
my feelings for the Beau Monde
played a large part in my decision
to quit writing and pretend i had had enough.
i was seized with momentary disgust,
ran into the seated audience,
took my seat and became a pessimist.
when the curtain was raised,
i saw nothing but snobbery
doing nothing but fluttering about,
which is what i most feared in the world.

small boy in white

Out on the boardwalk
the air was warm,
the sun was hot in a boiling mess
and I felt like a whistling teapot
swimming to the beach.
I was forced to confess
when you asked me to consider the future
that I could barely tread water,
But I digress
Sitting on a spot of wet sand from where i watched the tide:
It never tried to hide.
It went out first,
came back in stride.
In and out.
You were by my side
pointing to a speeding boat.
I heard what you had to say.
A repeat from yesterday.
I wanted to leave, to run, to play
I saw a wide moat
between us where the swirling waters swirl.
I had to step over it to get to the street
where some interesting people meet.
There I saw a small boy wearing clean clothes;
he mounted a bike which had training wheels attached.
I wondered what plan he had just hatched
as he coasted by on the sidewalk,
but he didn't talk.
When he came to the moat where the swirling waters meet
he didn't stop, either,
so i figured he knew how to swim.
And the air was warm
which might explain why he wasn't wearing any shoes,
but whatever he did, it was his to choose.

where are you now?

where are you now?
i can almost imagine you somewhere, somehow

i am alone on the carpeted floor
waiting for more
looking at my silent front door
it's as quiet as it was once before

so help me
i can't watch any more TV
but it's all i can ever hope to see

i once heard you call my name
just another part of your daily game
there was no one else to blame
morning or night it's all the same

where are you now?
i can almost imagine you somewhere, somehow

so help me
i can't watch any more TV
but it's all i can ever hope to see

you swung an ax and hit thin air
went on searching everywhere
for whom you sought i didn't care
there was no difference foul or fair

where are you now?
i can almost imagine you somewhere, somehow

so help me
i can't watch anymore TV
but it's all i can ever hope to see

where are you now?
i can almost imagine you somewhere, somehow

Pearl

Neil Young was in the playground
fooling around with his tambourine

Bob Dylan huffed & puffed on the swinging set
but his ol'Zimmerman just couldn't be seen

with Jimi tripping in his garden
watering a psychedelic flower
he said there were many more among us
all along the famous watching tower

three riders fast approaching
David Bowie floated into outer space
his mother said she loved Bing Crosby
who had an honest crooner's face

but never sang with Stevie Nicks
so he never broke her chain
never got to ride her landslide
in a midnight pouring rain

and the Grateful Dead were grateful
for the cold smoke up their nose
but even Elvis Presley didn't know
which way his old hound dog goes

Roy Orbison watched her leave
he saw her shopping on the street
she came walking back his way
hoping they would meet

in the jailhouse or on the blue bayou
where a bad moon was on the rise
he looked around just about midnight

and saw the woman who had the most perfect eyes

no Patti Smith with her sad lament and sighs

she was a small town girl from Texas
who thought she'd give the big time life a whirl
Big Brother and the Holding Company:

we all knew her name was Pearl.

white room with black curtains

One was too terrified of death to be near,
let alone view the body or attend the funeral,
so he fled with his penis in his ear.
henceforth, some friends would see the dick coming
and keep their distance.
they properly mourned the passing of the decade by paying their respects,
drinking until five a.m. and still
managing to stay sober during the morning service.
but the death was not unexpected, even though Woodstock
was never the same after the third day when the stone was
removed and all the wet tents came down with the wet dreams.
in an irrational rage, several haggard protesters started a petition claiming
they would always remember their summer of love!
Creedence objected and had a brief moment of justification
when several people claimed they had been born on the bayou,
but it wasn't enough to stop the crowd from blowing their brains out
on the taxi ride home.
another one was too terrified of death to hail a cab,
let alone drink a lot of cheap wine or stay up past his bedtime,
so he also fled with his penis in his ear.
his remaining friends spread the rumor that he had taken the
New York thruway south all the way to Atlanta, Georgia,
where he bought his first McDonald's franchise.
even though he was born under a bad sign, he played
Cream over the PA system eight hours a day,
looking for a white room with black curtains.
all of his southern customers were happy capitalists
who kept time to the music while ignoring the lyrics.
no one remembered Woodstock,
but everyone could see the dick coming.

The Vietnam War

Westmoreland went south
Looking for his compass
Which he had never read;
He hired an aide with glasses
Who couldn't speak the language,
So they signed together with their hands.
In the growing darkness
They looked for a light
At the end of a tunnel:
What they found instead
Was a toilet.
They wanted an air conditioned room
On the uppermost floor
Of the Rex Hotel
But none was available,
So they demolished the building.
When the smoke settled
They threw their hands up in exasperation
And claimed victory.
A crowd of astonished onlookers
Gathered their press passes
And headed to the five o'clock follies
Where a final briefing was in progress.
They took notes and used the undamaged toilet.
Later, everyone gathered at the roof-top bar for a drink
When they arrived home the following day,
they expected a parade.
They never found one.



,

counting the countless dead

running through the jungle
hands and knees on a hard tunnel floor
a man without an arm and missing an eye
kept looking for the long lost war
with time passing inside his head
counting the countless dead
he held tightly to his dream
while
i kept hearing a dark haired woman scream
red dragon fruit dying on her hand
balls of jellied fire hanging in the Buddhist sky
like napalm burning fertile land
with time passing inside her head
counting the countless dead
she pointed strangely at the night
while
a city exploded almost completely out of sight
mountains of dust and incessant traffic noise
of motor scooters anxious to please
millions of hungry young girls and boys
with time passing inside their head
counting the countless dead
while
steady rains wash away the blood
of black boots and rice paddy faces
the tall towers of new concrete and steel
disguising all former traces
with time passing inside my head
counting the countless dead.

the fat lady danced

i drove into the oldest part of town
and there she sat on an empty window sill
a fancy cigarette hanging from her hand
and inside her mouth a psychedelic pill
she was the only girl on the entire block
with two legs kicking instead of twenty four
a wind blowing papers which she wouldn't read
against the bottom of her back door
some cats played music in the middle of the street
humming a southern spirituality tune
one stray dog sleeping until he was done
started howling at a shadow of the moon
his both eyes red and two ears hanging way down low
he started licking himself where he felt it hurt
stretching he went looking for his next meal
he knew it was time to get to work
when a saloon exploded like a house of cards
guns firing at whisky bottles on the bar
and there she sat on an empty window sill
waiting for me to get out of my damn car
an elephant and a brown bear with balls
juggling coins in a game of pure chance
far down the line marched a traveling band
playing a sweet song of  adolescence romance
behind the circus tent in an alley full of fire
the fat lady danced her weight inside the ring
a crowd of drifters sitting around spellbound:
they all waited to hear her sing.

The Devil in the Flesh

she couldn't float her pointed little brown-tipped stick
on the tepid water of a completely full bathtub.
i watched her struggle for an hour while i sipped Russian Vodka
flavored with very ripe yellow peaches earlier picked from a
neighbor's tree, the skins removed with a sharp knife and
left for two weeks quartered inside a large Mason jar.
she wasn't interested in deeper conversation and had no
curiosity for my home made concoction, devoting herself
entirely to delving into the silly supernatural of uncertainty,
splashing and protesting and repeating "Yes, yes, I know."
also, she was smoking opium.
her wet hands would occasionally
slide each fingertip across a dry bath towel.
the nails were painted purple,
as were her full lips which parted when she furrowed her brows.
before falling under the spell of her latest efforts, i was sitting next to
Raymond Radiguet in a small anteroom indulging in alcohol and
bouts of artistic martyrdom.  we ended up drinking a bottle of whisky and a
bottle of gin before i mentioned anything about Vodka and
only as a last resort, to stop the girl from leaving our company with her little
stick.  it was too late.  she stood confidently.
Raymond and i were both infatuated with her ass and allowed our eyes
to follow her movements when she shattered our repose by moving
abruptly to leave the room.
his health was deteriorating so i was instantly chosen to rush by
her side.
even in my weakened condition, i opened the door for her to pass as
she took her leave.
i took my Vodka and a glass.
i might have hallucinated, but we ended up in a room with a completely
full bathtub.
try as she might, she couldn't float her pointed little brown-tipped stick
and i never saw Raymond again.

Let it be

there were no numbers remaining on his front door step
and a surgeon friend removed all remaining trace
of granulated sugar and midnight lace
and afterwards when the lights went out he slept
he awoke crippled and weak
opened the stain glass window and took a peek
his intestines were rotten and stank
he literally fell into a bottomless tank
imagining himself a modern day poet
and that made him green with despair
i went to talk with him there
it was in London because of his English accent
and when he spoke i could tell he was happily broke
a little bit snobbish and very much a dandy
but all he asked for was a small piece of rock candy
from the local mom and pop variety store
he could have thought of so much more
like furniture, books, a precious piece of paper and a pen,
a little working girl who peddled her bottom at ten
or a carton of unfiltered smokes and a fine bourbon
no, he would have none of it
he was obviously sad and sick.

AUGUST 2014

Brain damage
splashing daily matter
one thin dime at a time
resting on the dirty floor
a company of strangers in need of a broom and more.
Solzhenitsyn
sitting on his closet shelf
collecting August dust in 2014
one hundred steps from the actual front
his combat weary grunt
counting each passing year with metal slivers of seconds
careful not to get too close
or drift away too far
remembering The Bell Jar
and other useful tunes in the box.
more empty bladders on yet another battlefield
with one soiled, impassioned STOP sign and a frantic YIELD;
the child resting on wild meadow grass
shielding her eyes from the burning sun,
looking for the wisdom of a neighbor and finding none.
a fanciful dancer
touching each nose peering from the trench;
a quiet bus waiting near the public bench.
a mother boards every twenty minutes
for a village either north or south,
as the narrow valley runs directly in either direction.

Robin, a little bird

He was only a man
The oddest to appear on stage
Since Pluto played an orange dog
Chasing a conversant, busy mouse.
In front of an audience of aliens
Visiting from the planet Loneliness,
He often spilled his bottled water
And his random insights
Like small polished pearls taken from a necklace
Once worn by a reclusive lady stylishly living in
her post-modern home in fashionable Marin.
His crowd was mostly vocal
In their laughter and in pain
Wearing their softest bras or wire rimmed glasses
or nothing at all with beards and high foreheads
they would sit or stand and famously cat call
or lion roar and roll on the well-lit studio floor.
He seemed to enjoy talking with his pet
Mister Happy in front of their paying eyes
Often expressing delight and constantly surprised
by an instant erection or a hearty applause.
He was only a man
who found one door which opened when he needed it to.

the gray door

the door to the studio was painted gray,
a privileged color if i ever saw one.
i knocked and knocked.
it was unwilling to open.
even in the face of multiple entreaties
or vocal threats, it did not move.
hiding behind it,
the mercurial woman was almost the same age as me.
she occasionally took pleasure in fishing the local stream,
but still would not open the door.
outside, against a large Sycamore tree,
her heavy boat was overturned in the yard,
it's keel a cement line meant to harness effort
when maneuvering around rocks in fast current.
i had an idea and tried the window
at the neighboring property.
a contractor had installed it only last week.
he said it was a celebrated picture window.
it was to the front of a biggish gabled house
on a hill facing the sea.
i faced the sea when i was at the window.
i pulled the sides and the top and the bottom,
but it, too, was unwilling to open.
frustrated, i had an idea.
i pushed her boat across the lawn
to the water's edge and stopped.
i spent a night thinking about the door and
the window, while sleeping with the boat.
at first light, i went looking for a set of paddles
and found none.
i soon walked back to the door to the studio.
it was painted gray and i began to knock.

we are all ex-lovers

you've all seen the film
a razor slicing into an eyeball
the opening shot
one of the most memorable in cinematic history
i have not seen it for a year
although it is a favorite scene
when i am about to sit down for a meal
with several of my closest friends
Atom Heart Mother is the music we hear
while the mashed potatoes are still warm
and the wine a sweet red
gone before the tea is served
i have no time to spare
with all the innocent bodies
chilling in the morgue
so i rush to wash and dry the dishes
all my friends have the same desire
nobody knows what we are up to.

like a virus

Tender is the night!
No matter how old the dream
There always seems a bigger bite
When your mouth is full of peaches and cream:
Sitting near an open flame,
A game show on my tv,
Tanks roll across the kitchen floor
Aiming their hungry barrels directly at me.
Airplanes fall in pieces from the sky;
A double vodka tonic in my hand
Enticing sweet lies and gentle lullabies.
Oh, Alice and her friends trashing Wonderland,
Soon shouting near my open card table.
Their game runs from ten o'clock until four.
In the afternoon i'm dealing peace;
In the evenings they're playing for war.
And it keeps getting hot in the local cemetery;
the color and texture of coffee grounds.
I hear in the sky a thunderous gray
and a glimmer of mercy in the sounds.
my chair like a cage,
i stare numbly out to sea.
the large crate of words in my mouth
remains sealed inexplicably.
Unable to stir up any further mischief',
the scarlet letter has no time to spare;
it proves submissive when compared to death
which is spreading everywhere.

a game of Jacks

No one talked on the sidewalk
And the bedroom seemed as quiet as a church mouse
I went outside at noon to water some plants
It looked just like a normal house
From my perspective
holding my rubber hose
I saw a frightened man speaking in foreign tongues
He was rubbing his powdered nose
Running down the center of the street
I heard him say he was in a hurry
I aimed my water at his face and hit him dead center
I told him not to worry
For a limited time only it was sacred stuff
It would heal the pain he felt in his heart
Without missing a beat and spitting wet he said
It might be a good place to start
I noticed weeds growing in the road
And at the intersection a young woman held her rake
She asked me if I wanted anything
And I carried away everything I could take
There was a picture window taking pictures
Of everyone who ever claimed to know
Without a treasure chest and without a car
Without a map they still knew the way to go
And a little boy tugged my sleeve
Asked me if I wanted to play a game of Jacks
I handed him my rubber hose
And told him water was the only thing it lacks.

Buffalo Ranch

Judy played at the Buffalo Ranch
rode a sixteen hand horse
on a straight and narrow course
her saddle a pair of burning pants

she smoked red hot lipstick with her smile
a cowboy for each wrist
manhandled not kissed
she stuck it to them for awhile.

she had a poet in her left hand
a tattoo on the right
a sailor every Friday night
with his mind blown proudly in the sand

they tried to talk but Judy said "NO!"
"NO!" bleeding on the shore
"NO!" eyeballs rolling on the floor
looking for a safer place to go

her skinny body like a cage
squeezed on her own crib
a kiss and protruding rib
wooden balls and passion filled with rage

Judy played at the Buffalo Ranch
rode a sixteen hand horse
on a straight and narrow course
her saddle a pair of burning pants.

Dinard (1928)

in 1928, the beach at Dinard
seemed less sinister when the bright blue penis
was inside the rented house north of town
and a tempting back door was sealed shut.
but when that door was opened,
his secret shadow crept outside looking for
an eighteen-year-old blonde who would have
been an easy target for predators.
his Queen of Hearts, after convalescing,
came ashore with her single bloody playing card,
protecting their son in his costume
as they walked together to the annual beauty pageant
held for young girls in bathing suits.
a few hours later, Miss France didn't see them enter the Hotel des Terrasses
even though they made no attempt to hide from the life of the party.
the secret shadow came along, overplaying his hand with ironical
amusement and a rather long-nailed little finger.
after all, his son was in a costume not of his choosing.
in the crowd Charlie Chaplin made a face and everyone laughed.
the blue penis liked him well enough, but thought he talked
too much in a language requiring translation, which soon
became boring, even when all dressed up in furs.
a girl caught the blue penis stiffening and he handed her his key.
inside their private room, her golden pubic hair sparkled visible to his naked eye
both when he entered and when he withdrew.
inside the deadly decorum of the hotel
the judging continued for the contest
while the Queen of Hearts played with her bloody card.
in town the blue penis throbbed with life!
his secret shadow saw the bathing suits flap on clotheslines
and heard the wind around the middle of August
pick its way through the branches of a tree.
a little blonde bird was hiding in the tree.

the lark

i handed her a goat.
she placed it directly inside her throat.
i read the lovely poems she often wrote,
falling softly on my knees.
the summer air blew past carried on a steady breeze
and i heard her curse,
shifted myself into a full reverse.
she was always in high demand;
i saw her cracking open an empty hand,
bits and pieces starting to fall.
i felt myself completely thaw.
an intention was newly painted on her wall;
little bricks of iron and polished brass
filled with tears and laughter of finely spun glass;
it felt like magic was stirring the air.
i went looking for it everywhere.
people running came streaming in;
she started to grin.
there was a burning candle sitting on the floor
i saw it shrinking and asked for one more.
she tried a new technique
it faded disastrously within a week
and became a blend of blond and dark;
i found myself on a chair in her private park
looking toward the sky where i finally saw the lark
still bravely singing she hardly ever cried:
she shed a single tear the moment before she died,
leaving a simple design scribbled on my head.
i couldn't read her message but i understood what was said.

The Waltz

and on the subject of her hair
or lack thereof,
i've already commented
on several occasions that
her loose strands were set free to create sexual mayhem
and sometimes
kept dormant in the maiden style of Carol Burnett;
that's no stand up joke, my friend.
oft times there was nothing funny about a fine tuft of beautiful hair
especially when it was located in the moist center of the known universe.
in other words, it could be closer to first-rate
than that famous crack in the Liberty Bell of Philadelphia
and equally rare & precious.
i once went to a protected area near the local river
where I unrolled my favorite blanket;
i remember it was a foggy afternoon during a humid summer week
and she was already there waiting with a warm bottle
of Strong Merlot and a plate made sweet with ripe strawberries.
her hair was unkempt.
she still had on a pair of thread-bare shorts and nearby
were her leather sandals neatly placed on the wet grass.
without a shirt or bra, it was pleasing to see her oblong areola deeply pink.
for some reason, i thought of the waltz, a song made for dancing.
she wanted to dance.

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Black Rock Roller Disco
Twenty four girls in San Francisco
An even dozen around the floor
And at the entrance several more
Coming in with the entire cast
Knowing Friday will be the last
Unless someone finds a Fairie tooth
Reported outside the photo booth
Skates for rent or skates for hire
Dancing music to inspire
Come in one and come in all
Be careful of the alcohol.

Woman in an Armchair

it might have been an unprofitable project,
but once all the political guests had departed,
i went ahead and mowed my lawn.
to safeguard my reputation, i used an edger
and a leaf blower around the standing nudes
guarding my celebrated pond.
inside the backyard cabana, i used a commercial
cleaning product to disinfect all horizontal and
vertical surfaces which might have been touched
by a woman's public hair.
although it was a very private place,
i didn't want it to seem evident
that sex was on my mind or that it became an obsession.
of course it wasn't, and by placing the morning's paper
on the single canvas seat, i was disguising the cave-like
interior by making it similar to an airport waiting area.
everyone, i thought, enjoyed a good flight.
but in my haste to be neat and tidy,
i overlooked the Woman in an Armchair,
on whose lap a skinny and sharp-colored boy was being held.
he was younger and she perhaps the poet-hero older woman
full of joy with a big bronze bust and elevated forehead
which she used effectively to put holes in his heart.
i went ahead and polished that bust before departing
for the nervous streets of my hometown.
i planned to wander from one neighborhood to
the next, keeping an eye out for another discarded canvas seat.
i found one the previous summer.

a green pea

She was alive
in an elegant and secluded
hotel around the corner from
a famous church
whose name I have never known.
how she got there,
i can not guess and won't begin to try.
instead of hiding in her cozy home
and sewing throughout the day,
she unnerved friends with her untimely disappearance,
leaving no word or written explanation to
satisfy those curious few.
at first, i accepted her absence as a rumor;
however, the more obsessed among us believed she fell ill and
some even said she might be dead,
her head shrunk to the size of a green pea,
breasts flat against the wooden floor,
tiny mouth agape and lovely teeth already loose.
i went to investigate and made the trip in several
slow minutes, but she was not home, nor were there
any stray cats about or any peculiar odors to notice.
in one room, i saw new drawings and was surprised
by their highly finished aspect.
mostly, i realized, i didn't know that she knew how to draw.
her mother, who had not seen her for thirty four years,
was the owner of the hotel where my reclusive, once missing
and thought ill or dead neighbor
was now staying.
that was the latest rumor, at least as current as this afternoon,
and i, like a bloodhound on her scent, went to find her.
at the hotel, when i dashed up to the front desk and made inquiries,
a polished young man told me it was closed because
a convention was being held and all the rooms were
now filled with important monuments.
at least, that was the latest rumor.

Three Women at the Spring

if she suffered a breakdown
i didn't hear about it;
yes, she was a neighbor, but
she was a shadowy woman
who loved her sewing,
often tying herself into myriad knots.
it's possible i could still see her through the
window across the street.
she once left a rocking horse on my front porch
and a bicycle without a chain.
the bike had an Italian frame and her
name was scrawled on the down tube.
in her spare time, i knew
she planned to do nursery compositions.
she once showed me a short piece about
Three Women at the Spring which i said didn't
seem very appropriate for a theme about morality.
she insisted that i knew nothing.
to prove her point, she removed my shirt
and made it into a rag with the intention of selling it
to a New York shaman.
i can't be entirely sure, but i later heard she received a
great deal of money in that transaction.
the following rumor had it that the shaman called her a bandit,
and for months waited in ambush to be repaid.
i should walk across the road to end this silliness
since i do want to solve the mystery of her health.
and with the answer i could feel fully entitled to a few
quiet
moments
of
rest.
i'll need to remind myself to go without wearing a shirt.

The Shining in her Eyes

I've been in this position once before
Probably somewhere between the last Peace and the next World War
I saw someone beautiful coming up to my front door
And I sat thinking why does this always seem
like it's just another hazardous dream?
'Cause there's a solid pounding inside my best ear
I keep looking behind me to see if she's still here
Or over the mountains and through the foothills
And I keep getting chills and circus spills
It's a most welcome surprise
To see the shining in her eyes
To watch the spark between our fingertips
Especially when we're touching lips
And then I'm howling at the far moon
I don't want this dream to end anytime soon
And I'm left wondering if I can keep it going until the following afternoon
While near my bed by the softly glowing light
There's a little piece of candy and I reach it to take a bite
It's milk chocolate sitting on the nightstand
I hold it and it almost melts inside my hand
It has a sweetness and I have to taste it just to understand
I know I can't stay in bed forever
What time this dream ends is anybodies guess and I'm hoping it's never
I've been in this position once before
Probably somewhere between the fat cat and the new dog on the floor
When a million radio stations kept playing a tune which I never heard
I picked up the black book and tried to read each and every word
And one came charging from the pages to hit me in the middle of my nose
I saw it falling and thought, man, I want me one of those
I keep looking behind me to see if it's wearing any clothes.

One sip for the yellow dress

Let me take a quick guess.
Who is that woman in the yellow dress?
She is sitting belly up to the bar;
Under her right eye is a petite scar!
A knife fight or a friendly cat?
I'll sit here and wonder about that.
Oh, another sip of whiskey.
Pretty soon there's nothing more that I can't see:
A buffalo and a blue bird
Whispered but the crowd never heard a word.
A black President and a powdered king
Opened their mouths and started to sing
An anthem, each trumpet shop-worn in the shade.
The music grew louder but nobody stayed.
On the road a BMW threw open its' door
Killed a young man inside a neighborhood store,
Gunning the engine wanting to kill more.
A hummingbird with a ruby-red throat
Sipping sugared water read a new note:
Please bartender won't you draw me a beer
One more for the road.  I can't stand it here.
Dust in the rain drops and chill in the air
Blood on the midway of a county fair.
My crazy uncle rode his wild horse;
He started out normal but soon went off course.
Here is my beer filled to the brim:
One sip for the yellow dress and one sip for him.

The Lost Sign: 04/30/1975

And they all died!
Any further consideration would be postponed
Until tomorrow.
A total of twenty two hundred men lied!
One was big nosed Charles de Gaulle
Who was last seen sipping heaping teaspoons of arrogance along
With ripe strawberries which came from Dalat.
Who else?
The French legions at Dien Bien Phu.
That's who.
The Emperor, Bao Dai, constantly smiled 
But never went wild
when the sneaky Japanese sat eating his rice.
They weren't very nice.
Uncle Ho knew which way to go.
And millions of peasants soon followed.
The Buddhist Group went up in flames
Playing gasoline games
In the public square.
I wasn't there.
Ngo Diem was, however, along with his brother and the
Dragon lady, who wasn't very blue.
Who else knew?
In Saigon, Nguyen Van Thieu,
Continued to work on his resume.
Kennedy and the CIA
On the river's embankment,
Ordered the bogeymen into action.
And the rain might have stopped as suddenly
As it started, but the B-52s
Were just warming up on Guam,
Their cold bomb racks filled with misery for the
Vietnamese on the ground, without qualm.
It became very clear that death could drop from
Thirty thousand feet
And kill a thousand people as they sat down to eat.
Truman had no policy, Eisenhower none, but Johnson
Pulled his pants on like a true Texan.
Nixon was no Texan, but in 1972
He celebrated an early Christmas
With Henry who flew home from Paris
With a secret merry card.
On the cover it mentioned that Hanoi and Haiphong
Would not have a merry time
tonight or for the next several weeks and
Not a single word made a rhyme,
But the men acted as though one did.
Whom did they pretend to kid?
President Ho Chi Minh died in '69.
He was no friend of mine.
The US Embassy lost a sign.
It was carried away by a staffer, who jumped
On the last helicopter leaving for the coast.
Where is it now?
That's what I want to know the most.

The sweater

And when the telephone began to ring
No one was home to answer my call.
The kitchen was empty and down the back hall
The bedroom was perfumed in shades of cool pink.
In the bathroom a brown wig dried in the sink.
A weeks' worth of papers by the studio door,
Each in a wrapper dropped on the floor.
Ends and odds and cigarette butts
Turned and tossed by an obvious klutz;
A note from the laundress pinned on one shirt,
Bloodied it hung from where it would hurt.
Upstairs for ten minutes and no one could speak;
I once sat there dreaming and stayed for a week.
Breaking a fast in my mind with a start:
I wore a frayed sweater with a thread for a heart.

The Party

throbbing with guests,
the intimate deck overlooked an insignificant creek
alongside of which 5 goslings foraged for bugs in the tall grass;
nearby, the gander and his mate seemed ever watchful,
but their enjoyment of the babies was not so obvious.
party music splashing from the small house tumbled over their food search,
eventually reaching the distant courtyard where a collection of expensive cars
and hungry women sat polished and ready for action.
black humor and white pants full of deception hung in the air
inside the house where the gathered men disregarded loyalties,
went swimming to the bar and back, and repeated the same four
letter words over and over again, devaluing their own powers.
one man's huge face leaned to kiss the lips of a waiting woman who had
a nose like a giant morel and the man almost bit her, confusing the
pockmarked mushroom for a tattoo of a striped snake.
another woman in tarnished finery came from the kitchen wearing candy
floss hair and began yelling at the amorous male so he shot her a look
of puzzlement, but his confusion was likely to have been intentional.
a whirlwind of legs and laughter soon went bouncing from the front door
into the lap of all the hungry women wearing caked makeup and began guessing
where they might next celebrate the perfection of a carpenter's square.
the expensive cars were soon relocated, too.

Port Antibes with the Murphys

By the summer of twenty six
Many hotel guests ran out of tricks.
By October  of '28
Those remaining realized dinner was being served late;
Even their dessert put out to sea
Where it sank ignominiously
Like the crumbs of a banquet from the prior week.
Few looked back or cared to speak
When they saw pictures of Mussolini on every wall.
Some memories the Murphy's cared not to recall,
Like the sale of their Weatherbird boat,
Which faded with time and seemed fairly remote
When viewed from the depths of Fifth Avenue in 1942.
The Spanish civil war was over and Picasso spoke
From his studio as the levee broke
for Gerald and Sara, Scott and Zelda, and Hemingway.
In America they would all have their final say
After leaving the twentieth century of Paris in flames.
Picasso remained to continue his games!
First one wife, then two:
Countless ladies but what could a modern master do?
Meanwhile, Sara kept a rose in a tall vase in her New York entrance hall;
it was what Fernand Léger pointed to when he saw
the simplicity and exclaimed "The value of that!"
Everyone agreed and tipped a collective hat
for Gerald, who wanted to go outside to play.
He put down his brushes with nothing more to say.
He painted when he was younger, but not often or much.
He always felt he had a second-rate touch.

the modern movement

wanting to be good
i did the things i thought i should.
wanting to be kind,
i peeled the orange rind
and gave all the sections to you;
it was what i was made to do.
wanting to be brave,
i learned to shave
and shine my shoe;
it was what i was made to do.
wanting to be wise,
i sacrificed the lies
and lived a life of tragic dignity;
it was what i was made to be.

candy from the street

inside your left ear
you only hear what you want to hear
and in a hundred other places
there are a half dozen other people you want to be
some part of our times, some part of history
i used to think you were such a fine mystery
when your face was hard and lovely
but i'm a Sunday driver in my own little corner of the room
a brash young man from the country side of the moon
where the news is eaten cold and dry:
i searched without success for the bottom of your eye
from the comfort of my easy chair
i started from the absolute top and couldn't find it there
no person in the world would have that much more to spare
i threw confetti everywhere!
what a difference between a Champion and an also-ran
i picked up candy from the street with the passing of the band
and found little glances i was never able to understand
one, a heart so milked of compassion
it had no need for immeasurable passion:
now you only want to sip and taste!
but i am the detective on this case
and anything less than a big bite becomes an interesting waste.
inside your left ear
you only hear what you want to hear

a Simple Shopping Trip

She walked over the narrow bridge
She walked alone to her car
I didn't try to interfere
The distance seemed too far
There was a lonely man on her path
And I could hear him cry
When I asked for an explanation
He told me he didn't know why
I couldn't see beyond the dark cloud
A shadow had fallen across my face
When I heard her drive on down the road
She disappeared without a trace
The lonely man said he would give me a hand
I told him I didn't understand
He said sadness is nearly a laugh
A broken heart like a new birth
When life seemed to hold no value
There was always a way to find new worth
And I walked away from the bridge
I walked alone to my car
When I saw a flying butterfly
I reached and it didn't seem too far
My radio began with the news
I played with the stations but found I couldn't choose
my car started but mostly in reverse
and I began to think it seemed like a lingering curse
the tires rolled smoothly over the gravel
my life started to unravel
so I grabbed the wheel and steered
it wasn't nearly as bad as I feared
everybody waved as I drove past
there was the King and the Queen and the rest of the cast
but I kept going when they gave me their smile
I think I made it for another mile
then I saw her again in a convenience store
looking for an easy way to love once more
and there were lots of customers in her long line
each holding something that I thought was mine
I didn't try to interfere
and no one noticed when i came near.

Freddy

Freddy
Freddy
my friend, you always kept it steady
from morning sun coming around to ever ever ready
the complete showdown or a gypsy mouthful
you sang about it and made it seem so cool
white stripes, white sheets, red pants, 
hot tongue, long legs, bare chested, day long romance
the burning man didn't stand a chance
when you jumped on the world's biggest stage
adored, never bored, often locked inside a Queen-sized cage
but no matter what the London critics said
you never gave it away or lost your soul giving head
the piano dreams came with you to your final lover's bed
under covers like THE CHAMPION and it's hard to believe you're dead.
Freddy
Freddy
my friend, you always kept it steady
from morning sun coming around to ever ever ready
the first time you were early and had the crazy hair
and the young silly fillies followed you everywhere
and nice fat bottomed girls, you swept them off their feet
and pedaled under pressure and stopped on easy street
with a tight little fist in all the right places
somebody to love removed all the traces
Freddy
Freddy
as a friend you always kept it steady
from morning sun coming around to ever so steady

Practically at a Standstill

inside the door
go past the Missing in Action sign
a couple empty bottles of foreign wine
beyond her uncorked smile and the oh-so-perfect hair
if you drive another mile
she'd still be trying to get there
starting to do what many people do
in the summer or anytime
jumping her garden wall
to pick up the pieces after a great fall
worried deeply about life
playing with a Bowie knife
under the wheels of a little car
her heart tattoo a bleeding scar
resting on a railroad track
she's not looking forward
no longer interested in looking back
until early the next morning
but never completely buried
the signal light kept on blinking
she wouldn't be hurried
there were moments in her hour
like smashed seconds inside a year
practically at a standstill
i watched her shed a tear
inside the door
the highlight of her overnight trip
a sudden decision or a slip of the lip
in a hundred other places
echos could make or ruin a life
playing with a Bowie knife
under the wheels of a little car
her heart tattoo a bleeding scar
resting on a railroad track
she's not looking forward
no longer interested in looking back
inside the door
go past the Missing in Action sign
a couple of empty bottles of foreign wine
beyond her uncorked smile and the oh-so-perfect hair
if you drive another mile
she'd still be trying to get there.

What religion are you?

Are you still seeing that guy
who wears blue jeans that
(at least one of his pair)
has an obvious hole
over a knee?
There are fine
white treads
like scrambled roots
unwinding around the entire circumference
of that hole
and each time he
wears that specific pant
the hole in question is definitely larger
than it was the last time
he wore them.
Back in my day when
men really were men and
women
took their lead from what men
who really were men
had to say,
only bums or hobos wore holy pants.
So is he Catholic?

Vincent van Gogh: Painter (1853–1890)

i took my shovel from the shed,
also the wheelbarrow 

and a garden rake;
i loaded bark mulch in full sun thinking of you
sitting on a cabin porch 

overlooking a secluded lake
one could only reach with a slow drive over a rutted road
deep into the back woods of Maine.

it proved to be a long drive for a quiet time with a special book,
but you had nothing to lose 

and everything to gain.

i cleaned nesting houses for the wood ducks and chickadees,
found a fallen feather from the red-tail hawk by the slow-moving creek;
it repeatedly circled low overhead with broad hunter's wings.
the field mice sensed the danger and seemed too afraid to peek.
you asked me about Vincent van Gogh and i mentioned Theo,
as you drove away packed with gear and a GPS device
plugged into an outlet like it had been the previous summer.

you had the driver's window open for a kiss and i gave one to you twice
and i thought about that when i cut the dead evergreen branches,
scattered the mulch and the dried leaves over dry, bare ground.

there was so much work to do to prepare for a healthy garden!

you would soon hear the wild loons make their most enchanting sound.

i sat alone at my evening table while you made a distant vegetable soup
with zucchini and tomatoes and yellow corn and kale.

i read your most recent letter and would happily accept your offer,
but also knew i didn't know how to blue water sail.

i took a look at the online guides about being a Captain and a mate
and made mental notes about the purpose of each special knot
and how wind could be harnessed to propel our boat when it was in perfect trim.

i wrote you a reply in which i simply said "Yes, why not?"
and thought that together we'd get to read about Vincent and his days in Paris,
which were spent largely with his brother in a tidy apartment along a busy side street:

like he, i worked many days and weeks alone and when asked 

would always or usually say i wanted my art to feel more wholesome and complete.

and i waited for you.

do you remember this?

i'm sitting with a beer
and a fine shot of desperation.
you no doubt were with me as
we walked the cobbled streets when they were crowded.
people pushed and moved in ever so close, but we were not afraid,
although i saw you pull your purse tightly to your body.
i pointed to the church steeple
and the bright red door.
the steeple became the high point of my day!
you saw hundreds of pigeons and their droppings.
you said the fountain was full of warm water and countless pennies.
i tried to count the pennies.
the bright sun went behind a passing cloud.
i saw a man feeding the birds and he looked tough,
not at all bothered by the momentary shadow.
the hundreds of birds were hungry and scrambled for the feed.
you were careful when you walked, and told me
to watch where i stepped, since shit was everywhere.
i wanted to climb the interior steps of the church and
look out from the steeple, to see the world.
you wanted to sit at the white linen-covered table to
order a strong coffee and light up a smoke.
i saw the cloud move and so did i.
do you remember this?

Cole Porter

I tried my hand at music in 1923 but
there was no one near enough to judge me.
My dearest friend kept entertaining theories about
notes and harmonies and late night dinner parties,
and told me not to worry.
So I waited until the summer of twenty six,
when the Riviera was full of curious Americans
ready to try their hand at anything new, especially when
it included other people's feelings.
When they weren't being infuriating,
they could be affectionate, or so it seemed.
When not idle, they were off visiting small mountainside cafés,
dancing without a partner, listening to Negro
spirituals, listening to jazz played on old pianos, and
lounging on the white sands of a nearby small beach.
Their gambling was constant and, for some, almost ruinous.
A few seemed to enjoy my honest attempt at experimental songs,
but no one ever mistook me for Cole Porter,
who made a few appearances wearing his tie.
His wife, Linda,  favored serious stuff, so hated my songs.
But Cole took them largely and without suspicion,
as though they were friendly ghosts at his banquet.
He later made an important name for himself on Broadway,
as well as a great deal of money, which i never saw.
He didn't return to the Riviera, but his ballet,
Within the Quota, came appreciatively near.

Delores and her cat

There was a toilet down the hall and I went there
Before Delores could lock herself inside, which she
Often did just to piss me off.
She was watching a large screen TV in an adjacent room,
Days of Our Lives or some such shit, and didn't once
Take her eyes from the show.
Just as well, I thought, that she doesn't know what I'm doing.
I noticed she had the cat on her lap and was stroking its' head,
And that best explained my success in getting to the bathroom door.
Delores, after all, loved her pussy.
But she was the only one who gave a damn about that thing!
The framed mirror by the toilet I found newly cracked and later learned that one
Of her friends didn't like how he looked while he was trimming nose
Hairs and so hit the glass with his high school graduation ring which sported an oval
Shaped sapphire stone.  I knew this loser and couldn't believe
That he actually graduated, but educational standards over the years have
Slipped and, incredibly, the government still believed that, without exception,
no child should be left behind.
And this fellow is behind or is a behind cock sure of himself.
But Delores liked him and a couple of other guys simply because they put up with
Her furry creature and when together they'd watch television during the day.
Now she was alone, except for that purring cat, brain sucking
commercials, inane broadcasting, and a monotonous announcer's voice.
Life seemed to be in balance.  Even her wallpaper had roses and daffodils in bloom.
I wondered if I was the only person fascinated with the swirling water of a
Flushing toilet?  In which direction was it spinning?  I needed to know.
It felt really good to relieve myself without all the usual drama.

Mom, where are you going?

Remember when we were young
and i constantly ran out the back door to play?
the temperature might have been soaring
but it couldn't keep me away
from Ravic, Francis, Doug, and Joe
and all the other kids i was privileged to know.
you always seemed to stay in the house
cooking and cleaning or playing your favorite game of cards,
and i could never be bothered to come home on time,
distracting myself in each of our neighborhood backyards.
you were young and pretty and happily wed!
i never imagined you would ever be dead!!
your shining eyes deeply blue
will forever remind me of the uniqueness of you.
our last hug
so much more precious than an intricate Turkish rug.
there's nothing more from our shared decades i want to take;
i have more than enough heartache.

The Alamo, Texas

Visiting the city of San Antonio to be with an ailing mother.  I must have brought the chill northeast air along as it is cool and overcast.
My mother suffers from a cognitive impairment: Alzheimer's.

her brown eyes

Ah!  The cows.
blue on a black background
hungry bulls roaming around,
each one taking turns to make a personal visit
with an indifferent female he was about to wed.
non stopping until their appetites were fed
and the barn door closed tightly for the night.
five days later,
my favorite dog hit a terminal phase:
the vet said it was only a matter of days
and i sobbed rather noisily.
i promised to make a prayer flag for her grave
and string it by the entrance to the cave.
i will be forever haunted by her brown eyes.

Joseph Heller: "It's all fucked up."

what exactly did he mean by the phrase
CATCH-22?
from my lips directly to you:
a Willie Mays center fielder's running grab?
a discovery in the National Institute of Mental Health lab?
Joe avoided a violent military death
wrote a best selling book many years before he drew his last breath
a long, slow, measured exhale
but he got to chase the girls successfully with more than one piece of tail
his B-25, a fine airplane
coming in low and fast, weaving through heavy enemy flack totally insane
it was very sane to want to stay inside an Air Force canvas tent
crazy to fly in formation if that's what he really meant
during WWII, the thin man and the fat
the bald guy and the clown who never removed his hat
the wop and the Jew
who on Sunday morning didn't know how to act or what to do
the black aviator and the brave Mexican from San Diego
neither wanted a tag from graves registration tied to their big toe
and the freckled kid from cold Minnesota
drinking a warm coca cola
between briefings and the next flight
they all felt deep down inside their guts an incredible fright
and wondered more than once if they'd get out in one piece
to become whole again and discovered by a lover and live in peace
Yossarian.  Major Major.  CATCH-22?
it's what they did heroically and awkwardly continue to do.

the Bermuda Triangle: redo #730

Seven boxes and seven suns
Were arranged in the middle of the hallway.
Blocking me, a polite man from Asia asked me if I
Wanted to pass.  He was standing behind
A microphone, but in front of a large crowd of anxious people.
I nodded yes and he stepped aside.
As I went by he handed me a twenty dollar bill,
Then asked to see my passport.
Fortunately, it wasn't stolen or out of date.
While he looked it over,
I grabbed his mike.
"Ladies and Gentlemen," I spoke clearly above their clamor,
"These boxes are empty."
One particularly ancient woman who said her name was Helen
Shouted that she didn't believe me!
A man who introduced himself as Dan asked about the seven suns!
He said he didn't believe they were really radioactive.
What did I think? he wanted to know.
I felt the tug on my arm and saw my passport was being returned.
The polite Asian man asked for his twenty back, but I told him I had already spent it.
He threatened to hang himself with a scarf if I refused, so I gave it to him.
I picked up the first box and it was very heavy, very black, but when I looked inside
There was simply a vast ocean of nothingness.
Several people started to shout for answers, so I moved on.
The seven suns were so hot that when I used my arm as a shield, I could clearly see
My thin bones through my newly transparent skin.  When I looked around for him,
Dan was already gone, as were the other people, including the Asian man.
All the tiny hairs on my arm slowly singed.  My face burned.
Suddenly, I was very tired and alone.
Where had everyone gone? I wondered.
I fell down to my knees and crawled in the nearest box to search for signs of life.

Assisted Living

I visited an old aunt in her old room and she gave me an old smile which I tucked
Away inside my new coat pocket, before returning it to her.
Her black eyes were still purple with shades of blue and the bump above her left eye had stitches
Like little bristles found on a two day unshaven face, six of them in a jagged line sewn by a young
Doctor in a Lancaster hospital and he never asked for her name.
A cleaning woman had just left but the room was still messy.
I relocated the morning paper and sat near the small bed by a tasseled pillow.
My aunt complained, typically, about how her jaw was hurting and she didn't know
What she could do about it.  Tylenol?  She had just taken more Tylenol, she said.
She caressed her chin while she spoke.  I caressed my chin while I spoke.
She wanted to know how old I thought she looked!
I told her she looked 85 and she smiled around the facial bruises.
"I'm 89," she said matter-of-fact.  She thinks she
Has no skin wrinkles and can trick everyone into guessing she's a kid again.
All the residents and some of the staff have wrinkles, a few of which are in strange places.
I sat on her foot stool and elevated her right leg.
I tugged at her compression sock, finally removing it.
She said I was a little rough.
But then she bragged that I do the best job with her clippers and I made her promise
Never to tell anyone.  Ever.  No Matter What.
She told me she has a new neighbor, an old woman.  "Where did the former
Neighbor go"?  "He died.  But I never liked him."  "Who is the new neighbor?"
"I don't know.  She never leaves her room."  My aunt never leaves her room, either, except to
Eat.  She often skips lunch.
When I walk by the dining area during meal times, it is always full.
Most everyone visits the dining hall, and if a wheelchair or a walker is needed, so be it.  The
Food is not the important item on their menu.  Someone will see them.  In that moment, they
Are so much more than ghosts. And some of the old men can dance the Texas Two Step.
Some of the old women are incredible flirts, and they all believe I can't guess their age and I never can.
"Ouch!"  "What?"  "That hurt!" Darn, did I take some skin?
I finished the nails and struggled with the socks.  She complained I was too rough.  I said the socks are too small.  She said they're made to be small.  I said her feet appeared to be swollen.  She said they've
Always been swollen.  I asked about her jaw.  She said it was always sore.
No one seemed to notice when I left.

Tender Is the Night

Tender Is the Night,
which was brilliantly written by
F. Scott Fitzgerald,
failed to impress Gerald Murphy or his
wife, Sara, who spent her time without a book,
smiling under a beach umbrella.
she loved a great laugh, as did her husband, but did not want too much
sun or to be cross-examined about her relationship with her husband.
it was whispered he was homosexual.
Scott Fitzgerald was known to amuse himself by introducing Gerald to pretty
young men.
Gerald amused himself with pretty young men, but never once thanked Scott.
Sara was a friend of Fitzgerald's wife, who was
known to be crazy.
Zelda Fitzgerald had once overdosed on sleeping pills but they did not kill her.
an excess of alcoholic consumption did not kill her, either, but
God knows one famous summer she tried to drink everything bottled at
the Hotel du Cap, and almost succeeded.
when briefly sober, she had a blatant affair with a rookie pilot,
and often spread her wings at the local air base.
Scott would drink heavily, but he was a writer!
eventually, the couples would part ways, leaving hotel life,
and the busy Mediterranean coast for
certain mischief elsewhere.
And they could afford it!
after all, Living Well Is the Best Revenge.

"Let's stay here!"

the bare walls of my garage
should have your name hanging from the nearest hook
i haven't done a full accounting yet but when i do
i'll know what all it was you took
"Let's stay here!"
i heard you whispering into my ear.
and for awhile the winds were calm
i could reach out to you and you knew what i would do
with closed eyes while the world was mine
you especially tasted divine
but i can't hide from a hurricane
and you can't outrun your past riding on a speeding train:
young men kept coming into your studio in twos and threes
too many cocktails and sleeping pills,  "Another one please!"
and it came to an end when i opened the front door
it didn't even seem possible to reach the distant shore
but i knew i had to get away
to walk on the white sands of an innocent beach
far out to sea and out of reach
my mouth and hands and feet and eyes
no longer painted in still life disguise
the bare walls of my garage
should have your name hanging from the nearest hook
i haven't done a full accounting yet but when i do
i'll know what all it was you took
"Let's stay here!"
i heard you whispering into my ear.

Putin readjusted his tie

it's no laughing matter:
Russians are everywhere,
as crazy as the Mad Hatter
but not nearly as much fun!

at the pinnacle of his power
& capitalizing on his Olympic success,
Putin decided that very hour
it was time for his very own Gold medal.

so, he lit a big victory cigar,
took a deep Stalin-style grip 

on the bare throat 

of the Russian military machine.

he determined to make it an instant media star
inside the modern day Crimea.

he personally did not invade

(he was too preoccupied with his Italian tailors),

but his soldiers stood unmarked and masked
on the territory of Ukraine 

on a special operation,
while he choreographed their dance.

when he learned of his success,
he readjusted his tie
& readied himself for international phone calls.

as soon as he spoke the first word, it was a lie!

it's what he does for a living.

Waldman and Ginsberg

Anne, I wonder where you are?
Last I heard
You were in Colorado as an artistic writer,

Teaching especially creative writing.
It's where young people watch your every move,
Take notes.  Play notes.  Become notes.
They love being near the mountains.
I knew Allen, your very gracious friend Allen, visited several times and talked to a group of listeners.
Many in attendance would dance and sing Buddhist songs, humming in a
Spiritual way to center themselves inside the Universe.
You were much younger at that time, almost fully covered
With beads and bangles and hair.
Allen had lots of hair then, too.
He has since died, while you travel onward.
Your creative writers know the score:
They allow their thoughts often to have an
Easterly drift, to New York City.
Allen loved that city, even when it tried to beat him down.
He talked to the sidewalks with his feet and used his eyes to scrub

The worldly windshield.

His heart was open as he spoke, driven with inspiration.
I can sometimes hear him call your name!
I wonder why you don't write him more often?

lentil soup

Andy told me what i needed to know

but when i tried to read his map,

i still couldn't go.

alcohol and drugs:

under the bed and under the rugs,

sent over by my own doctor

who left me for dead;

in my body and inside my head,

i opened the front door to

hear what he said.

i had an old mother

who came to my side:

"Remember when you were younger

and took a fine bride?"

but there was a chill in the air

so i ran out the door;

everyone kept crying

we'd soon be at war.

i stopped at the clinic.

God gave me a drink;

he was off to a funeral.

i went there to think:

there were scars on my face

and one near my heart.

i was a spy for the Gestapo,

but needed a new start.

i made lentil soup at four

with vegetable broth and ham

and served it to Rene

who knows just who i am!
a wizard at mathematics,

he tried his hand at dance.

i left him at communion

and took my cross into France
where i made a few sketches,
played some guitar,
and reached up for the moon
which didn't seem too far.

high fever and beads of tiny sweat

for better or worse
i rolled down my window and gave you a smoke
i thought i heard an answer
but perhaps you misspoke
i poured a Merlot into your glass
about half full
it was a perfect summer
to sit by the neighboring pool
your body was black
well burnt by the sun
i offered you bog-myrtle
but you wouldn't have none
you noticed the bamboo
which grew near the creek
i watched you start standing
and offered my seat
your head gave way to a pillow
your ass on the floor
the coffee was empty
i offered you more
without cream or white sugar
i used an old French press
you wore a man's baggy pants
i wore a woman's dress
in a high fever
and beads of tiny sweat
i couldn't stay away
we had just recently met
and sat on the stairway
welcomed the dawn.
i woke up when i heard
you stifle a yawn.
you reached for a cigarette
tasteless and grey;
nearby a piano
continued to play.

Le Coeur a gaz, 1923

in three short acts
the last spectacle on the program
was a complete dada farce
with a trumpet in front of the infuriated audience
playing the Marseillaise.
this time around, there were no professional
actors to storm out singing
about the utter pointlessness
of playing body parts in cubist costumes
made of stiff tubing
which reduced their walking to a geriatric shuffle.
out front, the police heard the angry voices and stormed inside
where the fights between the dadaists and the future
surrealists began in earnest, with several badly beaten
and in no mood to be mollified.
shouts for order bounced off walls, hitting no one.
damage to the theater was considerable.
seats were smashed and faces bloodied.
Aragon tried to rescue Eluard while
the police arrested the entire audience,
but it all was a big misunderstanding.

facebook

had i died on the field of battle
never would i have heard of Mark Zuckerberg
and his great good fortune, which is
still going gangbusters, reaching almost as high
as the falling stars passing above my night eyes.
and he isn't satisfied with the status quo, which may not exist
except in imagination, as his two newest friends can attest.
Jan and Brian are not only eating in his kitchen,
they are now part of the intrigue and the high jinks of the facebook universe,
intensely reading the first section of their new program
and seeing the WhatsApp logo blinking with dollar signs,
sufficiently drowning out the relatively tame music of their former lives.
yes, new footlights are shining brightly on these young men,
and venture capital stagehands are busy counting heads, while the surprised
audience sits enraptured, though a few spectators
are heckling and causing a riot.
it would be hard to clamor onto the stage and outshine
this performance.

that sewing-woman

the blue train was boarded by Coco Chanel
and her friend Misia Sert, 

with or without tickets it's impossible to know.
but what is certain is that, frequently,
they dreamed of attending the last great
Ballet in Paris and were in a hurry.

they invited old friends to join them,
men and women of course, who enjoyed
rumors and gala premieres,
especially when the music was provided by a lover,
like Stravinsky, who was not on the train.

no, he was at that very moment nicely ensconced
in Chanel's apartment, working on a score for four
pianos and some voices, one of which was silent.

but on the train, a florist who wanted to hold a party
walked the narrow aisle selling beautifully decorated
arrangements and Coco bought several to share
with her friends;  they all smiled just as the train
began to move.  

they knew
a beautiful blonde Russian princess was the chief engineer
and it was she who blew the whistle to startle the passengers,
who were looking out the windows to see several
surrealists following the tracks, laughing their heads off.

Coco and Misia saw them and began to laugh, too.

the princess, perched on her forward seat, steered the train
away from the station.

it was a one-way track, but still proved easy to get lost.

and no one cared.

the widower on the roof

the widower on the roof
was what the bitchy boys called him:
it was fun to hear their laughs.

he was terrified of typhoid, it was true,
and kept his distance from a lover
alone on a death bed, who would
soon die with no one at his side.

but Cocteau held no illusions about being brave
and fled!

by being in Monte Carlo, he missed the funeral
which was talked about later as being
a service en blanc: white eyes seeing everything
in white, including the white horses hired to pull the hearse.

the young man who died was a poet, poetically speaking.

his sorrowing fans followed the horses in a freezing rain.

wet and cold behind the black band they moved

to their lively music,

all the way to the white cemetery
where white flowers
were piled neatly upon a white coffin
placed carefully next to a freshly-dug white hole.

Les Demoiselles

there was a man
who dragged along his wife
and son
but nothing pleased him.
he drove around in his car,
house-hunting and with an
eye for a young girl.
on each new street he saw more than a few
flirts and thought
"Les Demoiselles!" but did
not stop,
at least while a wife was by his side.
in any event,
he always flatly refused to pay more
than his fair share
(as his diary confirms) and
multiple girls at once would be a major buy.
he never liked to be cheated,
so his wife was unaware of what money he spent,
while his son resented them both.
then on a busy street,
when he was prepared to be tempted,
he met a woman who had some interesting traits
and life became good.
Just before he died he was heard to say
"Drink to me!"
when he died, he gave
everything away.

the beautiful Jezebel

Well, I had you in the afternoon
While the stars stayed silent in the sky
I could have held you for a thousands nights
But you wouldn't give it a try
Oh, no one was guarding our back door
So I was pushed out the ol'front way
Passing the lonely hearts club band;
I heard a love song they used to play
And was completely under your thumb and feeling blue
It was harder now to get a proper sense of you
I kept falling under a midnight spell
Turned myself into a half empty shell
While you, my dear, became the beautiful Jezebel
And when i phoned and got no answer
Your friend said you were a ballet dancer
Living from a suitcase on the open road
Hiding inside your pretty expensive pot of gold
But when I asked for a better point of view
I only got a momentary glimpse of you
Well, i gave you roses and my sweat shirt
Your left me with a letter and those thousand words hurt
I took a pill and had a drink, that's what I think
I heard no sound and soon found myself looking around
And was completely under your thumb and feeling blue
It was harder now to get a proper sense of you
I kept falling under a midnight spell
Turned myself into an empty shell
While you, my dear, became the beautiful Jezebel

more than blue

she didn't have the golden tattoo!
i looked at her over the years
and didn't know what more to do:
i might have been wrong but there was more to her than blue.
her black eyes
registered constant surprise
whenever they focused on you
They made it hard to know what was false, what was true.
and it never helped to walk on by:
she could stop you with a gentle laugh, a wounded cry,
or a smiling knowing eye
which told stories of life on the high seas.
one time standing she said please!
one time sitting she took a stance,
a puzzling one, an almost enjoyable romance.
and where better than solidly on the ground:
a kiss without a passing sound;
a dream which lasted beyond the day,
into an opening night
like the idea of Venus she disappeared out of sight
into the next room
wearing her costume.
But I liked the way she danced at the ball:
one moment short of breath, the next tall.
she did it all for show
and if anyone would ask, i'd tell them i still don't know
how she managed to have another go.
she didn't have the golden tattoo!
i looked at her over the years
and didn't know what more to do:
i might have been wrong but there was more to her than blue.

creek-side

Slow-roasted citrus salmon
And your lips basted with a reduction sauce
A hint of wild green curry
And cold wine poured generously
Into a new glass
Almost full with our reflections
An overhead fan turned slowly under a heavily painted sky
On the carpet you ate a mouth full of me
While your fork rested on the silver plate
I slipped my finger into your hot black coffee and stirred
We thought of lavender oils and Canadian geese
Flying in formation hungry for a warm place to go
We listened to our own music throughout the day
And it did not disappoint.

Owens Lake

The bourbon Manhattan was made neat,
and I like it light on the vermouth,
shaken with a sense of urgency.
Although no shortness of breath was being
experienced by my table partner,
we decided to talk about Owens Lake
and the migrating birds and the decades-long
dust clouds causing air quality problems.
She said her tomato soup was really good.
I told her a man from Bishop said the air was filled
with small particles, an immense quantity of them, and
It was dangerous to breathe.
She remarked about the croutons being baked to perfection.
I wondered about the black-bellied plovers, especially,
and the restoration of the breeding areas.
She said her drink was one of the best she's had
recently and we should return as soon as possible,
maybe when the same bartender was on duty!
I wondered if the water would be reintroduced to the basin
and eventually temper the dust, making it
less of a nuisance because of newly-introduced control efforts.
She said her tuna salad consisted of bits of dried bananas and crispy Asian noodles.
I said I once saw a pair of mating avocets swimming on the untapped
waters of Owens lake; in a gust of wind they played a ritual that had
to be courtship.
She offered me her tiny red cherry when
I told her the avocets had heads of burnished orange.
I paid for our lunch and we left in a cloud of dust.

a smoking gun

when they say it was a smoking gun,

do they really mean to imply a precocious

sexual awakening?

perhaps.

but when i went through puberty,

i never once had pants ignite or even come

close to anthropomorphic global warming. 

the first kiss was all she got from me, well,

and a little of my energy and feistiness, but 

i certainly didn't grow in stature from that single embrace.

she loved me, of course, but it was accompanied

with an undercurrent of suppressed violence.

and her latent hostility should have been adequate to

arouse my sensibilities, but i was still young,

still innocent about death and social intercourse.

or any intercourse, for that matter.

so i concentrated on the high ambitions i held

for myself and that didn't mean i

wanted to use a narcotic or get laid by an older woman.

no, i came from working-class stock, which was strong, 

simple, energetic, warm, but i was no damn fool.

still, she came on to me when i was tired and fearful of

poverty, which put me in a bad way.

the things i did to save myself were simple:  

i did not give a damn about appearances and began
to read liberal newspapers while carrying a black umbrella.
the last time i saw her she was driving a surplus military
jeep to the beach.  she saw me walking along the lane and
stopped to amuse herself.  of course i was without shoes or socks,
but held my umbrella when she said "You are very sweet."
as she drove away, smoke was puffing from her muffler,
almost, i remember thinking, like a smoking gun.

That's worth something

May to September
or winter in the wind
of a strange vortex spinning
arctic air through my front door,
when i read i enrich myself.
to my delight i saw a great collection of
stars in a deep night sky before taking my
place in front of the evening fire,
book in hand and no hurry to anywhere.
well provisioned with dry red oak which does not
smoke and has been split into manageable pieces,
i can sit for a week dreaming of Antibes in summer.
Bangu, a black cat, came too close in a feline way to my
cup of steaming coffee, but no harm was done as
he passed my arm rest with only a cursory glance
at the Peace Corps logo imprinted on my mug.
Soft, lonely nights were made for good literature, not for
petting domesticated animals, although I can not
tell two fat dogs how I really think.  Those canines seem to
enjoy the floor by my side where I flip casually the pages
of a deliciously mysterious story.
For me, it's reassuring not to rent, but rather to own a home
whether in a resort or in an undistinguished neighborhood,
hidden behind an unkempt front hedge of holly.
I once said, looking over the For Sale signs in a distressed neighborhood,
it's better to have a home, than the home have me.
I must have known something about the soul of a banker, that
beautiful shark swimming among the more blissful minnows.
Perhaps I might have preferred to buy property next to a rich English patron,
or adjacent to a hotel on the Riviera, but imagine the upkeep of
the exterior! My dogs, for better or worse, enjoy spending their days
chasing birds, squirrels and the occasional wayward person, so
it's better to be here, in perfect seclusion.  There are no complaints
heard about the cats coming home with a dead chipmunk or sad-looking
mole, so for me this really is a relaxing place to read.  And the
deep night sky holds such a great collection of stars undiminished by
light pollution, it would be foolish to leave.  During the day, I don't need
to feign modernism and can join the dogs whenever it's time for an
afternoon snack.  We can plan ahead or be impromptu.
They love to chew bones, often too quickly, and I love to use them for cooking.
And with a steep road to my door, I have few missionaries attempting a call.
That's worth something.

into the Cavern

i wonder how long it will last?
crawl into the Cavern
and sit on the floor
the Pacemakers are playing
they'll play until four.

i told you the timing was good
record contracts
and screaming sounds from young girls
the Beatles are coming on
not diamonds and pearls

inside the red brick on the wall
with the Queen and the Kinks
singing before dawn
the partys' getting started
it's still going on

it was the sunshine of our love
in a little Liverpool
after the war
the Pacemakers are playing
they'll play until four

i wonder how long it will last?

it didn't seem fair

so she is sleeping with someone else
but her real likeness was stuck on my
bathroom wall
a pinup beauty with curves and tall
her cigarette still smoking
far from the bedroom floor
where i reached for it once before
long after the latest noonday affair
and to me it didn't seem fair
i asked her more than once or twice
but she started acting as cold as ice
she was an injured dancer
with a Syrian accent and a big resume
and when i asked her for an explanation
she never had anything important to say
and that's how it remains today
it listed her major accomplishment
as being a rebel for any current cause,
so i hit the refreshment button
and then pause
it was a sentimental title she dreamed for herself.
i watched her remove it
from the nearest top shelf
and when she made love,
she wore her helmet of dark Damascus hair
and disappearing clothes,
and to me it didn't seem fair
from the top of her head
to her painted toes
she always told me that anything goes
in fashionable discussion
from playing guitar
to swinging percussion
she was familiar with the earliest and the now
but i lost her in a recent winter storm somehow
when the winds blew raw through my single-pane glass
flattening the flame on a painted wax candle
she herself was no less than a scandal.
so she is sleeping with someone else
but her real likeness was stuck on my
bathroom wall
a pinup beauty with curves and tall