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