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.