don't go making me blue

you won't have to beg me please
i'm already down on my knees
looking up while you're looking down
yes, i'm tired of painting the town
i'd much rather paint you
you'll be sweating when we're through
so don't go making me blue
paint me red when i'm in bed
i'll remember every word you said
and i know your momma was young
she knew every song that was sung
and every guy who gave her the eye
well, they didn't really have to try
very hard
she didn't have a full deck
it was only one card
and it wasn't you
so don't go making me blue
what i like is what we do
you won't have to beg me please
i'm already down on my knees
i won't be a big tease
looking up while you're looking down
yes, i'm tired of painting the town
i'd much rather paint you
you'll be sweating when we're through
so don't go making me blue.

don't want any more assholes

i don't want any more assholes
inside my paintings or in my morning cereal;
and no more spilled milk or cold water on the floor.
i tried to tell myself everything was super cool
but knew i just couldn't take it anymore.
maybe i ran out of gas or imagination
while walking on the frantic eastern shore:
i tried my hand at an expensive vacation.
i tried to persuade a fantasy
to run away with me,
but as luck would have it i climbed to the top
of the nearest witness tree.
i bought a blazingly fast racehorse and then bought ten more
and soon they lost all my money;
i was reduced to sweeping up shit from their apartment floor.
i handed over my trusty Bowie knife,
grabbed a favorite wooden spoon to stir up another crack at life
but it was all done tongue-in-cheek
with a recipe i tried to sell in Philadelphia at least once a week.
never did i doubt that those damn horses could run
or that a mysterious woman could be an exceptional artist and want to create
a masterpiece if it wasn't too late.
and in my new venture, doubtlessly inspired,
i wanted to be the next President but i was just too tired,
washing away all my post-depression fears
with shots of Irish whiskey and snorts of bubbling coke.
someone on the street corner said this all must be some kind of joke!
i found fresh memories from a distant past
laid them out in a neat row in front of my empty alley home;
i told everyone i was packing bags and headed out to roam;
and then she reappeared on her totem tree making extra room for me;
she called my name while dusting off a stressless reclining chair,
so i took her to the shower and asked if i could wash her hair.

Olga and the 11th moon

while the snows fell heavily upon the ground,
the eleventh moon
turned to face Matisse
in his famous studio near Paris.
but the flower seller walked away with his basket full,
his scarlet eyes silent at the end of the day.
a skinny body stared numbly out to sea
to watch the moon's reflection on the turbulent waters,
her angular arms clasped in the fifth position above her head.
the northern light, a thunderous gray,
showed no glimmer of mercy
when the ballet season ended in a pillar of chalk
carved from the cliffs of Pourville.
in a steady rush of solitude the solitary person
withered and fell on the vast Russian steppes.
the moon slowly rose like a bird in a cage,
puzzled to discover there was no easy way to fly.

i was happy to love you

when you lowered yourself
to my mouth
north came heading south
your hands steady against the closed door
i stretched excitedly on the floor
a towel placed underneath my head
like a soft pillow from a nearby bed
might have been comfortably blue
i was happy to love you
in one way or another, too.

the status quo (did not fit)

the status quo did not fit

her tight jeans

nor the lacy Victoria Secret

underwear

nor the French kiss sweetened by the clear

stream waters nearby

where the meditation rock sat impassively

waiting with infinite patience

for the two naked people who eventually came

giggling

slipping

giggling

slipping

over the newly laid wood of a moonlit deck.

a tongue filled with intensity

redder than her blood

crawled inside an orange and white

tent

once it was fully erect on the deck

by the kitchen wall

under the spreading hemlock tree

(and no easy feat that was

without instructions!)

and sought the mother-earth

of the warm woman

who in her suggestive energy

triggered a landslide of desire

(which shook the soft tent)

as it buried itself

deeply inside her mouth.

she remained still like a Goddess

carved from a different light

with strong arms

listening to Mozart and a perfect piano,

or searching for a meaningful book,

a poem, perhaps,

an unfailing mariner,

an ever clearer sky.

her thin body 

cloaked in nothingness

and yet with everything real

trapped his head with her hands.

then the slow morning 

made famous

by the sleeping beauty

who discovered his hunger where her ass

had only recently been

ticktock ed

paused

giggled

and eventually slipped

into its' own quiet afternoon

when two smaller cavorting dogs

with no hint of solemnity

walked into their cages and fitfully slept.