you asked me to stay

it was a rainy day
i was walking away
you asked me to stay
now i don't believe i'll ever stray
hey, when you look at me
what exactly do you see?
well, there's love in my eye
it's there when i sigh
you won't have to wonder why
when i smile it's for you
it's the best thing i know how to do
there is a gentle wind to the air
i watch it tickle your hair
you say we make such a perfect pair
the night feels soft and fair
when i look you're everywhere
it was a rainy day
i was walking away
you asked me to stay
now i don't believe i'll ever stray.

she came in red

she came in red
stood the crowd on its' head
i can't remember what it was she said
she asked for a drink
i tried to clear my head to think
she gave me a woman's wink
and i began to swoon
felt myself flying to the moon
it happened in early June
and now it's July
i can't remember why
i gave her my best sigh
and my, oh my,
she took me by the hand
but i was a player in the band
maybe the guys would understand
as we walked softly to the door
i couldn't ask for any more
she swept me off the floor.
she came in red
stood the crowd on its' head
i can't remember what it was she said
but i couldn't ask for any more
she swept me off the floor.

sometimes everything makes sense

sometimes everything makes sense
looking over a backyard fence
a music jam is not for toast
Hunter is renting a house on the coast
Katie was married yesterday
her phone has more to say
Jon is her drummer
he'll be faster all summer
Dylan is now yesterday's news
Led Zeppelin is more than one man if you choose
the man in his blue dress is a cop
the Donald had a boardwalk casino flop
Peter kept growing ever sweeter
with Sally in her parents' alley
but nobody should be surprised by this:
Miss Piggy grabbing Kermit for a kiss...
in church the organ music played a lively tune
Neil took a mind-blowing trip to the moon
Timothy ingested LSD
they both ended up on lowered knee
somewhere in upper Manhattan
wondering what the hell is a board and batten?
my kayak and canoe in the river
in the winter they both shiver
because sometimes it's just too cold
if you're skinny and old
or fat
and not wearing a hat
a friendly gent said he was from Naples
his war wound was stitched together with metal staples
and he said he loved GIs
both gals and guys
all those who liberated Rome in June
singing a Yankee Doodle Dandy tune
the world was indeed saved countless times
counting pennies and Roosevelt dimes
sometimes everything makes sense
looking over my backyard fence
the yellow cab at the corner
driven by little Jack Horner
who sat eating his curds and whey
throughout the wedding day
on the phone he had so much to say
talking to Katie
who was waiting for Jon.

still sleeping on the shore

i talked to Mandy as she was driving east
her current lover called and promised her a feast
but she was in Ohio and looking for a room
he promised her a virgin gown if he could be her groom
she told me she felt neglected and was searching for a drink
that she couldn't find her marbles and needed time to think
an hour's drive from Toledo she saw a motel sign
it said that Elvis wasn't really dead but this was his tribute shrine
she had at least two husbands and she didn't need a third
i told her hope was all we had but she was nervous with that word
the lights went out near Cleveland as she headed toward the lake
i promised her my new canoe but she told me it seemed fake
i felt even more responsible when she told me she was lost
she wanted to own a fancy house and i asked her what it cost
but her map seemed so confusing and she took a dreadful turn
on an avenue to Philadelphia where there was nothing new to learn
she drove her car to the Jersey coast where a fisherman came near
they spent one night together and drank warm beer
when i asked her what it was she wanted she didn't have a clue
if i had any answers i said "i would share them with you"
i heard her mumble something she once read in a book
but at that point i lost connection and couldn't bear to look
the tide rolled in, her car went out, and our conversation failed
i called once more and heard her say her boat had finally sailed
well, i looked around and realized i couldn't hear her anymore
so i imagined she dropped her anchor and was sleeping on the shore.

the children with colored eyes

when you dream
don't dream of me:
the screaming horse at lunch
didn't die for free
the final cost was a question mark and a Chinese penny
buried underneath the spreading Chestnut tree
where an electric black guitar
found inside a wooden box with stainless nails
played reruns from The Tonight Show with Jack Parr.
you quickly lost sight of all the famous trails
and returned to where it all began:
the mass media found a woman picking flowers who was actually a man
sweating in the afternoon heat.
he was soon drinking at his own funeral;
both eyes on one side of his nose shedding tears over his feet.
and the smiling harlequins and clowns
were wearing bright pants and silken gowns,
their faces painted brightly with splashed food.
of course they were in a humorous mood.
when you dream
don't dream of me:
the children with colored eyes
didn't die for free

Carnac, France

they might have been rocks
but were clearly voices of the dead;
druid tombstones.
rows of large flat stone and past days of glory:
invading soldiers from a failed conquest stopped
now and forever in their tracks filled by myth
and mysticism amid
ancient groans and ghosts and under blue skies
which resonate with crashing waves
and are at night lit by bonfires roaring on a prehistoric coast.

Federico Garcia Lorca

i decided to attend a movie preview
and it was a total flop:
the film,
not my being there.
it was simply beyond lackluster!
later, i heard the producer would henceforth
abandon cinema and
that's a good thing.
the money backers fell into a panic
when they saw actual stones being thrown
from the audience.
yes, it was that bad!
the opening scene might have been of a razor
slicing into an eyeball,
but no,
not even as memorable
and thus history was deprived
of possibly another surprising moment.
the most interesting person in the audience
was Federico Garcia Lorca and not only because
he had once been an erotic friend of Dali,
who was now living with Gala.
Lorca was the highly esteemed Spanish poet who imagined
himself a literary critic, 

but who knew little of imaginative painting,
which was Dali's great strength.
Gala was good for Dali, too, or so he said.
And Dali knew he needed to distance himself
from his ex-lover, so he refused to attend the preview.
Picasso also kept out of sight.
He was busy elsewhere with his private auditions of a young blonde.
she would get the part.
Picasso's wife would get the dog.

Lorca would eventually get a Nationalist militia bullet.

he's still being looked for.

i hate golf.

Herb thought i was being rational
and i think that meant the left brain
but i've always written with my right hand
and didn't want to hurt his feelings,
after all it was his office and i was sitting
by the only desk lamp
in an antique green upholstered chair which
reminded me of the ugly one i had always avoided
in my grandmother's living room
but since i was paying Herb 130 dollars an hour
for the privilege of being in that chair,
i told myself to like it.
He was a nice man, too, taking notes when something
i said seemed to pique his interest which
was often and now that i reflect he was scribbling
furiously for the hour we were together with but
a few nods and ahems and quick questions to
alert me to his continued grand interest.
what was this all about, anyhow?
Six years after being a participant in a soup kitchen
experiment i continued to feel a driving attraction
for the head chefs and their love of Chardonnay although
for the life of me i think i've come to accept the taste of
an interesting Merlot or perhaps it was a Pinot?
no, the difficulty was a penis.
yes, that was the root cause of my problem although it
wasn't a problem it was an issue and if we're talking
newspaper, an issue is usually delivered daily but i've
always preferred the Sunday Times and not
simply because it was expensive but because
i like the writing and the writers and their subjects.
so basically i had a bicycle seat which over the many years
of riding both mountain and road bike etched a deep welt on
my ass which extended frontally and it became painful but
i ignored the pain and then i think i became impotent.
but i had an abusive childhood, also, and learned how to
live with people who took advantage of me in ways that they
may not have even been conscious of and i never knew what
i did to trigger their persistent needling and clever hurtfulness.
i became melancholy.
i wanted an experiment, say perhaps a changed life or one more self-compassionate
or is that too muted, well regardless, one is certainly not available at a car dealership
or is the subject of curious conversation in a neighborhood man cave,
and certainly not at the tavern among the guys who only want to talk
about a different type of handicap.
i hate golf.
i love the chef.
mostly, there is a lot to be said for creating original recipes and sharing common
interests, but more can be learned about someone when the emotional honesty
is first and foremost an important ingredient of the relationship dish.
did i mention that i love food?  good.  it's true.
if you were given a second or third chance in life, what would you choose to become?
consider this:  you won't have to ask Herb for permission.

Keats said he knew me

Keats said he knew me
but not really.
it was nearing the end of August
and i wanted to visit Russia
to tour the hospitals
and the rest homes.
no, he said, he didn't want to accompany me,
saying the world was too miserable,
that he didn't have much time to write anymore.
and i believed him!
there was a lot of sorrow going around,
and it was simply awful news about Hemingway,

damn shotguns,
but it hadn't stopped me from feeling all right.
so, let me know what your plans are, i said.
my own feeling was that we should go together.
no, i didn't imagine he'd die anytime soon, either;
there was still time to change the road
we were on,
and i wanted to do quite a lot with him.
i remembered all the good of our past times together
and asked him to reconsider.
i told him to let me know very soon,
but i never heard from him again.
i traveled to Russia by myself.

no time

no time
for a trench dug deeply in the backyard dirt
no time
and yet my hands finally begin to hurt
yes, sentences form inside my book
one page finally becomes a seventh chapter
and i give it a second look
i'll work even when i'm afraid
i talk with Doris my therapist
she said she doubts i'll ever get laid
but i might take a lover
inside a sea full of goldfish
underneath a star-filled cover
no time
for the dozens of possible stories
throughout a sad city
whose heroes once had their glories
no time
for the Beatles and other British bands
no time
and yet i leap to my feet and clap my hands.