in a chaos of mouth and eyes

it was like a fire
when beauty trembled;
that's what i learned
when everything smoked
and burned
and nothing resembled
what i once knew;
even the blackbird flew.
so, i settled into my new studio;
there was no way for me to know
how to wear my dominating dress.
i saw many people who woke up to success
as well as to a cup of coffee,
but not to me.
i couldn't be entirely sure
who would enter and who would leave!
i held nothing up my sleeve.
there was no known cure
for indecision,
or for lack of precision,
or for impersonating a bull;
my dinner plate was completely full.
periodically someone would call
from their wallpapered wall
but the phone would go immediately dead:
nothing new was heard or said.
i'd draw my kitchen knife
and the hanging still life
had no way of knowing in its' zeal
what it felt like to feel
out of reach sitting on the beach
or in the grocery aisle with a contented shopper's smile:
there are enough ideas to last a lifetime.
at least that's what i learned in school.
and i'm no fool;
but i could return to my room
to indulge myself in imagery,
acting goofy and totally free
in a chaos of mouth and eyes,
his and hers smiles and lies;
and maybe i'd try to appoint
just to make a point
a bit of color, a half tint,
where all that would remain is a passing hint.

it might have been God

acting on my own behalf,
i might have been interested
in meeting God
but in the end He went to a tailor in Memphis
while i visited my sister in San Antonio;
seriously, how was i to know?
we failed to communicate.
was i too early or was i again late?
and once at home,
i removed most of my doors
and painted a few walls
a new color or two;
well, what's a man to do?
other
wise
i might have returned to my promiscuous ways
which on most days
i'm able to ignore.
i scrubbed the basement floor,
had a chair embroidered,
and determined to learn how to make bread
with The Italian Baker.
thanks, no salt and pepper shaker:
i wanted to watch the yeast rise!
well, what's life without a surprise?
my very favorite one was in 1952
when i was turning four:
my father told me we were poor
and no one would ever notice me
even if i wanted them to!
button your shirt and tie your shoe!
yes, pop.  it would eventually stop.
back then, my family had a glass tumbler,
a dust mop, a sofa of thin blue cloth,
a solitary fig,
and for my mother's bald head, a dime store wig
which made her look like an Comanche warrior,
but we had no grand idea of what comes next
we couldn't easily hide
well, maybe hope for a rising tide?
one going, say,
to the third floor
or perhaps more.
and after i went off to war
i wore a sign on my chest
which someone later showed to a local banker
and he gave me a job
but never taught me how to legally rob;
i saw money piled in a box
it was the biggest box ever seen
like in my post-traumatic stress disorder dream
and i stood mesmerized
i saw huge gold pieces
and found them amusing
but i knew deep down inside that i was the one losing.
well, i had some friends to see
and they would welcome me
and no amount of house cleaning
could replace the meaning
in that.
should i take my car
and acoustic guitar?
i was tired of wishful thinking
but my belly stayed full
well, what's life without another fool?
i remember very clearly twenty years later
the beauty of a loyal dog
who followed me when i walked:
she was always the quiet one when we talked.
she would snuggle up
while i read my book;
and when the wind picked up
i wouldn't even look.
it might have been God coming back from Memphis
or, to make this clear,
a dear
jolly man in a red suit with his flying sled
led
by a red-nosed reindeer
all coming with gifts.
i always wanted the presents,
fearful as i was of the God
and his crippling rents.

Mandolin Wind

a few patches
of hair
here and there
and color
with a hem and a haw
a bit of dye
and a passing why
a second sketchbook
is what it took
before the third
a ram's head
or a happy man
showing skin at a local park
arranging his basket lunch
ripe tomatoes and an apple
picked from the dwarf tree
the orchard nearby
beguiling and gently
Ronnie Wood smiled
"Mandolin Wind; it's wild!"
Rod Stewart
whispered not too vainly,
"It will be instantly salable!"
and my fruit dish
brimming with flavors
was my first of that summer
i arranged the table cloth
with clean napkins and a large paper plate
which made me feel great
an additional instrument
was her soft voice
a 12 string
with a melodious ring
rather more subdued
than the British rockers
her outline in muted colors
tickled the fine grass
she peeled my apple
and gave me a piece
i grabbed a tomato
and watched what happened
when i gave her a squeeze;
she said please
and we talked for almost a hundred years.

painted like a kiss

the woman's smaller face
and huge breasts
painted like a kiss
on my bedroom wall
so i kept looking
and guessing
and looking again
it was only
a few months earlier
and i was doing a lot of work
a whirlwind of legs
a whirlwind of writing
confetti on the floor
cigarettes like wild mushrooms
on the backyard deck
wine bottles
and corks
and a cheap silk bowtie
underneath a turquoise umbrella
wearing an outrageously starched shirt
they turned out to have more in common
than might have been thought
i blamed myself
for the visceral images
in my mind
drawn from an adolescent prankster
who had given way to a more dramatic
allegorical still life of a man
his tiny arm clutching a pen
like a thunderbolt
like a beach towel
with the figure of Jupiter on top of it
and a clock wound down to the gum line.
have you seen the latest movie
about an alien world
with a hidden agenda,
stripped of any significance
an economic system slowly disintegrating
like a useless utensil?
lastly, her lips were bright red
glossy with temptation
two pieces of a puzzle
hiding from prying eyes
but open for my own.
it would soon be summer and the
celestial weapon of the sun
might burn my skin
but i could use her bust to hide my face
like a carpenter's square can hide
an angle,
and we'll become oranges
sucking all the juice we can
from life,
like architects
who imagine the fantastic.

a woman in his lap

a large house
in a large garden
and flowers,
a great many hours
of spring time showers
a lazy dog
with psychic power
licks the kitty
outside of the nearest city
and in the end
he got little
but another cat fight;
the leading light,
despite bouts of manic drinking
and attempted thinking,
was a busted
but trusted
college grad
at times both happy and sad
who cleaned the litter box
washed socks
searched the sky for Venus
played with penis
confessed in autobiographical writings,
his entire face covered in stainless steel,
exactly how he wanted to feel
many a morning
without warning
when he had to get back down to earth
satisfied that he knew exactly what he was worth
dancing to ragtime
Louis Armstrong
what more could go wrong?
he had the lucky number seven
like trying to live in heaven
black tiled floors
minimal chores
cafe chairs
an abundance of greying hairs
phone calls not returned
piles of wood unburned
until an alfresco dinner one winter eve
with nothing up his sleeve
but there was a passing rumor
of black humor
sitting by the fire,
a woman in his lap
considering a nap
after having given a kiss
one he especially liked to taste
her lips around his waist,
and he could hear her sighs,
see her vaginal eyes
sparkling like a unconventional art lover.

what more did we need to know?

and the other ballet
it came and went
like some other day
but not tomorrow
and not today.
what should i say
to back up my claim
that there's very little to lasting fame?
you certainly can't remain
dreaming in the south of Spain
taking pictures on the distant beach
far out of reach
from what all the teachers' teach
as they blend stories into time;
hey brother, can you lend me a dime?
so sensitively in a long soup line
i hear a starving man speak!
he wouldn't be returning for another week
and you didn't fare any better
i threw away your attempt at a romantic letter
when i noticed it was left unsigned,
but i had already told you i resigned.
we had a famous scene from a cancelled show;
what more did we need to know?
you wore a mask and an old swim suit
and had friends who told you you looked cute.
i went to work playing on my flute
and it was bad enough
our exchanges seemed just like trading stuff
when we went from easy to impossibly tough,
like two gods clustered around an old piano
and what we knew we really didn't know
our mistake was beautiful but it came to an abrupt end
like passing the coffin of a dying friend,
i see your silhouette out the back door;
not necessarily what it meant once before.
a crucified Christ sits upon the floor
and it would be hard to overlook
his written words in an unfinished book
but that was then and this is now
you went shopping and i refused to bow
and then somehow
the center shifted and the roadshow began
you took a walk while i ran
and the other ballet
it came and went
like some other day
but not tomorrow
and not today.
what should i say?
we had a famous scene from a cancelled show;
what more did we need to know?

Watergate was playing again

the faithful jester
came to the podium
and gave his spiel;
i expected him to do no less!
in gratitude,
i said he seemed real,
but he was a phony
dispatched to lie and cheat
and do whatever,
while the star of the show
stayed hidden out of sight,
trying to act clever.
he ate two scoops of ice cream
and fired the Director of the FBI
before ten.
the public heard the news
and wondered if Watergate
was playing again.
but this was a new ballet
with gestures of the hands,
a dance of deceit
with obstruction and ego
tossing ethical standards of conduct
out into the street.
and to cure a headache
i asked the Russians to explain
what they knew;
they said to check the tapes,
the tax returns,
and how his modest fortune grew
into a mighty pile of dough;
like a mountain topped with snow;
like a belly filled with sweets.
he stands and greets
his interviewer with a smile
and says
"i'll let you live for a little while
and your news is fake;
my supporters are the reason
i'll never be tried for treason
or for being incompetent"
and in that he finally spoke some truth.
James Comey before he was axed
said the boss wanted loyalty
and wouldn't accept simple honesty.
the CIA
stayed inside to play
and an independent investigation
might be launched or might be killed
and the waiting public
being conned
were no longer acting thrilled.
it was a time for the adults
to clean the romper room
to end the dangerous show,
but they couldn't seem to agree
on a single unifying direction
in which to go.

east front street

ah, and with a quiet breath
out of my depth
i found myself over my head
remembering the last words you said
rolling with the punches
making guesses
playing hunches
playing without you
but it's not what i'm looking to do
i'm just a guy asking myself why
there's no easy street
no short cut to the top
no pie in the blue sky
still can't get my dream to come true
i'm looking out for myself
but i'm looking for you
feeling blue
i'm painting the town red
remembering the last words you said
in the dark whispering
east front street
will we meet?
and i'm hoping the lights change
life's strange
but
still can't get my dream to come true
i'm looking out for myself
but i'm looking for you
running while standing still
trying to chill
trying hard to keep my nose clean
it's hard not to be mean
the tables are turned
how much have i've learned?
rolling with the punches
making guesses
playing hunches
playing without you
but it's not what i'm looking to do
i wonder why won't the sun shine
you once told me you were mine
now i'm walking with empty pockets
and you're still on my mind
behind the door i'm standing
for you to find
there's no lock
no ticking clock
i'm painting the town red
remembering the last words you said
in the dark whispering
east front street
will we meet?
and i'm hoping the lights change
life's strange
rolling with the punches
making guesses
playing hunches
playing without you
but it's not what i'm looking to do.

Miss Liberty & Masters of War

and on their way,
fully dressed to kill,
up and over the top of Bunker Hill
they climbed the Stairway to Heaven
for a better view of the steel woman with spiked hair;
they knew she was there
with flames in her right hand,
as she talked to a former lover
a month before his unexpected death
when he tried to run but ran out of breath.
and peering closely, the gum shoes joined arms to see
the woman urgently singing on the stage of Bohemian Rhapsody
the songs "Tired! Tired!"
and "Poor! Poor!"
her eyes falling away from her forehead
when she laughed at them and wished them dead
crowded together on their ludicrously small perch.
they guessed she must be a Black Magic Woman
when she disappeared behind tight lips
and the passing sailing Wooden Ships
only to reemerge in a swirling cloud of fog
fashioned in the image of Miss Liberty
hoping for a complete victory
when she hit them on the head
in an attack so vicious
they bled for several hours.
i'm convinced had they not meddled
Another Brick in the Wall
would not have been made to fall
and she would have seen them stoned on
Cocaine and not political power
In The Midnight Hour.
the new Sultans Of Swing finally got a hint
and began yelling back,
but never really understanding
they were now on the wrong side of the history track;
her copper tablet came crashing down on
each man's head,
demeaning them as well as their friends
who stood helplessly by,
too afraid to cry,
too cast down by misfortune to even smile.
the Masters of War, as they now came to be known,
wished the woman away,
made a daily effort to pray
and tried to stop the press,
made everyone else guess
what they had up their sleeve;
they wanted the electorate to believe
anything their crazy leader said
or did
even when he blew his lid;
and in the ensuring riot,
a momentary quiet;
an Immigrant Song
like steam rising above a spreading chestnut tree,
huddled masses yearning to breathe free
spread from sea to shining sea
in a slow dance winding through the streets,
within concrete canyons,
over fertile fields of plenty,
no one dressed to conform
looking for
a Shelter From The Storm.

what will my country do?

codependence
or are you sitting on the fence
since we've come a long ways
fighting from the roof tops
listening to the conductor call out the stops
exiting and entering the maze
when it seemed the right thing to do
we ran from the false gods and embraced the rational true
and so i have a passing question for you
are you willing to gamble on a roll-the-dice ramble?
are we living in a free land with rules
or are we only consumers and slaveholder's tools?
well don't look around
the little guys might be stealing your ground
obedient small men are sneaking up without a warning sound
and they'll grab you by the scruff of your neck
toss you complaining and shrug "Well, what the heck!"
they'll sink the ship of state and hang you on the quarter deck
and it could be a fine Sunday and you'll hear your neighbor curse
but the priest is a sinner and his bishop is much worse
a child abuser and a known mysterious user
but the president is the greater fool
using his ignorance like a tyrants penetrating tool
his boys with their guns come knocking at your door
and it's no use hiding on your bedroom floor
there's no safe haven anymore:
they hear you talk and watch you walk
and if you don't complain
you'll be forever stuck in the slow lane
they're passing gas and passing fast
and the stink is like a big city garbage dump
well, Mr donald j. trump
women are more than a piece of meat to hump
and the rule of law
is more than a missed phone call:
i'm gonna take my dog to the nearest mountain top
if she sees a running rabbit she'll never stop
i'll have water and a bite to eat
a sunshade hat to ease the afternoon heat
and i won't miss you
but what will my country do?

before leaving for the summer

before leaving for the summer
i watched a film about Woodstock
and heard the White Rabbit music by the Jefferson Airplane
but when night fell it began to rain
and it rained for forty days and forty nights
i had an itinerary and booked my flights
saw a few friends pass California grass on their hand-rolled time,
Brother, can you lend me a dime?
and rolled slowly down to a hot food tent
where i was politely asked to pay the farmer's rent
i said there must be a mistake
no one is having a bad trip listening to the Grateful Dead!!
there are innocent babies sleeping in a nearby bed
and the jungles of Vietnam are thousands of miles away
American soldiers are being killed there
while Buddhist monks continue to pray
high on a shining mountain
at the intersection of hope and despair
tens of millions of gentle people camping through the 60's wearing
nothing but long hair
not far from the New York Thruway
and the Golden Gate bridge
a country fellow on the Choctaw Ridge
welcoming Earth Day
all across the nation
people smoking homemade love
as did the Peace dove
so i grabbed my bags when you finally reached me
i saw the sparkle in your eyes
better than any early morning Christmas surprise:
and in the winter we'll stack our wood for the fire
filling shelves with our better Selves.

the best i have eaten

there were Two Nudes
and a golden doodle
and they did more to lift my spirits
than Johnny Walker and his wife
who frequently lived in the apartment above my
basement shop.
i dealt in paintings of Old Masters,
sometimes being confused
by what i was looking at,
trying to divine the notion of movement
which is a quality i value.
i've often wondered if Adam and Eve ever saw
an apple tree in a classical garden?
or did the clever serpent finally achieve a likeness of a poet?
there is little to be learned from the reviews
of my life
and the orphan that went to school alone
with his Donald Duck lunch box
reminded me
to always suck on a monumental scale,
as he handed me an unused cube of sugar.
i still have that cube, hidden in my bedroom closet.
yet i was embarrassed by a feeling of
emptiness,
but it never filled me completely;
i often shouted when reading instead of
using my whispering inside voice.
and the terrible war had ideas that i tried to avoid
because boys should not hit other boys,
especially strangers
who may have wounds or may not.
i once met a black cat sleeping on my kitchen carpet
and several fish that i had adopted
but then i got lost on my afternoon drive into
the smallest near town
looking for a change in direction,
and the very next time i was washing dishes,
the cat was nowhere to be found but the fish were
nearby
reading a Julia Child cooking book.
everything changes according to circumstances
and the dinner that night was the best i have ever eaten:
it was grilled red snapper and the woman stayed close
while she ate her ripe red strawberries.

we weren't going to go anywhere

i'm gonna give you the latest word
and it'll probably be the worse thing you've ever heard
but it's better than a field knife
taking away your precious life
or that stale oatmeal cookie
the day you decided to play school hooky
or the afternoon we watched the rising moon
by our secret lakeside shore
when we heard about the start of yet another world war;
we meditated on the bloody grass,
skipping class,
and we feared they would take away our fine horse.
but of course
there are better ways to die,
kissing the sky!
you and i kept wondering why
the stars came out at night;
for a moment things seemed to be alright.
a breeze blew and we tried to stand tall
it wasn't an easy thing and i saw you fall
there was a moment when i almost lost my shoe
but we lost ourselves and didn't know what more to do:
too many men came into our tent and wouldn't go away!
they read a proclamation which gave them permission to stay!
we wouldn't allow ourselves to pray
but in your bag you found an American Indian arrowhead
while i pretended to be dead
you sang your song and washed your hair
we knew we weren't going to go anywhere
and in the latest news
we heard how young lovers with nothing to lose
in the City of Men are encouraged to choose
between darkness and the ever more growing dark:
a strange walk in an overgrown park.
you sang your song and washed your hair
we knew we weren't going to go anywhere.

he couldn't even tie a shoe

there is little to be learned
from his rallies and all the pompous talk;
i adopted a wait-and-see attitude,
wondering if he could walk the walk
but he didn't know a thing or two:
he couldn't even tie a shoe.
too much of a chauvinist
and too well-known to be a mechanic,
i waited in the wings far from the party,
calmly breathing to avoid panic;
i was horrified he'd be a fool:
drain water from the public pool.
and now we know the story;
the large portrait is a picture of HIM
without any cogent plan for anything;
he keeps promising WIN WIN WIN WIN!!!!
but he didn't know a thing or two:
he couldn't even tie a shoe.