her home was Mississippi but she lived in Tennessee

she leapt from her chair
she sprang across the avenue
a young woman with purplish hair
she said she had no interest in going back down there
her parents were judgmental and the preacher seemed unfair
her home was Mississippi but she lived in Tennessee
she had no problems with her boyfriends but she came right up to me
and i saw her alcohol stare
felt her pinch my pretty nose
and when i failed to show any interest
she torn into my clothes
well, we didn't have time for a quarrel
i hardly knew her first name
there were plenty of country hillbillies
who loved to play her game
but i was a traveling cowboy
looking to make a quick buck
i felt life was dealing me a strong hand
but now tragedy struck
a southern woman was doing more to me than flirt
she pulled on my western pants and pressed my buttoned shirt
her home was Mississippi but she lived in Tennessee
she had no problems with her boyfriends but she came right up to me
and i saw her alcohol stare
felt her pinch my pretty nose
and when i failed to show any interest
she torn into my clothes
well, we didn't have time for a quarrel
i hardly knew her first name
there were plenty of country hillbillies
who loved to play her game.

nobody was saluting Man Ray

a silver label
of black and blue,
a solitary rock
and a bird that flew
when nobody was saluting
Man Ray
who found nothing new to say,
although he looked into his pocket
before he walked away.
the following week
in a fancy dress
he ran his hands through his Paris hair
to create another mess;
he later jumped into the night
for a cigarette or two
and as the fragrant smoke blew
he took a photograph
looking for you,
and what he found,
as the Dada band struck up,
was an old recording of a Beatles' song
and an empty cup
from the summer of '74
before the avant-garde party ended
and the final world war
found disbelieving people sleeping on the floor,
but the deed was done.
i finally walked back in
in the eyes of the watching world
and maintained my boyhood grin
when nobody was saluting
Man Ray
who found nothing new to say,
although he looked into his pocket
before he walked away.

stars like a kiss

the pink sneakers
turning on the floor
an island washing white sand
with foaming bubbles of timeless blue
there's music playing inside your head
with sun
glasses
and dances and gestures
elsewhere in the garden
there's no end in sight
with the other guests
singing
in place
spinning
in place
with no point
without beautiful songs
all around
the girls picking jasmine
the boys, too,
with flowers;
and smiles
are real mountains
shimmering
while the great oceans swim
and away in the distance
a whispering
so close by
it becomes a lovers' hug;
stars like a kiss,
resting on your quiet lips,
sparkle in the sky.

won't you pack your bags and come?

i know it's not time
there are more summer nights to come
and i can already hear a friend
playing on his kettle drum
and there's a hot campfire
near plenty of ice cold beer
i might dream of being somewhere else
but why not be content staying here?
in my small town
with the FM radio
the mountains are flat
and there's no sign of an early snow
the grass is pasture green,
the boys wear their proud red necks
the sweet girls do their square dance
jumping off backyard decks
for their big chance at romance
stopping only to laugh at simple jokes
yes, we're having a river party
thinking of ourselves as simple folks
where the back seat is a great place to meet
and bright red lip stick is a famous country music lick
for Bobbie Sue and me and you
and don't feel bad because we're not sad
it's okay to pull up an easy chair and stay
no one has to be profound or have an important word to say
the night air
gets us high and in that evening sky
the harvest moon shines for lovers
who get the silly shivers under covers
and a kiss from a favorite Miss
or a Mister, becomes a permanent memory
this ain't no time for breathless brevity
it's time for lingering by the open window
with what you know and i know
it's when swinging on the front porch
is still the best way to carry the torch
for your special someone
so, don't ask me what i've done
won't you pack your bags and come?

James Comey and the donald

Genghis Khan
would gut you
but Jame Comey like a constrictor
will squeeze the life
from your lying body;
he won't mess with your mind:
that is already worthless.
so donald, hire the best lawyers
your family can afford!
bring in your old buddies
from New York and spin
stories into golden yarns
while
your twin tower sons
spew crap out of their mouths,
having learned from you
how to prevaricate
and embarrass themselves.
but you need help,
more than they can possibly provide.
see a shrink!

remembering the songs of his youth

i had a chance meeting with an umbrella
on the town sidewalk
near the front door of a church
and we both joked about the pale blue patches
of sky
and the tiny puddles of water in the street
as the Sunday sermon was ending
a strange thief walked by
looking at us
as though we were responsible for hiding his loot
even though we didn't know it was already in the ditch
out of sight and out of reach
covered by sandy gravel
so we followed his footsteps
to the summer playground where we saw
him play with his own umbrella
making a powerful face as he tried to
turn it into a sewing machine
but in spite of all his efforts
with the thimble and the thread
only a single school of fish appeared
and
blowing bubbles they surfaced
directly into a room for smoking pot
rather than tobacco
and much later when they asked the thief
to surprise them with an artificial lake,
he put on a pair of sunglasses and went for a swim,
remembering the songs of his youth.

we all want to go to Paris!

we all want to go to Paris!
we'll dance around that terrible sound
of black gold gushing
out of the ground
& watch the tiny mad men go rushing
like Peeping Tom
through their telescopes;
the self-promoting dopes
in a tangle of dying pine trees
choking on their crooked knees
in once a peaceful neighborhood
but now we have a tragedy
and it wasn't just me
watching smoke pouring from a stacked chimney
my unbought eyes can clearly see
the ocean tides' chest high
and no one need wonder why
in the middle of the room in a wet dress
and no one has to wonder or guess
shaded lamps and warm black shadows
and so it comes and so it goes!
all the way back to the garden
when we did not draw or paint
even Eskimos feel the heat and faint
so someone has to answer questions:
who will become the Saint?
we're hopelessly muddled in a quagmire
swallowing brimstone and oak wood fire
beauty, it's been said, is in the eyes of the beholder
both the younger and the older
wildflowers wilt and green fields smolder
we're hopelessly muddled in a quagmire
swallowing brimstone and oak wood fire
we all want to go to Paris!
we all want to go to Paris!

Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man

balls on a cold hard anvil
instead of in a soft feminine hand
and that's a tremendous difference
especially for an atheist
who is already six years
into reconstructive heart surgery,
so i kept reading
with growing interest
and a head for details
of the give-and-take of a battle
which was embarrassingly brutal
except for a moment of kindness
when a nurse went looking for water.
Hiroshima was months away from
the arrival of Little Boy
and his uranium 235 slug of booze
which would be dropped
from a B-29 piloted by the son
of Enola Gay,
and the timing would be text-book
perfect,
followed by an abrupt aircraft turn
and a swirling mushroom cloud:
the cloud proved to be completely inedible.
ground zero was plotted to be near a major hospital
which immediately ceased to exist,
the patients inside never to know
how beautiful their personal pictures could become.
Fat Man,
meanwhile,
stayed in a secure cabin on Tinian island,
reading whatever he wanted
stuffing his mouth with plutonium 239
instead of LSD:
he said he didn't want to experience
Foxy Lady or have any recurring bad dreams.
a major exhibit of his works
would be on display
in Nagasaki, Japan, a short
3 days after
Enola G
put on her show for all the local dealers
and other gallery artists.
i paid less than twenty bucks for the book
and spent most of my free time between readings
holding a tambourine behind my head,
imagining a halo.

i mounted it and signed my name

and in a haze
i caught her gaze
and she called to me
and there we were
in our uniform of fur
marching in a corner of the kitchen floor
cooking up some hard noodles and something more
was boiling in the rising steam
like an ironical dream
and all i had to hang onto was a single nail
piercing the roof in a vertical space.
she leaned in and took a taste;
i happened to notice when she smiled,
her face became jungle wild
and i wanted a spoon and a tall glass of whisky.
the shadow was hers but the hunger was inside of me;
we tried to remember all that was known
as she tossed her stick and i threw my stone
but like a sorcerer's apprentice it touched nothing but air!
she set her mind to eating lunch
i needed to frame a painting but had a hunch
there might be something for me to eat as well
but i still needed to gather things to sell
to help defray the costs of the drinks and dinner
i grabbed a picture of myself as a past sinner
and in a rich-looking frame
i mounted it and signed my name.