one night in a local hotel

all my friends
some in the pond
and some i don't know
what they're up to
i certainly couldn't guess
but i digress
far from the social scene
where i sit down for an evening meal
and my iphone rings
but i am not at home
with no extra time to spare
i've almost completely cut my hair
in search of further guidance
i won't answer letters on principle
my hands are nervous but they're full
pouring beer and cooking with gas
i won't drink red wine by the case
toasting the massacre of the human race
or i'll suffer horribly
reading a recent catastrophic letter
questioning whether i'll take a sad song and make it better
during a final summer family trip
to the shores of southern New Jersey
which even now seem far away
i'm often obliged to be on the east coast
where i'll spend at least one night in a local hotel
hoping in the morning i'll feel well
after wondering throughout the night about the voices of the dead
and all those snarling, biting words they said
about a lifetime of overindulgence
in very rich food
i'm sitting beautifully by my bed kneeling
with a lover asking me how i'm feeling
knowing within days i'll be on the brink of death
sucking air as though each inhale could be my last breath.

she had the last word

i managed to keep my distance
but saw my dog jump the fence
she disappeared with no time to spare
i looked everywhere
she wouldn't answer me no more
i searched the ceiling; i swept the floor
it was like a game of lost and found
but i wouldn't give up on that hound
maybe she chased an anxious deer?
well, i sat and drank a Coors beer
and thought of a ski trip to Colorado
hmmm, which way did she go?
is she still in the neighborhood?
i'd find her if i could
and finally, i saw her near some old tombstones
in a nearby cemetery filled with Masonic bones
she looked like she had rolled in fresh dirt
her mouth filled with a sugary dessert
it was an over-ripe peach from a local orchard
as usual, she had the last word.

the descent of Man

working on my health
spending the summer undercover
i'm avoiding a tongue-in-cheek lover
dealing in cheap money
i entertain thoughts of a Los Cabos honey
while waiting for the total solar eclipse
and religiously following the nightly news
i ultimately choose
to see her slow motion hips
her beautiful face flashing behind her tantalizing lips
her whisper like the horny beak of a bird
and i try to understand each flying word
but there are times when the day simply washes away
and she has nothing rational to say
i look at all the empty cigarette packs
to remember what my life lacks
and every visit to the grocery store
gives me a reason to shop for more
before
leaving for a long affair
and i wonder when i'll ever get there
i look at my old hands and all i see are bones
i fill my pockets with memories and feathers and stones
i am told over tea not to be too mean
but have already decided to leave the social scene
ten minutes is all i need
to answer her letters and start to bleed
and i take off my shoe
knowing nobody knows what i'm up to
the evenings come to visit with a Sports Illustrated magazine
but i'm already reading on my back deck and stay unseen
in search of further guidance
i swallow some Don Juan peyote and go into a trance
there's always a full moon somewhere in the distance!
and i see steady light inside my studio
so that's where i should go
to watch a film about the descent of Man
but i don't think i can.

i can't walk out

in the bright blue sky
two cone-shaped breasts
and in a series of anatomy tests
i finally satisfied my first taste
snapshots of your mysterious face
and a slender leg
well, i got down on my knees to beg
pointing my photographic head
to cool furniture and a hotter bed
and baby, on the edge of the cliff
i didn't want to be left with the questions
"What's for lunch?" or "What if?"
and you told me your favorite destination
we went for a summer vacation
a lovely dip and a delightful swim
you were laughing and beautiful and trim
and the tides gave me no room for doubt
i can't walk out
we stayed for an encore and watched the waves
in the bright blue sky
two cone-shaped breasts
and in a series of anatomy tests
i finally satisfied my first taste
snapshots of your mysterious face
and a slender leg,
well, i got down on my knees to beg;
i spent more time on the make
we had much to give and much to take
from each other
and in the end we found a new beginning,
hit a crazy streak and kept on winning,
making the rounds
in the color and texture of dark roasted coffee grounds
looking out to sea
contentedly
by a table and a little lamp,
feeling slightly damp.

the batter's box

thanks for listening
some years later
when i played second base
and caught a line drive with my backhand turned
to the pitcher's mound
and later threw a runner out at home;
it was a fetish!
a gloved defense against loss and despair
and you were there
with a wide mouth,
a question forming on the first base line:
would he make it to the pros?
like virtually all the girls
with two eye-holes and a soft heart
standing guard over my fate,
i didn't try to stave off your advances
while in the batter's box
taking practice swings at your curved breasts;
i saw your speeding vagina
coming inside high and tight
and the ump, once again, making the hand signal
for a strike, too flagrantly, i felt,
and i fantasized about pitching a no-hitter
in Yankee Stadium
when your sat on my face,
between innings,
as though i were the team bench.

listening for an encore

Sydney
and the opera house
at dawn
was singing 'Good Day' to a
regatta of sailboats
which i saw
while walking to the famous bridge
out of my way
but not too far
at the end of the summer of
1970.
for nearly a month
i waited for my flight from
Saigon;
in spite of everything,
i was able to board
and on landing
the Aussie girls were waiting
after i cleared Customs and
found my army duffle,
their big round eyes shining
brightly in fresh happy faces.
they waited to dine and dance,
to walk and talk,
to peek and probe,
to be close to me, to touch.
did i ever say how much
it meant?
and in the crisp springtime, months away,
with the opera house filled with song,
the evening harbor aglow with lights, sails and stories,
i'd be waiting under a misty jungle canopy
far to the north,
listening for an encore.

by my campfire

in Hiroshima
it's a quiet evening
with a red sun
rising over the tall mountains
to the east.
there are Japanese ghosts nearby
who dance in the shadows.
a few years from now
from my front porch
looking up
there will be fewer stars visible
in the night sky
because of a persistent light pollution,
and i'd rather see stars than
sudden fear in a child's eyes.
i must acknowledge Edison, perhaps,
or Tesla,
but there's darkness
beyond the strip mall,
some welcome and some not so much.
in parts of the Mekong delta,
for instance,
water buffalo still roam
without headlamps or streetlights,
stepping into fertile mud,
raising rice,
raising their heads with huge horns.
the Viet Minh have buried their dead
in that land,
along with their black sandals
and black shirts and black teeth.
they claimed a lasting victory
over US Marines who came ashore at Da Nang,
splashing onto China beach like confident predators
while keeping a watchful eye at dragon clouds
swirling atop Monkey Mountain.
the American troops were to protect innocent
civilians and corrupt Vietnamese generals
by force of arms and
with accurate shooting,
if possible with an unreliable M16.
but a Marine sharpshooter, living in the World,
sat high atop a campus clock tower
in Austin, Texas
shooting at people
far below who were
not Viet Cong
but were waiting for the Texas Oklahoma game to begin
or going about their morning business.
he might have been in Da Nang,
where killing was expected.
Iwo Jima, in the Pacific,
also had a pretend Marine,
John Wayne, a hollywood actor,
who got his feet wet in the black volcanic sand,
but he
didn't climb a clock tower to kill friends
or strangers,
even though he never grew a flower from a seed.
he faded away, holding a stiff deck of cards,
a stiff drink,
and a smoking cigarette,
anxious to begin his shuffle toward a new beginning
where he could act without killing,
without pretending to be someone he wasn't.
and the war to end all wars might have come and gone,
but it failed to end the madness.
the predators often ate their prey
while wearing some type of uniform
and sometimes they ate each other,
naked ambition dripping off chins.
i don't remember if there were any predators
at my high school back in the 1960's
but once, at a post-prom party,
i wanted to read
The Stranger by Camus
but i was told
by a blond cheerleader i was fucking
to quit acting absurd,
and i thought that was funny!
when i met Picasso, a Spanish painter,
he told me at that exact moment,
blond was his favorite color.
the conclusion of our conversation
was a discussion about war
and we both agreed it was a sexual thing.
he liked going into beach cabanas and i'd go anywhere.
the following summer i returned,
looking for him,
but he was busy growing the nail on his little finger
while avoiding
the subject of the German invasion of France,
though he did mention the earlier bombing of Guernica.
and it was only after Salvador Dali
died that i took a renewed vow of sobriety,
excepting for, of course,
the better French wines which i couldn't afford.
i had seen too many ticking clocks melt into distorted shapes
like the faces of small children who
were once seen at play in the narrow streets
of Nagasaki, Japan one surprising morning
while a silver predator flew silently far, far overhead.
and then i read about Dresden, Germany
and that ugly fire bombing
and got sick, really sick,
as i had many times in the past.
i've now been in bed writing for over a month,
give or take,
and will soon go outside for an evening walk,
hoping to find at least one
hungry stray cat,
or a dog
which once upon a time was a wolf,
a type of predator,
and yet wants to be by my campfire
under a starry sky
where we'll both howl to the moon.