the streets of Chicago burned

where did you march carrying the flag
in the summer of '68
when the streets of Chicago burned
with a passion beyond hate?
could you hear the voice of your daddy
say "Where is my son?" "Did he die?"
before you took another breath
did you ever wonder why
there were police surrounding Lincoln Park
and a cold wind blew from the lake?
were you enrolled in a great course
or weren't you even awake
when the helicopters flew at night
and the citizen soldiers fought?
when the songs were duty to country
which were the ones you were taught?
did you turn your back and run away
as the smoke burned your lungs and eyes;
and air filled with shouts of wonder
did you hear a mother cry?
into madness with a purple heart
in the summer of '68
when the streets of Chicago burned
with a passion beyond hate
did you take a seat while other boys
in their enthusiasms played
but could not stand the growing noise
and fell silent as you prayed.

the Vietnam war ended

baby
maybe
i am not offended
that the Vietnam war ended
as it did because for my part
i gave my heart
i danced, had a drink
fell into the Mekong stink
cried, lied
felt terrified
lost my arms and feet
tasted numbness and defeat
it grabbed me by the hair
forced me into a razor-wire chair
laid me bare
until i sat dreaming
& steaming
in the afternoon breeze
muttering please
save me, honey
but i don't need your fucking money
i don't want your morning kiss
i prefer my worn mattress
and the cigarette burns on my polyester suit.

Larry Bird

Larry Bird
with much love and tenderness
and a killer jump shot
far from the hoop
a three point bomber
like a tight rope artist
an in your face dunk
and an Ovid-the-poet passer
like Apollo's first love,
the mountain nymph, Daphne,
striking fear
into the taller players hiding in treetops
unceremoniously
dreaming of defeat at the hands of the white kid
from French Lick.

Birthday Bash

was it
a backstage drama
or a pair of happy breasts seen through an open second story window
or a modern artist
displaying in a courageous manner
to her biographer?
well, the shift from memory to myth
requires a change of heart,
instead of a simple switch from Shiner Bock
to Sierra Nevada Pale Ale.
but i do remember a blue ice chest filled to the brim
with party hats
and a lime pie with an assortment of flaming candles, most
of which were dripping wax onto the peanut butter cake,
bought with small change and massively disappointing.
and while i wouldn't step into a dead man's boots,
i did drink inexpensive Chardonnay
because the price was right and the ensuing conversation
full of enthusiasm,
as was the spectacular bean salad.
a very costly link of sausage made from pure maple syrup
tasted sweet to one young musician called
Igor and his wife was Sally, who promised to use
saddle cream on his ass if he went for a bike ride
with his friend, Rodney.
Rodney was not interested.
but there were three exuberant ladies of the church who sang
in falsetto but were not really women and a dancer
who sang on an elevated stage as a real woman
and probably missed the bingo game scheduled for later.
initially it was a great blow to sit at a table which wobbled,
and i fixed that with a serving plate borrowed from an adjacent table
and no one seemed to mind;
after all, it was my birthday!
so before i ate dinner, i recited Lincoln's Gettysburg Address or, at best,
some of it
and i didn't know how good halibut could taste until i swam
away with it as an experiment,
hair flying in the breeze.