A Special Flower

Ford Madox Ford.
Ted Hughes!
his old lady
and her oven shoes
writing in their London flat
where she poetically sat
listening to the news
with Ezra Pound
and Dorothy,
who slipped underground:
he to Venice
stressing clarity
& musical words
absent disparity.
Robert Lowell.
Robert Frost!
at St. Elizabeths
at any cost
at any hour
giving the inmate
a special flower.
James Joyce
had no choice:
he always wore glasses
to see
language and brilliant infinity,
while Marianne Moore,
went quietly approaching her door,
but no one was there.
and it didn't seem fair
that Edna St. Vincent Millay,
who kissed all lips,
had the softest fingertips
to write sonnets
which the modernists hated
and constantly berated.
they loved Eliot, though,
especially the flow
of The Waste Land:
Pound for Pound
despair
and
The Burial of the Dead is there
stirring the air.

tearing petals off a daisy

i heard what he had to say

and it hasn't even been a year

but i remain here

not sure if it's night or day

tearing petals off a daisy

growing restless and increasingly lazy

and as i slept

promises were not kept

indeed, my bath is cold

i'm feeling old

sleeping 

weeping

sometimes i'm peeping

over the border wall

there is an iron urinal

in an old white church

and from my cell

i can hear the refugees stomp and yell

looking for a place of their own:

for awhile it would remain unknown

ready to believe anything

sitting on an empty swing

set up on the west wing lawn

i'm waiting for a brighter dawn

ready to see

doors open 

the children set free

i heard what he had to say

and it hasn't even been a year

but i remain here

not sure if it's night or day

tearing petals off a daisy

growing restless and increasingly lazy

and as i slept

promises were not kept

indeed, my bath is cold

i'm feeling old

sleeping

weeping

sometimes i'm peeking

over the border wall

there is an iron urinal

in an old white church

and from my cell

i can hear the refugees stomp and yell

looking for a place of their own:

for awhile it would remain unknown

ready to believe anything

sitting on an empty swing

set up on the west wing lawn

i'm waiting for a brighter dawn

ready to see

doors open 

the children set free

a reason for beauty to exist

and in classical style
i used my chainsaw
to cut wood
that is hidden away in my
back yard
chopped split and piled
screened from prying eyes
covered from rain and the like
and there's no reason to alter that
the property has entrances through the trees
none underground
and a fireplace inside linked to a tall chimney
so that in times of siege
i can stay warm on cold winter nights
with a neat bottle of middling red wine and an old book
of French poetry
totally free of riddles and drafts
and when quite fortunate
to share and care
there is a woman with tastes that are affordably
plain or fancy
seated closely
nestled in a brown leather chair
comfortably awake
and that's a reason for beauty to exist.

replacing blue and green

it's obscene!
and terribly mean
the repeated yelling
about a homosexual scene
and a subsequent arrest
but who is the real protagonist?
from the darkness of the theater
a woman shrieked;
her paper cup leaked
and the audience fell silent
when they learned who was sent
to save the day
they had nothing to say
about the suicide in a Washington bar
it might have happened far
away
and there was always hell to pay
for any water on the floor.
many old friends went off to war
and some would die
eating their mother's apple pie
to save face
an anonymous caller asked me for a taste
while someone ripped my coat
before the end of Act Three
but i escaped responsibility
like a successful trespasser in the dark
took a walk in Gorky Park
ice skated with a famous church mouse
in the backyard of his Georgetown house
sometime in early 2017
it's obscene!
and terribly mean
replacing blue and green
for West Virginia coalminer's black,
painting the White House walls
in full-size images of an Idaho potato sack
making calls
to bring back the ghosts of Christmas past.

building the wall

oh shit!
in a letter to the Trump tower
there were comments about building the wall
and all the work and money
the back-breaking labor
the stupidity
the bullshit, frankly, and all the crazy stuff
well, just thinking about it gives me heartache,
so i'll pass with this comment:
somewhere there is a thief
supposedly honest
who was never accused of any wrongdoing
which he wouldn't deflect,
who hides a receipt under his remaining hair,
who regards himself as a builder
but mainly of his own reputation
and who, later in life, will probably co-author a very slim book
about his early years
working so so bigly hard to achieve world peace.
oh shit!

Bowie

with the flag unfurled
The Man Who Sold The World,
lungs full
of Major Tom and stardust,
a busted Angie bust,
and a nose for changing money,
the only artist capable of
dressing like an androgynous honey
while acting like Cocaine Man,
played the pipes like mythological Pan
and did things differently each day
singing cabaret
100,000 miles
of strawberry blond smiles
far away
getting his rocks off
rocking with his socks off
at a crossroad with a Spiders From Mars book
he signed a contract for a closer look
stayed in tune and natural fact
without a straight and narrow track
he'd dance with his Brixton pants
pulled high over his head
like guitar Heroes
he meant exactly what he said
lighting a spark in the dark dark
jumping over the marriage bed
wham bam
thank you ma'am
Fame wasn't the only game
he went on to claim
in Black Tie White Noise
and all the famous Rebel Rebel boys
with children baskets filled with favorite toys
they did things differently each day
singing cabaret
100,000 miles
of strawberry blond smiles
far away
getting his rocks off
rocking with his socks off
at a crossroads he took a Spiders From Mars book
he signed a contract for a closer look
stayed in tune and natural fact
without a straight and narrow track
he'd dance with his Brixton pants
pulled high over his head
like guitar Heroes
he meant exactly what he said
lighting a spark in the dark dark
jumping over the marriage bed
wham bam
thank you ma'am

one Last Supper

go back to your student days
of thinking clearly
or in a haze
would you care
if grounded
or up in the air
about anything there
fantascising conceptually
enslaved
or creatively free
missing out on no important detail
remember:  it's pass or fail
on the final page
escaping from your cage
into the outside
rather than the inside
power walking
or hitching a ride
living dreams
buying them
and visionary schemes
and torments and martyrdom
and thoughts of elementary school
acting dead
or playing it cool
in a cafeteria dress
at morning recess
kicking that spinning ball
against the solid brick wall
and a civil war broke out
much later in life
you carried a hidden plastic knife
when i heard you shout
eating one Last Supper
with a faint hint
of an after-dinner mint
while you filled your sketchbook
taking a last look
at all the fast women who became saints
and the men who died too young
and all the songs they knew and sung;
how they slaughtered the bull
kept eating until their bellies were full
rolling the dice
paying the price
but at the end of the day
they said what they came to say.

dying in the desert

Revolver
AK
what more is there to say?
NRA.
old man chopped down
young woman in a wedding gown
twisting her head to see the muzzle flash
from an unfamiliar point of view
could she be you?
backward and outward
running without direction or a shoe
jawbone broken in two
the cracking sound of another round
and each successive shot came so fast
tearing a little girl's head in half
the killer gave a silent laugh
watching her eyes
disappear and reappear
into another face
in his haste
reloading and reordering
brain matter on a country & western platter
gripping the rungs on an out-of-reach ladder
not far from the famous strip
the blood-spattered cigar fell smoking from the policeman's lips
as full metal jackets continued to rain down like hail
as if you could drive a nail
through it
thick as an armored battleship
smoke alarms
hundreds of people hurt
dying in the desert
Revolver
AK
what more is there to say?
NRA.

underneath the fingerprints of a god

oh yes
there are bones
skeletons of dogs
and sheep
and yet the one impression that i keep
inside my favorite foundry mold
is of a long tall tale of being old
in an age of superlatives:
deadliest mass shooting
most post-hurricane looting
and i have a lot of others, sisters and brothers
because i'm working on the history of Man.
i see him crawling away from his trash can
artificially built up by reputation,
dreaming of a prolonged retirement vacation
with his modern holiday lover
claiming to know how all the marked cards are dealt.
i watch his party ice melt
and his furrowed forehead become warm
underneath the fingerprints of a god
who had been modeled originally in clay
oh yes
someone pray.

on the bloody ground at Mandalay Bay

monstrous heads
small feet
kicking me
up and down the street
like a brushstroke
of writhing paint
on a colossal canvas
i faint
with an eloquence
all my own
on the bloody ground at Mandalay Bay
in Las Vegas, a concert moan
a groan
a dead mother
a dad and his brother
a son
a daughter
a senseless slaughter
during a time of peace
it has to cease!!
and fifty years later
a well-dressed waiter
might ask me if i'd like a drink,
but i'll have to think
about that.