in Naples all the women are beautiful

when Olga was being difficult,
Picasso knew that
in Naples
all the women are beautiful
and everything is easy.
in Paris, his rose period finally came
when it climbed a steep hill,
and puffed past a rundown windmill.
his sketchbook and cheap rent
both looked down to the famous nomadic river,
saw a passing barge,
and heard the future tie up softly at a landing.
then Matisse finally sold something
to a dealer,
who sold it to a German collector
standing on a street corner
near the Agile Rabbit,
but his wife wasn't so sure.
jugglers, acrobats, brothels, and boozers
stayed awake until four
painting posters, posing,
erasing lines drawn in the sand,
looking for their gypsy connections,
warming themselves within their fiery imaginations.
the genteel Russian girls
danced in the opera,
painted faces smelling of vodka and caviar.
the post-Impressionists
went searching for Cezanne,
peeking under the vermillion trees
where nude women bathed,
their wet hair falling in loose strands of scarlet yellow.
cheap wine and riotous song splashed below the breaking clouds,
and a strong urge for a new day,

a romance day,
which could come at any hour,
left the city breathless.

into the night sky

with lobster eyes,
i see that you exist
as no other.
but i am not your brother,
nor a lover forever.
on the ensuing weekend
when i was in London,
i had you by and by;
as far as i'm concerned
i should not lie
on a Saturday.
Sunday might be different,
passing by,
but i should not lie.
i split myself
between two women or more,
and at my most essential,
at my core,
i feel you stir
like a cat might purr
for food on a hungry night.
i spent many hours
picking flowers
especially for you.
there came a soft knock on my door
which i needed to ignore
because it was a ghost
with a voice i knew;
but unlike
a curious bird,
it flew
into the night sky,
beyond the night sky
where i
could no longer reach it
when i tried to reach it,
and there was no cage.

poetry at the mermaid

poetry at the mermaid

on a water slide to hell;

a little whisper from a big mouth

with words i can’t retell;

the cold sticks to my teeth

and i bite each syllable 

in a frenzy of disbelief, 

i was not feeling well.

the greasy cup of coffee

and the ash cloud of a sun

invade my breakfast table

as i’ve become undone,

sipping strong-willed fantasy

for a brief moment of relief:

there are buckets of pure emptiness

where i’ve hidden in my grief.

Herb Gold

Herb was golden
in his San Francisco chair
certainly grateful
for the few strands of grey hair
he found in his bathroom sink;
well, at least he could think
his way out of a wet paper bag,
and he didn't need a chest tag
to remember his own name
as he walked past the hippie lady with her two small poodles
to a late night diner that served tasty Chinese noodles;
he was excited to read Home Boy
written by an old Park Avenue friend
who used drugs like a friendly toy
until his untimely end
when, very drunk, he crashed his motorcycle!
Herb, on the other hand, rode his Huffy bicycle
which was much safer
sure and slow;
he often knew which way to go
divorced
and solo
into the streets of San Francisco
cruising the world.

what is important

the head of a woman
her strong arms
long and slender
silent summertime charms
and twelve years later
i'm checking for changes
check, please, waiter!
her forehead and hair
falling loosely from an easy chair
gouging my cheeks
delineating lines
old cobblestone signs
and i'm on the road to creation
looking for Mr. Jack
but he's not coming back
with Alan or Paul
and i read them all
earlier in the day
before she modeled for me in an adjacent hay field
monumentality
i was forced to yield
johnny on the spot
like a figure of a man
a passing tiny dot
with flattish breasts in the background
and my treasured book
she took another look
in her androgynous pose
and nobody knows
better than i
how her breath becomes tender
when it wraps itself around my mouth
remembering what is important to remember.

when it rained

i wanted to know

when it rained

why on earth

that man thought it was snow.

his pregnant belly

like a plastic bag

of hot pants

and peanut butter jelly;

his silly laugh

flat as a FOX tongue

late at midnight

in a lukewarm bath;

by the public door

of a big white house,

his orange hair

on a bedroom floor

wild as a deer heart

but dead on arrival,
sputtering,

and never to start:

i wanted to know

when it rained

why on earth

that man thought it was snow.

in his masculine pose

one big hand small

advertising

like New York broadway shows

i wanted to know

when it rained

why on earth

that man thought it was snow.

the neighbor's cats' cries

the headlights flooded my studio
with a light so bright
i had to protect my eyes!
i heard the neighbor's cats' cries
and watched her arch her back
with a feline intent
she wandered into my gatehouse
curious and slightly bent
looking for a tray of tea
but all she saw was me
without knowing what i was for
what should she do?
i had painted my face green and blue.
looking out my window in the spring
i was astonished to learn the cat could sing.
sitting on the alley wall
there would be a terrible price to pay
if she should fall,
so i kept her in sight
throughout the night;
and in the background were bare trees,
stark and lonesome in the quiet breeze
as she crouched like a sphinx
her nose visibly pink
her giraffe-like head
like a sculpture resembling a primitive bed
slightly larger than a breast in heat
she sat confidently on her own four feet
for the better part of the coming week
modeling for the purpose of an extra treat
which i secretly provided
when our glances at each other collided
and it seems so bizarre
but that's what we are
and back to back, we looked at each other
sister and brother
dualities like the sun and moon
late and soon
sea and sky
her and i
night and day
closer and closer and further away
until our hungry lips got in the way.

the winter hare

concentration camps
think seriously;
they hang kerosene lamps,
light multiple gas ovens
in a barbed wire haze,
and bones sleep on hard wood,
hear gun shots and shouts,
and a winter hare runs from a chasing white dog
through the tall drought-resistant grasses
scampering into a hillside burrow
into darkness
hiding
because it needs to hide
and the trailing dog's nose becomes filled with dirt
while digging
persistently
when it discovers frightened people
like a giant throbbing lump of clay
hiding in the deep burrow
and suddenly
the nearing nuclear war
doesn't provide any relief
between the two.
close by,
under cover,
the commander in chief
wore his peaked cap
to protect his eyes
from the flash and nobody realized
his shadow was the only source of light.
on his last day in office
he looked unusually tentative,
devoid of charisma,
and filled with a Big Mac melancholy
which he shared with the white dog
who had come into his office
to escape the out-of-doors.
the people remained frightened,
staying in the background,
along with the vanishing winter hare.