Janis Ian

Janis
at seventeen
a literary beauty queen
lovely in her own way
searching for the most poignant words to say
isn't it remarkable
that her moon is still full
and her seas turquoise blue
and you're left wondering how she ever knew
the tv
wasn't where it was meant to be,
at twenty three!
growing old and growing young
counting all the words she's ever sung
so baby, please don't go
there's more we want to know
like a little bird and a lullaby
singing all the way
down the forgotten highway
glowing under the sunrise
in blue jeans and a t-shirt
haunting with your words that heal and hurt
and in peace
a guitar plays and will not cease!
Janis
at seventeen
a literary beauty queen
lovely in her own way
searching for the most poignant words to say
isn't it remarkable
that her moon is still full
and her seas turquoise blue
and you're left wondering how she ever knew
the tv
wasn't where it was meant to be,
at twenty three!

sitting on a fallen log

it's been a long time
walking in the primordial woods
reading the latest news
grabbing girls by the hair
polishing cheap canvas shoes
remembering how the day comes undone
watching the setting sun
dripping in the rain
grey clouds hanging low
forgetting the mayonnaise
forgetting where to eventually go
a happy dog and i sitting on a fallen log
feeling restful with some love to give
a lady and a life to live
holding her hand
she holding mine
sipping wine
red in the nighttime and white during the day
remembering what else she had to say
looking to the future
shadows on the dry canyon wall
seeing the wild ravens fly and listening as they caw
wondering about lost arts
valentine candy eaten like broken hearts
road kill and a low-rent landlord cries
boyfriends and a great-grandmother's pies
my transistor radio playing sounds of American trash
lost in the Lincoln tunnel
looking for Mega Millions jackpot cash
reciting Shakespeare and his thoughtful English verse
stuck in reverse
flying on the busy boulevard
the world in my rear view mirror and traffic noise
second grade recess and vocal boys
a price tag hanging around our necks
the string cello and a drummer keeping the beat
shadows on the busy noon day street
looking to the future.

give me a kiss, baby

give me a kiss, baby
i won't take a no or a maybe
give me a gentle squeeze and a warm hug
a little love making on the living room rug
listening to the rain drops fall
soft footsteps coming down the hall
your eyes
filled with the sweetest surprise
all whispers and contented sighs
the music turned low
no where we'd rather be or go
reading poetry from the classical book
giving each other that special look
wine and food
taking a hint getting into the mood.
give me a kiss, baby
i won't take a no or a maybe
give me a gentle squeeze and a warm hug
a little love making on the living room rug.

in walked

in walked this man!
he was Bud

with an open can;

he tapped his toe,

pointed a finger

to where he wanted to go:

over on the stage,

a lady inside her cage.

when he opened the door,

she swept the floor

with her piano;

at the beginning of the show,

all ripe blues and jazz,

he showed her what he has

inside his hard case,

a beautiful string bass.

and they began to play,

everything they ever wanted to say.
and out on the dance floor
everyone asked for more.
the sounds filled every head
with what the music Gods said.
all night long
like a beating heart each song
kept pounding away
and no one was asked to pay.

picking up the pieces

but remember, the brick fence idea is dumb and should be broken!
like a cheap subway token
no border wall is so tall
it can't be climbed and left for dead
regardless of what the boss man President said
with a blue sky overhead
children continue to play
while their parents pray
among the ruins and poverty dreams,
picking up the pieces, picking new teams
with a blue sky over head
changing colors from blue to red:
a country club lawn
is awakening to a new dawn
of passenger and driver with scolding sounds
in a rush,
making the rounds,
sweeping through rough city streets
slicing prejudice to pass out like candy treats,
like fast food
to quickly inflate a defiant mood!
but remember, the brick fence idea is dumb and should be broken!
like a cheap subway token
no border wall is so tall
it can't be climbed and left for dead
regardless of what the boss man President said
with a blue sky overhead
children continue to play
among the ruins and poverty dreams,
picking up the pieces, picking new teams.

what Miss Universe said

here's how it goes man
sitting on my piano bench with a whiskey in hand
sipping one for you
tapping my foot with nothing else to do
touching the sky while romancing the keys
playing guitar with a little gypsy strip tease
the band cranking out the hottest blues
living large outgrowing our baby shoes
reaching into hearts and finding something for everyday fun
lots of Hollywood lovelies and a western setting sun
a bottle of the finest French red
remembering what Miss Universe said
shivering at the sight
reciting poetry in an art house late at night
over and over again until it feels just right
custom written for her ears
erasing all her hesitations and fears:
the joys of life and happiness tears!
here's how it goes man
sitting on my piano bench with a whiskey in hand
sipping one for you
tapping my foot with nothing else to do
touching the sky while romancing the keys
playing guitar with a little gypsy strip tease
the band cranking out the hottest blues
living large outgrowing our baby shoes.

you cannot dance tango alone

you cannot dance tango alone,
like two dogs trying to share a single bone
their bark becomes worse than the bite;
the lazy afternoon becomes the frantic night!
loose women and crazy men fight
spitting on the ballroom floor
"well, you're a dick! but i'm a proud whore!
there's a lot to share, but you're not getting anymore."
the kicks hit where the tender parts rest;
nobody is invited in except for the unwelcome guest
dancing in the street,
no polite company ever wants to stand up and meet
dressed in powder white and speaking neat
"you go your way and i'll go mine!"
feeling so good and feeling so fine
you cannot dance tango alone,
like two dogs trying to share a single bone.
acting like a hell cat flying upside down,
married in a bra strap without a wedding gown,
all the women running around;
all the men reaching for a buck;
they're running undercover but mostly running out of luck;
you cannot dance tango alone,
like two dogs trying to share a single bone
their bark becomes worse than the bite;
the lazy afternoon becomes the frantic night!
loose women and the crazy men fight
spitting on the ballroom floor
"well, you're a dick! but i'm a proud whore!
there's a lot to share, but you're not getting any more."

An American flag

the old man
swinging from a live oak tree,
combing his fake orange hair
like a wild chimpanzee
looking for a trap door score,
is still rolling on his golden bedroom floor.
he doesn't mind the latest news:
he's standing tall in Brooks Brother's shoes,
all the way to the Texas coast
with crazy cowboys he loves the most.
these are the days when cash is king
and dirty rats refuse to sing!
the local crowd sitting at the local bar
stood to look but couldn't see far:
an American flag
with a Made in China tag
tried to stand but couldn't rise
weighted down by countless lies.
on the sacred beach a soldier died,
his widow and her children cried.
the white tombstones buried in foreign sand,
dreaming of the promised land
far from the homeland shore:
they weren't marching home no more.
clever lawyers kept writing in their books,
covering tracks from inquiring looks.
bags of money and a fashion show honey
in a tower passing minutes and an hour
while around the block
a shepherd, searching for his flock,
shook the ground as he walked,
listening as the boastful old man talked.
each word a lie scattered into thin air,
meant to hide the truth everywhere.
the old man
swinging from a live oak tree,
combing his fake orange hair
like a wild chimpanzee
looking for a trap door score,
is still rolling on his golden bedroom floor.
he doesn't mind the latest news:
he's walking tall in Brooks Brother's shoes,
all the way to the Texas coast
with crazy cowboys he loves the most.
these are the days when cash is king
and dirty rats refuse to sing!
the local crowd sitting at the local bar
stood to look but couldn't see far.
An American flag has a Made in China tag.

watching caravans of immigrants

i see new blood on the early winter snow
and lost souls
looking for a better path to follow.
i can't speak the tongue!
am i simply too young
or willfully old?
with my poisoned lungs, perhaps i'm the spy in from the cold,
in a country of all things
constantly bought and sold,
watching caravans of immigrants bringing their young children and tiny sprigs of hope:
not tattooed criminals with illegal bags of dope,
climbing the high wire, scaling the border wall,
seeking answers before their fall,
much like another group once before
seeking justice from shore to shining shore
but the native Indians are mostly dead:
the buffalo soldiers took their land and their horses and i can't remember
what the Great White Father said.
those words are on a page but i can't find the history book!
millions of eyes are searching but where exactly should they look?
a young man is swimming across the Rio Grande river;
in the heat of summer i can see him shiver.

Phnom Penh

Phnom Penh
was hot as hell and filled with the nervous shadows
of dry bones and sick smiles
on the narrow streets of blood and broken glass,
memories of ancient temples
and the smell of escaping elephant shit
floating on the monsoon junk of another endless day
filled with acrid war smoke and sour piss,
as Kissinger sat in his cloistered Washington office
surrounded by his ass-kissing apparatchiks
who demurred when he plotted an invasion across a neutral border
with his tanks and his guns and his bombs and his helicopters
to bring random death and mayhem and marauding murder
to the rice paddies and the huts of peasants
speaking a language Henry never understood,
with power his only purpose.

remembering how i lied

okay miss Mary Lou!
i won the race,
so how about you?
it snowed as i drove hard,
skidded and slide
into your front yard.
you took a cold look;
took another hard sip,
and closed your book.
i handed you my letter.
it simply said
i was finally feeling better.
you gave me a stern gaze
before saying
that crime never pays,
and i knew that
as i sat
by your side,
remembering how i lied.

the boy from Manhattan and Miss Mary Lou

oh, i'm heading uptown;
gonna try keeping my baby bottle down!
feeling so smart,
holding onto my heart;
gonna get me another battery jump start
heading to the next Apprentice show,
onto the nearest street corner where i need to go,
where i heard about the boy from Manhattan.
he came to a party dressed in freshly pressed silks and polished satin;
loved his glittering gold and bought and sold
handsome new Miss Mary Lou
who
talked like a girl from the deepest south,
or was she a foreigner with a slippery tongue swimming inside her mouth?
she walked the straightest line in her latest fashion and sharp high heels,
looking for a sugar daddy to buy all her next meals;
she wanted a fast ride and he had the wheels,
all shiny silver and black;
he had his and wasn't giving any back!
Miss Mary Lou took him by his favorite arm;
he flashed a sullen smile and went looking for some charm.
he called the press and told them the greatest news:
he wanted Miss Mary Lou and she couldn't say no or refuse,
changing all his stripes and his Wharton School underwear;
she eventually said she loved him but in the end he didn't care,
oh, i'm heading uptown;
gonna try keeping my baby bottle down!
feeling so smart,
holding onto my heart;
gonna get me another battery jump start
heading to the next Apprentice show,
onto the nearest street corner where i need to go.

where the hell is the hand to ring the bell?

and maybe you thought you knew
tying strings
pulling on your shoe
that there were no afternoon classes on social intercourse
holding your bridle
riding your horse
but on the city street corner there were smaller protests
about the secret meetings
about the secret beauty contests
and the fake news printing all the momentary truth!
i read every damn page
passing through my local toll booth
paying my fare
hoping for a seat on the crowded town square
with sweet Jane and her bible and her temporary lover
there were plenty of white sheep shouting out in the nearby pasture
and others playing under cover,
fireworks on the 4th of July and a rousing patriotic song
shivers jumping up my spine
i'm holding on to everything that's mine
carrying a military combat assault rifle and loaded magazines
hearing angry older people yelling at angry teens;
so, what could possibly go wrong?
watching the ship of state and Clarabell the Clown
they're both smearing makeup on the famous American Constitution,
while asking their adoring masses to look up while pointing down!
and maybe you once loved the beauty of an orange autumn moon
the setting sun
having a quickie at noon
or wondered to where all the mad insurgent poets have gone
flames in their words
souls of brawn
teeth of steel and sentences ablaze,
trying to make sense of the dangerous maze!
hell yes, you might be wondering, where the hell
is the hand to ring the bell?
the sound is of muffled marching feet,
but the shaking is in the center of main street.
can you hear it?
do you fear it?
hell yes, you might be wondering, where the hell
is the hand to ring the bell?

"Bombs away!"

"Bombs away!"
you heard the mad pilot say,
and there's nothing you can do to stop the fall,
so don't even try to count them all!
it's impossible
to know the final score,
from the high ceiling to the lowest floor;
the angry men are wrapping their favorite gift
when the ground beneath their feet begins to shift!
what can you know about the day after tomorrow?
will it bring happiness or will it bring sorrow?
you're out on the street looking for a clear blue sky
wondering how hard you should try
looking for a safe place to shop?
or wondering how fast you should drop
your bag of groceries to take a dive?
wondering how you can tell if you're dead or still alive?
"Bombs away!"
you heard the mad pilot say,
and there's nothing you can do to stop the fall,
so don't even try to count them all!
It's impossible
to know the final score,
from the high ceiling to the lowest floor;
the angry men are wrapping their favorite gift
the ground underfoot begins to shift!

Mr. Vladimir

so tell me Mr. Vladimir
is another nasty cold war near
or will it turn hot?
tell us everything you've got!
we know your teeth are black
carrying nuclear codes in a secret Russian sack
sipping potato vodka
with comrade Miss Natasha
not far from the Baltic Sea
you've grown up to be everything you never dreamt you could be
murdering the free press on the evening news
wearing spotless Stalin shoes
never crossing a Moscow street
to grab a quick bite of hot borscht to eat
making lots of bloody money
laughing at things that aren't historically funny;
anyone who feels your famous stare
disappears while you're still standing there
talking on your phone
like a king upon his throne:
you're the man in total charge
with balls not big but overly large.
the boys watching you march in Kremlin hall;
the girls don't swoon, they completely fall:
their red lips signifying socially high class,
praying for a chance to kiss your made-in-Lenigrad ass,
and they feel a rush
before they blush!
so tell me Mr. Vladimir
is another nasty cold war near
or will it turn hot?
tell us everything you've got!

after Guadalcanal

the last sea victory of the war
came and went
as ships sank and ships sped
away
but i was long gone,
watching the beautiful blond
at her table
by the street-side window
during happy hour and the crowd was
getting juiced
while loud music jammed
and the high seats where people sat
kept getting shoved around
during epic journeys down memory lane
where the wine was dry,
the beer fresh and cold,
and no one stayed old
wearing bright sneakers, chasing youth
talking about playground bruises
or writing a possible book
about puppy loves
or a loose bra strap
hanging from a high school shoulder
giving some thoughtful boy a wink.
i heard them think
above the cocktail noise,
so many years after Guadalcanal,
and grabbed my paper and wrote
sentimental lines,
too many to be a simple short story,
too few to be a one night stand;
i stuffed that paper in a side pocket,
stood firmly and with much delight
took a lady's hand,
held it tight,
waiting for an evening traffic light
to finally change
into something we knew;
crossing the street,
walking under the rising of a harvest moon,
fresh air on a fresh face,
to see a movie called The Wife
while sitting on a sweet sofa
eating hot popcorn with just one hand
surrounded by
other members of the art house audience
and the faint smell of another quiet night
in Stockholm, Sweden on the screen:
sea breezes and limousines,
a burning cigarette,
crisp champagne,
literary lounges,
and a Nobel Prize ceremony;
she wrote the books but he signed his name,
then died of a heart attack on the hotel bed,
and she told her children everything,
later,
it was said.

donald trump predicts

donald trump predicts
that his penis is bigger than Tweety Bird's
penis and he doesn't need to
provide evidence
because Larry King found a new prostate pill
in France
on Bastille Day
while looking for Meghan Markle's
half-sister
so that proves his point.
but if you can't follow the linear progression,
it's because Melania is in Africa
wearing a colonial sunhat
to help prevent her glossy lipstick from fading
in the sub-Saharan heat.
donald trump predicts
that he'll ball her at least one time in the White House
before he's no longer President,
but she's betting against it.

it ain't working right

it ain't working right
the doctor checked my sight
said there's too much going wrong
well, Tom Petty played his final song
about Bobby Sue
who thinks she's knows just what to do
when the lights go dim
she has her eyes set straight on him
no, she doesn't see me
but i'm holding a sign offering myself for free
i'm in a party trace
can't sing and i can't dance
want to wear a big cowboy hat but it won't fit
saw a passing joint and took a hit
saw a whiskey drink and didn't have time to think
got some courage and got it fast
felt pretty intense but i knew it wouldn't last
said, hey girl, have you heard about Pablo Picasso?
i could tell you about some other things that you don't know
it's another Friday night
it ain't working right
the doctor checked my sight
said there's too much going wrong
well, Tom Petty played his final song
about Bobby Sue
who thinks she knows just what to do
when the lights go dim
she has her eyes set straight on him
no, it's fine, it's perfectly okay
she looked at me but had nothing new to say
and all the other guys stood around
i held firm standing my ground
can't go forward and can't go back
can't surrender and can't attack
i'm in a party trance
can't sing and i can't dance
want to wear a big cowboy hat but it won't fit
saw a passing joint and took a hit
saw a whiskey drink and didn't have time to think
got some courage and got it fast
felt pretty intense but i knew it wouldn't last.

where Picasso went

few people knew where Picasso went
but he certainly had a drink in hand
on his last day in southern France!
by his comfortable bed stood a skinny flower
dressed like a woman,
her hair falling to her shoulders,
her garden smile growing without weeds
near the tall blue mountain
by his old chateaux.
he kept his steady eyes
intense like a Spanish dream
of a brave matador's gaze:
they were full and round and strong
and massively inquisitive,
but they wouldn't reveal any secrets,
and he had a lot of secrets,
including many from inside the small beach front cabana,
where a girl was often down on her knees,
while he was never down on his luck.
the frequent winds there spit salt across the sea;
he watched a small kite aloft in the breeze,
its' string held by a young, soft hand,
a hand he would often use to comfort himself.
if he made a mistake,
cigarette smoke would spiral
around his studio easel,
shaman-like, chanting steadily,
while paint fell on his canvas.
he was always painting,
inside his head and in the still air of a busy room
where lines and colors formed;
a flat breast grew full and voluptuous;
pubic hair vibrating as though gasping for breath.
a penis embracing the large feminine nose,
a green face scowling like a difficult woman in shades of fracture;
a circus clown juggling memories,
a cube without ice melting inside a summer apartment,
a town crying for sanity during the bombing,
lovers looking for love without restraints,
painting over his mistakes,
painting his death mask,
painting his life.
he took a full sip from the glass,
after having cried
at the thought of his mother's funeral.

drink to me, he said.

poblano peppers

he's in the canyon walking with a dog;
she is in front looking for a deer,
but it's too hot for any sensible deer
to be that far from a source of water.
the recent futile, but entertaining chase after a group of young turkeys
is over and out of her mind already.
a few vultures are seen feasting on a very dead hen chicken
that must have strayed from the nearby farm.
the dog doesn't chance the vultures! they
cast a mean glance as she nears.
he remains attentive as he sits on a flat rock trail side.
his ass immediately becomes uncomfortable but his legs are tired
from the three hour walk.
the paper bag is crumbled and almost empty as his hand
gropes inside for whatever food remains.
a few stray clouds momentarily block the bright sun.
he keeps wearing his broad-brimmed hat.
he remembers there was supposed to be a big hullabaloo over the Senate Judiciary
meeting being held in Washington, D.C. that morning!
two people, one woman and one man, are to be cast as the central characters
to deliver testimony, most assuredly of starkly different versions
of a high school party: a he said, she said intrigue.
what would make this compelling is that the guy
was recently nominated by a former reality TV star to become a Supreme Court Justice.
his fate for a successful vote would center on his presumed fitness for that bench.
she would say he assaulted her.  was she lying?
did he thrust his preppy penis towards her body?
did he try to remove her clothes?  Rape her?
did he drink too much beer?  anything?
did he have an accomplice?
would the accomplice remember anything pertinent?
would the verbal battle be sufficient to derail his appointment?
would he still be given the high honor in spite of a woman's recollections
of his youthful misbehavior?  would she be believed?
the dog didn't want to keep hanging around the trail side flat rock,
and he's thinking nothing beyond giving the dog a drink by squirting
a stream from his Camelback water bottle; the dog gets ready with an open mouth.
the water makes the dog cough to clear her throat.
he knows it's time to pick up the pace.
there are flavorful visions of a home cooked meal tapping the glass of his brain wall.
his feet are becoming as sore as his ass,
so he stands and moves off.
he's followed by the dog.  she must be tired.
he wonders is he has any poblano peppers in the pantry.

Miss Natasha and her Golden Showers

they laughed when he spoke
because if it's not broke
he can fix it with a little wink,
full of bells and whistles and the White House kitchen sink
'cause it's open for service 24 hours;
Miss Natasha and her Golden Showers,
a celebrity apprenticeship opening near you;
his Federal Income tax returns long past due,
and at the State dinner wearing fancy tails
going off on fake news heading off the rails.
watching Sean Hannity FOX shows,
believing everything and that's how it goes!
sitting in the audience,
waiting for a glimmer of common sense
all the boastful threats
placing high stakes international bets
playing loose with house money:
it ain't boring and it ain't funny!
and that's how it goes, man,
getting up every morning for an artificial tan,
a medium rare hamburger and a Daffy Duck cartoon;
one quick Mueller story before noon
and here it comes, an outburst and a tweet
heading downtown crossing K street,
into the gutter the wind blown trash
looking for a pussy to grab, looking for cash
and the secret service guards this fancy scene,
a new black Cadillac the hustler's dream;
on the grassy knoll a random puff of smoke
out of their league protecting this piece of joke
and in the city park
passing notes to a stranger in the dark
the guard dogs beginning to bark:
the GOP Lincoln boys
getting out of Dodge with their ethical toys!
all the aisles empty, all the farmers' in a drought
shaking their heads filled with doubt
wondering about free trade
wondering if they'll get laid
wondering if they'll ever get paid
for an honest days' labor;
well, howdy friend, howdy American neighbor.
they laughed when he spoke
because if it's not broke
he can fix it with a little wink,
full of bells and whistles and the White House kitchen sink
'cause it's open for service 24 hours;
Miss Natasha and her Golden Showers,
a celebrity apprenticeship opening near you;
his Federal Income tax returns long past due,
and at the State dinner wearing fancy tails
going off on fake news heading off the rails.
the GOP Lincoln boys
getting out of Dodge with their ethical toys!
all the aisles empty, all the farmers' in a drought
shaking their heads filled with doubt
wondering about free trade
wondering if they'll ever get laid
wondering if they'll ever get paid
for an honest days' labor;
well, howdy friend, howdy American neighbor.

i'm moving away

well,  and you took me by surprise
when i looked into your sweet eyes,
filled with amazing hurtful lies;
but i'm not asking you to apologize
even if you pretended to be nice,
your heart continues to beat as cold as ice.
i asked you once but won't have to ask you twice!
no amount of money will ever pay your price;
long time gone 'cause i'm moving away.
i won't be here tomorrow because i already left yesterday;
well, and there's nothing else we'll need to say.
way down on your knees, it won't help to pray.
i'm the man you tried to bend,
but my wounds are deep and will not mend;
more to my own happiness i must attend;
this is the final page, this is the end.
and you took me by surprise
when i looked into your sweet eyes,
filled with amazing hurtful lies;
but i'm not asking you to apologize
even if you pretended to be nice,
your heart continues to beat as cold as ice
i asked you once but won't have to ask you twice!
no amount of money will ever pay your price.

down to my fingertips

i don't need no doctor,
no harlot with her lips.
i'm shaking from withdraw,
down to my fingertips.
in the summer at night,
you're giving me a shot.
i'm looking for extra;
you gave me all you got.
in the winter at noon,
i'm sipping from your spoon.
if i don't feel alright,
i'll take another bite.
i don't need no doctor,
no artificial high.
i'm shaking from withdraw,
i never wonder why.
i don't need no doctor,
no harlot with her lips.
i'm shaking from withdraw,
down to my fingertips.

out of the shadow

out of the shadow
looking for a popular place to go
maybe Miami or i'll try for Tupelo,
watching out for her new high beams;
and if it's what it seems,
i'll be making another hard turn
trying to relearn
what it takes to make
love burn;
when everything is going fine:
what is hers and what is mine?
i'm trapped inside the cosmic design
where everything is said to be fine.
in her handbag
i found an old sales tag
but my name was missing
and i couldn't brag;
i grabbed a drink,
couldn't find a resting place to really think;
cold nights are moving in;
stayed with my bottle of London gin
for awhile
felt a stupid smile,
all day long
every answer i thought i had was wrong.
out of the shadow
looking for a popular place to go
maybe Miami or i'll try for Tupelo,
watching out for her new high beams;
and if it's what it seems,
i'll be making another hard turn
trying to relearn
what it takes to make
love burn;
when everything is going fine:
what is hers and what is mine?
i'm trapped inside the cosmic design
where everything is said to be fine.

special Cossack charm

gonna get stuck
down on my luck
looking for my Moscow baby
wondering if maybe
she's taking another walk
when all i wanna do is talk
deep into the countryside
where she's trying to hide
but i can see
she's in front of me
throwing her perfume kiss!
nothing suspicious; nothing amiss;
she has that special Cossack charm:
i've already set my alarm.
i'll make amends
if she becomes my new best friend.
nothing suspicious; nothing amiss:
throwing her perfume kiss!
if it's heading for me,
i'll offer myself for free
when the light turns red.
is she tossing me in bed?
well, there's a sign posted on the bathroom wall:
it's her number to call.
feeling good feeling alright.
she'll be with me all night:
caviar and candlelight,
vodka and heat,
whispering on a random street,
she's holding me by the arm.
she has that special Cossack charm.

how many fingers, please?

60796
open your eyes!
you knew this would happen
one night
over thirty years ago
when you saw the bright green grass
change into brittle brown.
so stop your crying!
tell me,
how many fingers, please?
when i hold up four,
you should see five!

cleaning our christian souls

oh,
it's only a simple song
that came along
well before
the once upon a time
i fought in an ancient Asian war
wearing a proud hat and a big brown bag
over my head
that might not have been the proper size
but i was already too young to realize
what the news frequently said
that, yes, i was already quite dead
and the man
sitting in his big white house
joked that i was just another little white mouse
serving at his discretion serving my time
looking for my street seller
selling a dime
like a poor broke little Jackie Horner
hustling on a busy American corner
his long beard asking me "What's up?"
and i taking an unsteady drink from the communal cup
rushing for home
which was no longer there
just like my childhood Sampson hair
falling from the small town barbershop chair
where
for twenty five cents
we smoked our cheap cigarettes inside army tents
cleaning our christian souls
of all the loose women and immoral black holes;
I'm Waiting for the Man and memories of childhood:
Bobby Darin and Sandra Dee
being swept out to a raging sea
on a raft of bamboo spikes and the salty 8 track
never to be found again and never coming back
like Frank Lloyd Wright and his famous prairie cans;
the truth in the American desert is the unrelentingly dry sands
and the perpetual thirst:
i still don't know the answer to the question,
"Who's on first?"
but might eventually want to know
which television game show
i need to see
before being spanked on the Catholic Bishop's horny knee
as you sit and smile and laugh and shower
i count my days in cotton bales each passing hour!
and there's a decision to be made about Columbus and his sailing crew:
did they do what they were supposed to do?
on the islands sinking
what were they thinking
wearing Spanish leather boots while walking on the steamy shore?
those native huts of Hispaniola never needed a door
but the vaults at Fort Knox are built of bones and blood,
and the southern shacks of sharpened sticks and mud;
the tall men in their plantation suits carry all the keys
so,
remember your manners and always say please.

i shared a trail

i shared a trail
with the lady and her dog
walking until we dropped
on a hidden forest log
where she laid her head
beneath the parting of the trees
i found her sleeping
across my naked knees,
and the day was hot;
it happened so damn fast
sweating under the clouds
but i knew it wouldn't last;
she said a slow word
everything i hoped to hear:
should we go up or down?
but it quickly became clear
and the dog smiled
when the lady threw his bone;
he ran to paradise
where he found himself alone
and i was there
with the lady and her dog
walking until we dropped
on a hidden forest log.

drinks for eight

caught you shopping
at the new town mall
i went in short
but came out tall
we sang a song
and ate a bite
you offered me a date
but i wanted all through the night
with pizza for two;
drinks for eight
i thought it was early
but you said it was getting late
i just couldn't keep time
fell from the soft leather chair
found you in the bathroom
combing your tangled hair
saw the tattoo
asked you who
you said you couldn't remember
it's just what he drew
and outside those lines
the parlor colors bled
and i heard you exhale
but that's all you said
and in a rush
you put on a dress
where were you going?
i just had to guess
so down the steep stairs
and back to the bar
it seemed like a million miles
but really wasn't far
you stood standing
in front of the crowd
shaking your stuff
singing much too loud
the room was full
your dancing wild
and your eyes sparkled
like a little child
i caught your glimpse
put it away
thought of all the things
i didn't say.

are my feet too long?

all night long in my bedroom
thinking about the remainder of the day
but the sun is so low
it's no longer telling me which way
i should go
or how to know
do you love me or are my feet too long?
should i sing you my favorite or my lonely song
or simply part my hair?
well, i'm looking at the nearest chair
but you're no longer there!
is this anyway to keep the sandman at bay?
wondering if i should go or should i stay
looking for my other shoe
while i'm really missing you
and the way you open up with a belly laugh
when i'm walking out to take another cold bath
and in the hallway down the stairs
i'm still burdened with a hundred million cares
hearing the soft steps you once took to the front door,
leaving images of prints on my hardwood floor;
and the scent of your wild perfume,
it lingers
all night long in my bedroom
thinking about the remainder of the day
and the sun is so low
it's no longer telling me which way
i should go
or how to know
do you love me or are my feet too long?

when the doors are open

and when the doors are open
there's a child at play
looking for new worlds,
and new words to toy around with and say;
pushing the envelope;
throwing away the stamp;
running from a single spotlight,
lighting the lamp.
and by the rivers rushing down to the sea
there's music in the breeze,
her voice filling me with wonder,
and i'm on my knees,
ready to grow into one of the tallest trees,
flying like the little sparrow
into the blood red orange sunset
thinking i had all the best answers,
and yet
when i opened my hand it was empty:
reflections of a distant coast;
a mighty mountain trembling;
a silent shimmering of a passing ghost.

you looked at me

you're not the same
because now you look sad;
i remember how
you once looked glad.
we took our kites
to the top of a hill,
watching them fly
became our latest thrill.
you looked at me
and threw a kiss;
it became a moment
i couldn't resist.
we tumbled down,
rolled over the hill;
holding together
became our latest thrill.
your sparkling eyes,
the words said loud;
you might have quit
but you felt so proud!
you're not the same
because now you look sad.
i remember laughing
and how you got mad.
we opened a door;
i took the right,
you went left;
far from my sight
the sun rose;
it became noon
and i went now,
but you went soon.
on separate roads
beyond the town
i went up
and you went down.
you looked at me
and threw a kiss.
it became a moment
i couldn't resist.

Hiroshima melting

on the million dollar set,
a little dog wagged her tail;
she went looking for the grateful dead
before they went on sale.
and i'm on the road again
to Philadelphia, USA;
i wonder where the yellow went
when i hear the preacher say,
the "Dark Star is rising!"
his flock waiting in the church.
the Boston harbor is flooding!
a canary on her perch
singing 'Yesterday!'
bells ringing in the old town square:
it's Hiroshima melting!
radiation spikes the air,
and a thousand points of random light
but does anybody care?
i'm singing for another round,
a fancy question in my head
the seas are rising to midnight,
the sky a menacing red!
every molecule pays a price
the circuit overloads!
tripping down the center lane,
i'm taking all the back roads.

when our fingers touched

the giant Hibiscus
in my pants
and along the shoreline
in a primetime trance
i'm hearing the low ball,
listening to the blues,
following the high tide
to the lying man's shoes.
oh, there he goes again
turning an angry compost pile,
tanning his facial hair,
practicing his practiced smile.
i keep looking for a fortune
but settle for a kitchen sink;
it wasn't the trip others dream of
but it made me think,
sipping my very cold beer,
reading an interesting book;
the white trash was heading curbside
and i just had to look.
she came into my dreams;
i watched her fly;
it rained every day that summer
and we both knew why:
it isn't easy to start a fire
when the wood is wet.
i tried to save the sinking ship
but have no lasting regret:
in a mushroom cloud
i imagined things i'd rather forget.
there were birds eating seed
and a grey squirrel with a nut.
they talked to me in earnest
about living in a rut.
the doors closed and the windows shut:
i sat on a flat rock in a wild creek
with the sun in my eyes;
she laughed as our fingers touched:
it came as no surprise.

feeling lonesome

i'm gonna tell you what is happening
but what has been
is probably just another dumb story
of being high and living in sin
and i'm thinking of doing it
all over again
to your face or behind your back
or on the other side of the subway track
in a cute motel with manicured lawn
all night long partying until the dawn
in a beaten down shack in a beaten down neighborhood
beating my head thinking life is really good!
and it doesn't matter what time of day
or what you think or feel or might say:
a timeless story
walking high while falling fast from glory
looking directly at fate
trying not to hurry or be too late
looking over my shoulder
feeling lonesome, tired, and older
and she walks into view;
she wasn't familiar and she wasn't you
there was music and her perfume
she burned me in her room
but i lit the match
it became more than a scratch.
i'm gonna tell you what is happening
but what has been
is probably just another dumb story
of being high and living in sin
and i'm thinking of doing it
all over again
to your face or behind your back
or on the other side of the subway track
in a cute motel with manicured lawn
all night long partying until the dawn
in a beaten down shack in a beaten down neighborhood
beating my head thinking life is really good!
and it doesn't matter what time of day
or what you think or feel or might say:
a timeless story
walking high while falling fast from glory
looking directly at fate
trying not to hurry or be too late
looking over my shoulder
feeling lonesome, tired, and older
and she walks into view;
she wasn't familiar and she wasn't you
there was music and her perfume
she burned me in her room
but i lit the match
it became more than a scratch.

passing the buck

must be the season for the fools
those little plastic bobble heads
like convenient tools
lounging on their lazy pillow beds
reading fairy tales with stories of fantastic luck
passing idle time, passing the buck
wireless signals passing thru their brain
at the highest speed of the fastest train
running faster and up over the hills
i'm getting nervous, getting the chills
passing idle time, passing the buck
reading fairy tales with stories of fantastic luck
and over by the Swanee river
where the waters' cold i start to shiver
a crowd of rebel soldiers
seated high on a confederate horse
long rifles resting on angry shoulders
aiming to kill their historic remorse
near the nearest town square
lead bullets flying toward people there
must be the season for the fools
those little plastic bobble heads
like convenient tools
lounging on their lazy pillow beds
reading fairy tales with stories of fantastic luck
passing idle time, passing the buck
wireless signals passing thru their brain
at the highest speed of the fastest train
running faster and up over the hills
i'm getting nervous, getting the chills.

from old Mexico

i crossed the border from old Mexico
always looking for the safest place to go
heading past San Antonio all the way north to Texarkana
wearing my foreign frown and a newly found bandana
a busy job and a pretty wife
my dream of an opportunity to earn a better life
there's a job working in the big fields picking big green peas
bending my back and bending my knees
crossing my fingers that i don't get caught
with the few things i brought
and i'm rolling over endless ground hoping i won't be found
by the government men with their orders
to stop men, women, and their kids crossing borders
looking for a land full of promise
a sunset to kiss;
a dawn to love with a full heart and a song in my soul
i crossed the border from old Mexico
always looking for the safest place to go
over the river and thru the dangerous desert
past the cactus whos' shade could hurt
i wondered truly about the awful hard times
words running away from easy rhymes
i wondered about the sweet lands and the hard future toil
the smiling girls and the fertile soil
the long night roads and heavy weight
i thought ahead and i can't wait
i crossed the border from old Mexico
always looking for the safest place to go
driving past San Antonio all the way north to Texarkana
wearing my foreign frown and a newly found bandana
a busy job and a pretty wife
my dream of an opportunity to earn a better life

the honest men and the ones who lied

it felt like the dawn
with a big wheel and a spin;
there was a tug and a pull
but i couldn't give in
to the urge for sleep:
people were gathering in the street,
children on the run
looking up at the rising sun
and down the barrel of a mean, steel gun.
the loudspeakers blared
that nobody cared
but i saw a friendly hand,
felt a sense of pride
that i could tell the difference
between the honest men and the ones who lied.
there was a moment
when the skies grew dark and cold;
a mother with blue eyes
trembled when she realized she was growing old
and the blond dad
who once felt determined and glad
saw his world changing, grew angry and sad.
it felt like the dawn
with a big wheel and a spin;
there was a tug and a pull
but i couldn't give in
to the urge to sleep;
people were gathering in the street,
children on the run
looking up at the rising sun
and down the barrel of a cold, steel gun.
the loudspeakers blared
that nobody cared
but i saw a friendly hand,
felt a sense of pride
that i could tell the difference
between the honest men and the ones who lied.

i felt like a whiskey bottle

walking in the woods
down the single track
sweat dropping from my fingertips
sweat rolling down my back
spider webs around
the sun overhead
my little dog is plenty hot
she's missing what i said
no one is watching
we're traveling slow
we both were younger once upon
a thousand years ago
after many miles
swimming in a creek
i felt like a whiskey bottle
that didn't spring a leak
and there was the car
a bone and a key
the bartender poured you a wine
and a cold beer for me.

Maker's Mark

Maker's Mark on red
is what the umbrella said
and i got it in my head
to have a shot before bed;
but one proved not enough
so i hung tough
and had plenty more of the stuff
until i could no longer huff and puff.

the Mekong

the Mekong was, you know,
once a very dangerous place to go
for the Frenchman and the Japanese
who often got stuck in mud up to their knees.
they were sometimes buried in Chinese lead
when angry bullets struck them in the head;
they'd fall in brown rice water and remain,
spilling conquest fantasies from large holes in their brain.
regardless of the season, the weather was always hot
when the Vietnamese civilians took aim and shot,
not interested in a foreigners' language or school,
with no intention of becoming a mercenaries' tool.
Ho Chi Minh said to fight and fight they earnestly did;
sometimes they'd stand in open defiance and sometimes they hid;
but for years and years they always stood their ground,
until no stranger armies could be found.
even their great Imperial city of Hue was destroyed
by Americans in 1968 who with massive force employed
a relentless bunch of young Marines and destructive artillery shells
so that even today one can walk there quietly and hear the desperate battle yells.
the famous Citadel has been restored, the Perfume River flows without war dead,
and the victor has the final word about what was done and said;
a small piece of southeast Asia with mountains and a long, inviting coast
is today filled with humble people who have no desire to boast.

she'd rather have a good laugh

i went underground on a strictly vanilla morn
when i heard old Triton play his wreathed horn,
and my dog jump over a fallen log;
her head was in a canine chipmunk fog!
but it was a good day for an even better walk;
on the way home we stopped many times to point and talk,
and two cars passed on my right,
their confederate flags flying high as they sped out of sight,
taking but two days to reach the Mississippi coast;
on the way i heard them scream and boast
both cars were Chevrolet from the good old USA!
and i just don't know
how much longer i can go
following in the footsteps of their dead wake
when i'm told something is real but i know it's fake.
my dog ran up to me
carrying a broken stick from the nearest tree.
she asked me if it was real;
i listened to southern black tires squeal
as she helped me to my feet.
on the return home we crossed a bigly main street
with a parade of roaring tanks and artillery shells,
and white sheep in abundance wearing charming cow bells
like a flock
as far long as a massive city block
and as wide
as the golfing fat man who lied
and then we stopped for ice cream and beer:
the more we drank the less we had to fear.
we heard there was a cabin in the woods for rent
and it was hot and i didn't have my tent,
so we decided to pause:
i rested my feet while she rested her paws
and the news gave us both a moment of relief;
an eagle-eyed reporter said the EPA chief was a thief.
i thought i'd try to give my dog a bath
but she said she'd rather have the popcorn and a good laugh.

the Ohio National Guard

the Lusitania, a passenger ship, was torpedoed by U-20,
a German submarine.
it sank not far from Queenstown, Ireland,
in the spring of 1915,
before Guernica, Spain, was bombed;
before Picasso married Olga,
but after Van Gogh lived briefly in
the south of France with his amazing canvas,
splashing paints, and his injured ear.
in Flanders Fields the flowers bloom.
tombstones there are now growing as tall as these spring flowers,
the difference being that the stones are engraved with names.
i thought about this while walking
my dog on a hard gravel trail
which wanders, deer-like,
through a nearby woods.
it was a hot morning, although not on fire,
as i climbed over fallen logs,
sidestepped the poison ivy,
my legs growing increasingly weary with the
weight of my Army-issue combat boots.
Dresden, a beautiful German city, burned to ashes and
jumbled piles of blasted stone
in the spring of 1945,
and very few local people survived the fire storm 
to save their tea pots from the flaming catacombs.
i remembered
the forgotten war 

which was forgotten by the many millions
who didn't fight in Korea.
there were dead bodies on the cold battlefields who are now pieces of thin bone,
small shards of memory, forgotten loves of childhood
lost in the drifting winter snows
on the south bank of the
frozen Chosin Reservoir.
looking ahead,
toward a fenced orchard,
i saw bright ripe sour cherries being harvested by
young men on ladders.
young men, not the busy ladder men, died
while wearing sweaty uniforms in the oppressive humidity
of the Ia Drang Valley, South Vietnam, in the fall of 1965.
Vietnam is a beautiful country
with a rich history and kind people
who are humble and loyal to their ancestors.
their rice is grown locally.
the helicopters didn't notice the rice as they came in
on their Medivac approach to grab the many body bags and wounded.
my dog doesn't know about this.
she cavorts with flickering shadows and chases alert chipmunks,

rabbits, running groundhogs.
she's busy with her own interests and oblivious to
the history of man.
she carries no baggage.
the Ohio National Guard has baggage,
having shot to death unarmed college students
who were protesting senseless killing.

Trump's Dump

so you want your children
but you want your freedom, too?
well, just don't come calling north
'cause they'll know what to do:
they're like a big bad pack of wolves
and awfully mean;
they'll choke you blue
while they color you green,
disappearing into bureaucracy,
sight unseen.
hiding beyond the border river,
they're the genuine Indian giver!
and they don't like your kind
so don't bring along excuses
or you'll lose more than your mind:
there's a tent city in the dry desert air
they lock up your children there;
you'll end up in a prison rack
with a black number on your wet back.
save your heart for someone with a real heart
no chance now you'll be given a new start!
so you want your children
but you want your freedom, too?
well, just don't come calling north
'cause they'll know what to do:
they're like a big bad pack of wolves
and awfully mean;
they'll choke you blue
while they color you green,
disappearing into bureaucracy,
sight unseen.
hiding beyond the border river,
they're the genuine Indian giver!
and they don't like your kind
so don't bring along excuses
or you'll lose more than your mind:
there's a tent city in the dry desert air
they lock up your children there;
you'll end up in a prison rack
with a black number on your wet back.
save your heart for someone with a real heart
no chance now you'll be given a new start!

he's so deranged (not Putin!)

he's so deranged
he's so deranged
how much has been changed?
the flowers in the park
are now dying in the dark;
the birds who once would sing
have now lost everything.
he's so deranged
he's so deranged
how much has been changed?
tanning his skin on perfect Mar-a-Largo beach
cheap hamburgers and beauty queens never far out of reach
riding on the putting greens with his fat ass in tow
doesn't want to study and doesn't want to know
he won't read a written report
threatens to sue and take everyone else to court
he's so deranged
he's so deranged
how much has been changed?
skipping over student dead on a schoolroom floor
threatening Canada and Mexico with his dream of total war
sleeping by himself without an understanding wife
sharpening his friendly narcissistic knife
he won't read a written report
threatens to sue and take everyone else to court
he's so deranged
he's so deranged
how much has been changed?
knows a lot about airplanes while dodging the draft
demands unquestioned loyalty while giving the national press the shaft
a George Washington-like reputation is imagined fantasy only
in a crowded room with suits and ties he's standing fat and lonely
he won't read a written report
threatens to sue and take everyone else to court
he's so deranged
he's so deranged
how much has been changed?
the flowers in the park
are now dying in the dark;
the birds who once would sing
have now lost everything.

No Reservations

Anthony, where have you gone?
your food is cold
and your mail unread;
the newspapers wondered
what was left unsaid!
there's dust on your driveway
where your daughter cries;
her chest is so heavy,
i can feel her sighs.

Van Gogh found his toe

Van Gogh
found his toe
beneath an olive tree
near the town of Saint Rémy
but he lost an ear
when the sky was crystal clear
during a strange sword fight
on a rumored starry night.

Pablo Picasso
knew where to go
on the Dinard beach
where he liked to teach
while playing with his ripe banana
inside a locked cabana.

The smaller towns were red,
the French man said,
while drinking local wine.

and a friend of mine
agreed,
as she peed
behind a Rhône valley tree
near a busy winery
where empty bottles grew.

the famous mistral winds blew,
Paul Cézanne so well knew,
all the way to the shimmering Med
the famous colors bled
into the air and, oh my, the sight:

such amazing quality of light!

he painted throughout the night.

They will come, you know!

some day
They're gonna come over that
border fence
stepping over their
neighbors' dead
bloodied
but unbowed
bodies
that you shot dead
with your sniper rifle
aiming for their faded blue jeans,
printed t-shirts,
or the neck scarves
or hair coverings,
the faces with sweaty desert dirt,
their bright angry eyes,
all heads held high at that last moment
before the impact of your steel tipped bullet.
They will come, you know!

everybody hurts

everybody hurts
if only they'd tell the truth
watching the balloons come crashing down
burning down the town

fighting on the floor
mad as hell at soap operas
when a doctor doesn't know his lines
and still pays no fines

traveling circus
jugglers with great balls on fire
the ringmaster with his big black hat
great fat lady fat

at the popcorn stand
hot butter flowed like honey
tumblers and clowns and the magic tent
money paid the rent

as the big top closed
the audience fled the room
breezes blew each head into the night
soft as candle light

everybody hurts
if only they'd tell the truth
watching the balloons come crashing down
burning down the town

tossing the summer dog his wishing bone

X-ray
in the landing zone
her sleepy eyes
tossing the summer dog his wishing bone
blowing on a tenor sax
in an all-night shift
waiting for the passenger car
to give that girl her lift
in a famous back room seat
outside the machine gunners' door
hot shells are exploding,
bouncing off the bouncing floor
in the tropical air
her hands dancing everywhere
i took a full nose dive
coming out the other end alert & alive:
colors on the bedroom wall
i tried to count them all
but the high noon sun was bright
her hungry grip too tight
i wanted to eat but lost my appetite.
X-ray
in the landing zone
her sleepy eyes
tossing the summer dog his wishing bone
blowing on a tenor sax
in an all-night shift
waiting for the passenger car
to give that girl her lift.

i never tire of watching

there was a young cowboy
who wore a Red Ryder hat
and carried a small gun
into the nearby woods
where he found an old fallen log
and sat
with his faithful dog
by his side,
alert to anything that might move;
they pondered a future
when snow might cover their tracks.
in the space of seventy years
the small gun has been lost
but the dog,
with a new name and a new license,
maintains a nose for interesting scents,
and a keen eye for any movement
far removed from
the global financial markets
or fluctuating interest rates.
the dog loves digging
into dirt
after the chipmunks
as they dive for cover;
and squirrels of any color
always provide an exciting rush
as they scamper to the nearest tree
scolding the pretentiousness
of the canine pursuit,
which i never tire of watching,
even in the dead of winter.

grateful to be dead

it's about time to ask the question,
trying to understand my next life lesson
before the night gets too dark and cold and damn,
i can't remember who i was or who i am.
so, there's plenty of fear and nerves and grief;
i can't seem to get enough relief,
flipping through and turning each page
while reading about the days of constant rage
with young blood on the school room floor.
well, no uniform needed to fight the next war?
but, hey, there's the national song!
i wonder if those lyrics are simply wrong?
i'm getting so old,
feeling tired and bought and sold,
walking away from the bull without a fight:
tell me what is it we all agree is right?
i'm dancing wearing pearls with a drink in hand,
grateful to be dead, listening to that passing band.
this glass half full that i'm holding high
it's filled with tears; i'm no longer wondering why.
just one more for the broken road.
my head stays high while my back is bowed!
it's about time to ask the question,
trying to understand my next life lesson
before the night gets too dark and cold and damn,
i can't remember who i was or who i am.

when you're not here

baby,
when you're not here
my head's just not thinking clear
'cause i'm spending all my down time
wishing you were near
and dear,
here comes the night
how can i feel alright
out walking my thin dog
when it all feels like a thick fog
and i can't see without a torch:
are you waiting on your front porch?
baby,
when you're not here
my head's just not thinking clear
'cause i'm spending all my down time
wishing you were near
and dear,
here comes that song
and it took much too long
it's the one about you
when you're wondering what to do
and the story goes that we met
the winners of a romance bet
baby,
when you're not here
my head's just not thinking clear
'cause i'm spending all my down time
wishing you were near
and dear,
here comes the night
how can i feel alright
out walking my thin dog
when it all feels like a thick fog
and i can't see without a torch:
are you waiting on your front porch?

the girl with the deep brown eyes

the girl with the deep brown eyes
filled with wonder
and surprise
she sang to me
and set me free
on a walk into the deepest wood
i was her big bad wolf
she was my little Red Riding Hood
her basket filled with sweet treats
we walked together down the leafy streets
hand in hand out into the town
she kept me up and i kept her down
our secrets like an open book
we turned the page for another look
the girl with the deep brown eyes
filled with wonder
and surprise
she sang to me
and set me free.

"Brave New World," whispered Huxley

"Brave New World,"
whispered Aldous Huxley
when the president went golfing
under a clear blue Florida sky
with the foreign wife carrying his junk
and a bottle of fancy dye
for his orange hair;
he used a net,
(somewhat like a devout Mennonite woman
with her fancy mustache
that she tried to conceal from the adoring crowds
gathered on the steps of a Christian mega-church
hoping for a sight of baby Jesus
heading to the back nine)
to scoop his balls from the rough,
tickling,
placing them in a more advantageous position on the fairway.
across the pond
beyond his driver's range
there was a rumored chemical attack
that wasn't due to an expired box of hair coloring
or a missed putt on the 18th green
or a recent attempt to hide an old affair with a young porn actress;
no, an actual barrel bomb dropped from the clear blue sky
onto a suburban street of eastern Damascus, Syria
and if very young children happened to be playing in a pile of their broken dreams
or busted stones, or watching a skinny bird pick through rubble for a crumb of food,
while noxious fumes of chlorine
sought out noses
pried open lips
groped lungs
invaded throats
well,
that would be too damn bad
assumed the adults who planned the attack,
piloted the military helicopter,
assembled the bomb,
and the men who gave the order to launch,
because they would expect a pleasant evening
surrounded by pleasant family,
amazingly untroubled by disturbing visions or nightmares
or threats of demotion or stories of demolition,
imagining themselves playing golf with the President,
whatever President,
regardless of his country of origin,
applause greeting their every easy step to the waiting clubhouse.
"Brave New World,"
whispered Aldous Huxley,
as everyone swallowed their pill.

no hair covering my eyes.

i wasn't Sampson by any stretch
being too small and young
and without a full and flowing head of hair,
but still my dad grabbed me,
hippie as i was,
forced me into his car
and drove off
headed straight to his favorite
perhaps only
barber
and there i was given no choice about cut
or trim or color
i was told to sit in the chair
and thought that i was lucky it wasn't
electric
and then again that
i didn't have to wear a dunce hat
like i once did in second grade,
oh, i remembered Miss Barnes,
all right, and how i was forced to go to the
front of the class
to the blackboard
where i found her piece of chalk,
that was the only piece i was thinking of
in second grade,
before writing "i will not..."
and i can't remember exactly what was
my awful transgression
or perhaps i was simply being a willful boy
as we did often try to be
but i wrote
over and over
top down
bottom up
in a sort of white scrawl
on her hard green surface
until she was satisfied
and i was tired
and the stool in a corner of the
old classroom
waited for me
and i sat on it
while she placed the
dunce hat on my little head
which had short hair
and now my father was trying to
imagine what i must have looked like in
second grade with the buzzed flat top,
a bit of wax to the stiff front hairs
so they stood ram rod straight to the sky
but i was no longer in elementary school
now being 21 years old and a freshman in college
yet he had his way
as i looked around for the stool
and the chalk and Miss Barnes,
who i heard had moved to Japan
married to some guy with short hair
and my father cast a big shadow
in the barber shop
from which it was hard to see the light,
even with no hair covering my eyes,
and i felt small
in the big swivel chair
with the red faux leather seat.

but what was true?

by '68
the hard bricks went flying
and revolution marched into the streets
where surprised people kept dying:
napalm tortured children's melting skin
burning the village doors
so they couldn't get in
for a breath of perfect perfumed air
and it didn't seem fair
that seemingly everywhere
the dogs of war were running
with abandon and totalitarian cunning
more hot bombs and artillery fell
poisoning the fresh water in the well,
the hands of each clock counting all the passing hours.
baskets of discarded flowers
floating on a swollen river,
fleeing the taker looking for a giver,
and a soldier running down the dangerous street
escaping piles of rotting dead without shoes and missing feet.
and each day awoke with a terrible worry:
broken shovels seemed tired of digging just to bury
bits of bone,
broken and all alone,
in shallow graves dug in a hurry.
and the news was seldom good by '72:
in black and white they proclaimed the old was now the new,
but what was true?
and who knew
if tomorrow the skies
would be covered in sweet smelling lies?

rumors of war

there was dark and it turned to light
rumors of war in the middle of a starry night
a friendly breath
breathing songs of an eventual death
but no songs of good cheer
no one coming near
sounds unfamiliar but i'm trying to hear
and in the mirror a ghost
walking in from the east coast
carrying bags of pure gold
slaves cheated and bought and quickly sold
working from nine to well after five
barely making it out alive
head to toe
looking for another way to go
finding shadows instead of a sun
bodies in the street and a smoking gun
paradise lost and found
beating hearts barely making a sound
six feet under the cold cold ground
there was dark and it turned to light
rumors of war in the middle of a starry night
a friendly breath
breathing songs of an eventual death
but no songs of good cheer
no one coming near
sounds unfamiliar but i'm trying to hear
and in the mirror a ghost
walking in from the east coast
carrying bags of pure gold
slaves cheated and bought and quickly sold
working from nine to well after five
barely making it out alive
head to toe
looking for another way to go
finding shadows instead of a sun
bodies in the street and a smoking gun
paradise lost and found
beating hearts barely making a sound
six feet under the cold cold ground.

a sketch book

and he painted lots of scenes
of boobs and an absolute ass
both of the lowest and the higher class
past midnight
up until three
in their faces i was catching a glimpse of you
and one of me
passing by
and passing through
when he had a period of red
and one of darkest blue
coveting the young girls,
their bohemian faces,
one with unconventional blond curls,
inviting pubic hairs and satin laces,
looking for a heart
inside the roving Russian ballet
i saw where he wanted to go
tip toe...tip toe...
but was surprised when i heard him say,
"i can't speak French but i can paint!"
he hated phoniness and death
but could never be called a saint,
for on the gallery floor
he had admirers and many more
who stepped aside under his intense gaze
and cigarette smoke
which curled his confident lips.
i saw him check out your small hips
but you assured me he was a harmless flirt;
he then wore a loose bandana
made from your favorite skirt.
and he painted lots of scenes
of boobs and an absolute ass
both of the lowest and the higher class
past midnight
up until three
he kept a sketch book filled with images
of his unfolding destiny,
partly out of neglect for the memory of you
and me.

no one you know

and don't you know
it's not a cold rain,
it's another warm spring snow
drifting the city street,
your wandering feet,
wondering which way to go.
no one you know
pushing their friendly shopping carts
down endless aisles
looking for bargain smiles
hearing the registers' sing.
what will another day bring?
and don't you know
there were once blue skies:
clear streams and steady eyes,
soda pop; black & white tv,
birthdays and flowers for free,
stories of mom and dad
and all the treasures they had,
dreams instead of schemes,
and don't you know
it's not a cold rain,
it's another warm spring snow
drifting the city street
your wandering feet,
wondering which way to go
no one you know.

Putin

Putin
KGB
FSB
hiding in plain view of Red Square
and across the bridge
Heartbreak Ridge
near Piccadilly Circus
and the London Times
which almost rhymes
with Theresa May
and the Parliament
one fine day
a special delivery letter
will get her
to vist St. Petersburg
where Stalin's ghost
with the most
astonishing Soviet smile
full of polonium
and caviar
ah, a former home of the Tsar
and the famous black mustache
bags of untraceable cash
and offshore accounts
invisible to all but the fastest hands
deft
theft
and meanwhile the peasants toil
over Motherland soil
and Pussy Riot
once loud
now all is quiet
on the Western front
far from Butyrka prison
where a waiting sunbed
(more dead
than alive)
rots,
surrounded by cold cots
of empty dreams
and Trotsky's shoes without feet
silently walking the Grand Kremlin's bloody street
far from their villa in Coyoacan, Mexico.

all i want to do

all i want to do
is talk to you
crawl out of my messy bed
with a consistently clear head
tie my shoes
to the softest rhythm and blues
while trying not to scream
remembering my last nights' dream
and missing your laugh
all bouncing bubbles and bath:
yea, yea, but you weren't there
and i looked everywhere
and then the day can begin
drinking whisky and gin
and an old tavern door
a polished dance floor
yea, yea, but you weren't there
and i looked everywhere
a female voice with her solitary breath
and i saw my own death
yea, yea, but you weren't there
and i looked everywhere
beyond the horizon and inside my heart
looking to make a new start
yea, yea, but you weren't there
and i looked everywhere:
all i want to do
is talk to you
crawl out of my messy bed
with a consistently clear head
tie my shoes
to the softest rhythm and blues
while trying not to scream
remembering my last nights' dream
and missing your laugh
all bouncing bubbles and bath.

feel like i'm living a drive-thru life

feel like i'm living a drive-thru life
listening to a frustrated, angry wife
holding my warm beer in the noon day sun
her husband chasing me with his loaded gun!
i can't find my horse in all this dust
and i hate to leave but i know i must;
she was good to me in her gypsy way
but i never got to have my final say.
she liked to dance and ride that cajun bull;
i pushed away but felt her pull!
most Friday nights she'd drink the table down
with country songs i'd be her stomping ground:
a wicked smile in a friendly face;
whiskey breath wrapped in bridal lace.
she'd toss me out and charm me back each time:
she'd wear my boots and squeeze this heart of mine.
feel like i'm living a drive-thru life
listening to a frustrated, angry wife
holding my warm beer in the noon day sun
her husband chasing me with his loaded gun!

45th

i went once at sundown
when there was nobody else around
and on the forty fifth floor,
i looked for less but found even more:
piles of mighty volume and possibly dead weight;
crooked lines almost impossible to set straight;
young students not afraid to resist ;
a ship of state shuddering before it begins to list.
it need not even look like the real thing,
but it's all branded as fake news.
come along and all too soon lose
and try and fail to escape the joint.
i used binoculars for another viewpoint
establishing distance
and in a trance
i went once at sundown
when there was nobody else around
and on the forty fifth floor,
i looked for less but found even more:
piles of mighty volume and possibly dead weight;
crooked lines almost impossible to set straight.

Mr. Garfield

echoes
and what are those
things going bump in the night?
Mr. Garfield not only lost his sight,
he lost his life
under the blissful surgeon's knife.
with a lead bullet through his back,
he took a special train and rode the special track
to the busy Jersey shore.
he wanted love but eventually struggled no more,
with his wife by his side
he was peaceful as he died,
as much as he could possibly be,
while looking out his expansive window to the sea!
the tide gave way to a new dawn,
and the people cried like rain drops before moving on.

The White Rose

they said
"Stop it, damn!"
but with pamphlets in her hand
the university student ran
down a poorly lit Munich street
where no one stood to greet
what she knew
to be true;
and they wanted her dead:
they cut off her German head,
tossing it on the 3rd Reich floor,
and soon several more
who refused to eat Hitler's bit
got hit
with a similar fate.
were they too early or too late?
The White Rose
knows
that each voice
makes a choice,
some to take a stand
and others to hide their head in the sand.
what to do?
you?

but joey, i gave it my best

i don't want to scream
but joey
you're a nightmare instead of a dream
sticking fish hooks into my chest
too bad i gave it my best
so, walk a mile in my shoes!
do you know anything about the English poet Ted Hughes?
he's not some mild hoax
not a cheap target for your lame jokes
not a London tart without a heart!
could you guess
he's a genius?
no, but too bad
am i starting to sound rather sad?
a puff of frigid air up your ass
might fill you further with gas
and see the white rabbit stand fully alert
no, i wouldn't want you to get hurt
but joey
seriously dude
why so rude?
since you can't see infinity at least comb your tangled hair
remove the diapers for a pair of clean underwear!
but joey
i'm not undressed;
nor am i impressed
with your version of a cooked goose or seductive eyes
it's not me standing in central Paris wearing a cheap disguise.
it's you
i want to review.

fuck your AR-15

there was a flying fish inside a brown bottle
waiting on the street corner
and the night was cold where i sat.
looking out my window, i saw hard rain come
pissing down like blood.
i earlier heard on the news about the students
running from their Florida class
and yet their story seemed old,
but i'm giving it one more try to pull on my shirt
before someone else gets hurt.
on the radio, sweet Jane sang to a guitar player on a distant stage
while trapped inside her cage:
a puzzled President who kept her there
sent his fleeting thoughts and a insincere prayer,
but his real bag seemed totally empty of care.
in Parkland, the angry children began  to run,
confronting the bastards who were aiming a loaded gun
at the beauty of the noon day sun.
people screamed at the satisfied fat cats
who dressed like robotic beady-eyed rats
scurrying down narrow hallways in the political dark,
their toothy grins resembling a sneaky tiger shark
looking for public places to hide;
they shuffled into polished chambers with hungry mouths and lied:
more children and their parents cried.
there was a flying fish
inside a brown bottle
and it was hard to swallow,
like a bloated promise filled with hollow.

the bear would make a dandy rug

the bear sniffed the tree,
scratched at the old bark,
twisted loose a white grub,
and acted very macho with his red teeth.
he ate some early spring flowers,
sniffed a running doe,
sneered at a low flying eagle,
and shit over small blades of grass,
seeing that they were softly green but in need of other color.
he fancied himself a possibility!
he had no difficulty tearing into the earth:
his sharp claws were recently polished when he
evaded capture
by hiding inside a troll farm near St. Petersburg,
his identity disguised behind bad breath
and a fake accent filled with slavic vowels.
he whispered to one of the frustrated American hunters
"You can't catch me!"
and it wasn't the first time he narrowly escaped,
but this hunter wasn't nervous or sad.
he had heard similar words,
and they again fell on ears still listening
to The Battle Hymn Of The Republic
and bits of Abby Road by the Beatles.
only the lucky few who had knowledge of the
hunter's tools knew what he had planned:
the bear would make a dandy rug.

Woman in an Armchair

the woman in an armchair
with a large, fat dog,
was terrified of animals.
she had to be careful not to leave
any spare food on her front porch;
a passing cat would steal the meal,
or a fox would grab an egg.
the egg would be whisked away,
eaten at a later moment,
raw and uncooked.
but the woman never tried to conceal the egg,
despite the worry etched on her face.
she had stolen treasures stashed in her
huge closets, along with any extra clothes.
she had to be careful where she stepped
when the lights were turned down low;
cleaning was done only once a month,
but with the same old broom.
a little walnut piano sat in one corner
near the sunroom, by the fireplace.
a faint smell of ivory would waft
whenever anyone played an African song.
although she was always happy about
one thing or another, her most favorite things were
necklaces, bracelets, and ceremonial masks.
she wanted to maintain face,
even while having an afternoon tea.

Gery Pieret

in a small room

in the basement of The Louvre

near a sleepy guard

i took possession of a 

small stone head

which was chiseled

white and brown

without apparent prejudice

in a tribal way far less modern

but no less real

than a working windmill

near the Bateau Lavoir

and it must have been

close to 1907 at all events

and i was hungry and inspired

and put the statue under my arm

arranged my heavy coat

raised my collar

walked out silently

and that is how i remember it

before i sailed for California

and became a cowboy

riding on an Apollinaire saddle

into the surreal sunset of a western sky.

"Fuck you, you Jew son of a bitch!"

a Kennedy is dead, but which one?
the shooting was in the news,
it was American made,
and the FBI searched low and high,
but found not a single straight line.
immediately, a law and order shout
smacked into the crowd of angry people,
caused the ensuing phenomenon,
and all the screaming
political conventioneers
became delirious.
red blood ran in the streets to become the color of dried blood.
i remember George Wallace carried the deep south
with his Atlas racist mouth
while his running mate, Curtis LeMay, had sensible people
running for newly built nuclear bomb shelters.
so who had the bigger button?
later, Nixon, the tricky political junkie who
overdosed on his own hubris,
conjured ghosts of the Civil War from a foggy bottom
while tripping over weathered confederate tombstones,
yelling into his hot line to the war criminal
Kissinger, a fancy secretary of state
interested solely in his own legacy.
Gerald Ford as president acted like an old
pickup truck burning morning toast
although there was that thing with East Timor,
and the pardon and pardon me for mentioning it.
and skipping ahead, Donald Trump lost the popular vote
but became a celebrity apprentice and commander-in-chief
with his small hands and big mouth
cursing shit hole people who
seemed proud to be from shit hole countries
other than Manhattan, New York, America.
he won an election, barely, taking his hairy comb-over to the top floor
of the white house,
along with his kids and Michael Richard Pence of Indiana!
and this should have terrified everyone:
tolerance and equality started acting like flushed poop,
swirling down in a purple haze,
like a last breath with Jimi playing his crazy guitar,
his teeth biting into the Star Spangled Banner
like angry victims of mindless prejudice.
i remember i wore my sandals to Vietnam,
as it was hot in southeast Asia in the late 1960's,
and i brought them home in one piece
in the early 1970's, after the Embassy attack,
but couldn't get anyone to autograph them.
i'm still asking for signatures, wondering why
so many of my contemporaries didn't become more liberal,
but then neither did their parents, so the upbringing was successful.
old prejudices never die,
like old soldiers
they just fade away,
along with the hippies from Woodstock
and the Summer of Love.
once, we all heard Lyndon Johnson say "i will not seek and i will not accept..."
and then he died at his ranch in Texas, old and alone except for Lady Bird,
long after Jack Kennedy died in Dallas, with Jackie by his side,
not too terribly far to the north.
i heard someone shout
and it was again suddenly the summer of 1968,
"Fuck you, you Jew son of a bitch,
you lousy motherfucker, go home," and i was in Chicago
and Richard Daley, the city mayor, moved his thin scoundrel lips
as he sat with his henchmen under the hot air balloons
stretched to limits unusual for a Democratic convention!
he displayed some nerve
as he drew a sharp white finger across his throat:
he looked directly at Senator Ribicoff!
so who had the bigger button?

his red beret

with a yellow sun and a brilliant green sky,
this small village
on the Mediterranean coast of France
has blue boats and streaks of hot sand

fish in wet nets at dawn on a busy beach

deep-teal color in the harbor's water.

a tall man wearing his red beret
carries two easels,
one with tiny points of paint across the stretched canvas.

his wife sits in a rented room.

old cobbled streets

a steep hill to climb,
and a narrow view from the open window.

Collioure,
summer of 1905:

warm!

and it rained in July.

Vlaminck held the letters which he read
over and over:
the wild beasts had escaped!
one certain mustache,
unshaven,
pipe in mouth;
another with glasses the better to see invisibility.

unnatural minds,
looking without success for dark shadows
while finding light,
intensely,
vividly,

pointing to open space on a splendid line,
while the fish were eaten whole.