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.