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.