and we are here

"but it's not too late,"

said the magician,

"the future is near

and we are here

gasping for air

wondering foul or fair?

swimming against the current tide

against all the men who lied

hoping to reach the other side

where the grass is greener

the nights wondrous and bright

where the days find small animals at rest and at play

finding comfort in everything they hear and say."

and there is a cloud sitting heavy on the ground

making it impossible to clearly look around

there is a dawn searching for the rising sun

and an ending before the story has truly begun

"but it's not too late,"

said the magician,

"the future is near

and we are here

gasping for air

wondering foul or fair?

swimming against the tide

against all the men who lied

hoping to reach the other side."

like a nuclear arms race

stick it up my arm

like a shot dog

i'm running wild

like a feral hog

aiming my nose

where the white wind blows

all the time non-stop

over the big top

preparing to eat

while worshiping at your feet

counting your toes

so everybody knows

the smile on your face

like a nuclear arms race

is expensive but a steal

hiding what you might reveal

beneath your hair

and looking everywhere

with my eyes

i see lipstick and lies.

a completely fresh start

finally out of bed

with a hole in my head

looking for what you said

about a strange sound

coming from the ground

and i'm still looking around

but there's no one here

so let me make that clear

i'm alone and being sincere

no need to disappear

behind the back door

underneath the living room floor

it's you that i adore

i feel it deeply inside my heart

you're my state of the art

a completely fresh start

i feel it deeply inside my heart

no tearing you and me apart

i feel it deeply inside my heart

songs from yesterday

remind me of what to say

when we take our leave and fly away.

Somalia on my mind

with Somalia on my mind

totally dazed and confused

i'm pinching my temple

as my eyes are closing

to the momentary truth:

the black arts are hiding in deep shadows.

i go shop to shop

with a bag over my head;

a woman sips her tea

with her middle finger extended.

she inspects a hang nail

that's not made for foreplay.

i feel her scratch.

my forehead is bleeding.

what am i?

my face is missing in action

on a public street

near the harbor where huge cargo ships deploy

and the air smells of rotting fish.

the woman opens my bag

and hands me my face,

which is filled with sharp bones.

with Somalia on my mind

totally dazed and confused

i'm admiring Beauty and a major war Lord

wearing a Medusa face

which is filled with sharp bones,

buying food from the poor street vendors,

and i ask them for a simple bite.

i know them well

from all the international news reports

covering atrocities 

and of course the woman with a hang nail

sits smiling, trying to light a fire.

they all seem much more dangerous in real life.

South Pacific

walking point

in the heat of the day

almost pointless

as the clown juggles his fate

with his hair pumped tangerine orange

and his shoes pointed, too,

toward cyber space

or perhaps the 18th hole of his perfect golf course, 

or his Space Force

where Guardians of the Galaxy

wear the insignia of Doctor Bones.

when sunlight strikes, 

he hears traffic noise he cannot see

from inside a room he cannot leave,

while i read the news from the South Pacific:

a volcano threatens with a rumble of smoke

and island natives run with their many bare feet

walking point

in the heat of the day

splashing into a blue lagoon before the sudden tsunami

finally rushes their beach,

swallowing the Whale of a Good Time Bar,

ruining a new year's party,

all foreign tuxedo and tawdry smiles posing from the upper floors,

sipping privilege from big crystal bowls.

the natives glance, briefly,

rushing to escape,

speaking a tongue learned from an early age

when their childish eyes were clear,

their faces alert and bright with hope,

as the clown juggles his fate

with his hair pumped tangerine orange

and his shoes pointed, too,

walking point

in the heat of the day.

deep into the Mekong

whoosh whoosh

thump thump

duck and dodge

lock and load

rock and roll

roll over Beethoven:

like you,

i need a place to stay.

here, beauty is being whipped around in the swirling hot dust

where birds of prey are praying,

reckoning for their reckoning.

my hair feels brittle and dry;

my taste is explosive,

and there are victims everywhere

rattling their bones,

inspecting their scars,

watching the night overcome the day.

and deep into the Mekong,

a wife wore her grief on her face,

her hair a worthless treasure.

her husband had dreams, too,

but straining in violence they tripped

a hidden booby trap,

became inaudible,

as the war moved in and out of Saigon,

barely pausing, 

pulsing over the highlands and down to the delta,

taking a stroll in the rice fields,

harvesting drops of blood.

i did what i could to love you

without forgetting myself.

i wore my thousand mile stare

facing the horizon in the distance,

its' edge forming ripples like tiny waves shivering:

whoosh whoosh

thump thump

duck and dodge

lock and load

rock and roll

roll over Beethoven:

like you, 

i need a place to stay.

the Golden Buddha

goddess of indecision,

i thought to myself!

she dressed in her dear silk wrap

with huge dark eyes and a

perfumed nose,

sniffing me,

leading me around the Temple

which was filled with mother of pearl

and poignant dreams.

i dreamt mainly of being with her,

sealed mouth to mouth

with my anglicized body,

while she spoke of skilled craftsmanship and

long long years of devoted toil;

she spoke of a King and his royal family,

leading me around the rooms,

and i watched her body.

there was an invitation beneath the unspoken

words but what language was she using?

her shadow 

kept urging me onward, 

deeper into the Kingdom,

a tour guide on sacred grounds,

and yet i knew she was a public presence

paid for an hour or so of historical description.

she smiled while 

her words traveled hundreds of years

into the past, 

and i heard birds singing

in the beautiful gardens,

saw a branch tremble.

i trembled, thinking

we could have changed the world 

but she was on a tight schedule.

she said she was a dancer in her spare time.

she said goodbye using her good English.

the Golden Buddha sat nearby,

his expression unchanging.

i saw no trace of plaster

but heard a deep spiritual breathing;

the air was humid and the birds became quiet.

the blooming of a rose

the end sounds like the doors

are closed 

but across the front lines

lives are flung from the past,

dodging mine fields

and drone strikes,

seeking adventure

in the blooming of a rose.

its' soft red petals, barely attached

in the late fall,

look awfully much like sad shoulders

learning of a death,

but the scent rubs against my cheek

and my hands burn.

i'm resting against a chain link fence

thinking of the open space

barely moments from my face,

floating upon the currents of daylight,

when i see you

worshiping the sun.

your voice jumps the gap separating us

and plays with my eyes,

and the future appears.

death leaves a mark

death leaves a mark

hearts break apart

with one artery spilling all

the fondest memories

balanced on a knife edge

alongside the river filled

with tears.

eyes blur looking for humanity,

looking out the private window,

the living room window,

looking inward

trying to understand how it all works

as it keeps on going,

on and on,

the sun setting before another dawn

without so much harmony,

without public blessings,

and it might become bitterly cold

or it might become hot,

or it's monsoon season

and rains of the earth and sea

have depths,

flooding homes;

the smells of cooking fires 

float on the surface of choppy waves;

and the winds are strong

like fingers squeezing music

through a sieve.

my throat is dry;

the landscape barren and lush;

the tide is in

but it's already leaving

like the disappearance of a child

and the pain of loss is hard.

the softness may never return,

like a lost ring or a forgotten kiss

stolen in the blush of early spring,

each forward step looking for an answer

in a cyclone of questions spinning

in one hand, 

and out of control,

it keeps on going,

on and on:

death leaves a mark

hearts break apart

with one artery spilling all

the fondest moments

balanced on a knife edge

alongside the river filled

with tears.

there were Chinese examining the sights

she was window shopping

with a pink ladies' bag loosely hanging from her hand

wearing a pink skirt which stopped above her knees

when a man in a top hat stopped her and said "Please,"

would you be so kind as to give me a piece of your mind?"

and the look in her eyes 

showed her complete surprise

that a man wearing nothing except a formal hat

on a busy commercial street

could cause her heart to pause and skip a beat

and she glanced around 

hearing the strange sound

of a clown juggling his teeth and the fat lady singing her tune

with a worn-out artist playing his worn-out bassoon.

she didn't know what to think or what to say,

things like this didn't happen much during the day.

there were Chinese examining the sights, in their own way,

making sure to express their delights

at the shopping spirts and the bright city lights 

and in the reflections of store windows, silent ghosts stood and smiled

at the working men passing in their cars

waving to the pink ladies sitting at sidewalk bars

and painters walking the wide stairs

carrying thin brushes between their hungry lips,

coloring between the lines, 

imagining Picasso designs,

watching the sashaying of hips

between the hours of four and seven

when highway angels unfold their wings and fly straight up to Heaven

looking for the man in a top hat

and not only that

but for a warm bite to eat and a tossed coin

and a lonely hearts club band to listen to and join.

there's a mission home near the factory and the food bank

where the lady in pink found a place to sit and drink

when she grew tired of holding her bag

she couldn't remember if she should make a zig or zag,

and she never answered the top hat,

so he moved on

to question another pedigree cat;

everyone smiled as the tourist cameras  clicked and shuttered,

like crusty French bread sitting under the hot sun buttered

with a hearty glass of red:

it was what someone suddenly said

before heading off to his stone cold bed,

to look for his favorite book which still remains unread.

where my dog was hiding

i took my dog for a walk

but a paw was sore and she limped

into the woods,

wondering why i hesitated

while on the phone

listening to the news

between drops of cold rain 

and there was constant static 

but she saw a chipmunk and ran away

beyond the tree line

into another hole,

into a space between distant wolves and the arrival of deer.

i heard the dial tone calling me,

and i answered and gave my name and wondered aloud

why no one seemed to care and hung up again,

much like many times before.

and the rain spit and hissed when i saw a tree looking at me,

waving its' arms, holding a phone which looked a lot like mine.

i heard the leaves in mixed company underneath my feet,

all their colors wet with a gentle fatigue,

and they seemed to question me but i had no answer

which made sense as i passed into an adjacent field,

all cut corn and overhead a circling red tail hawk looking for mice

and maybe the furry bunny who made the hole where my dog was hiding. 

everyone had an indelible mark

i followed the man in his custom-made jump suit

as he headed to the bank,

expecting to find something valuable

because, he said, 

it's not funny

when they take your money,

leaving you for dead.

his smile was wide

as he lied

about his winnings, 

millions and millions and maybe more

hidden under a clever trap door

somewhere on the ground floor

near a vault locked from prying eyes.

but the bank was closed

with a sign in the window saying "gone fishing"

and all the clues pointed to slippery fingers

but the evidence went missing,

although a couple of dogs died like dogs,

dreaming of meaty bones,

watching smooth criminals tossing the first stones

in the early hours past curfew

while the hungry blackbirds flew

over the historic roof of a neighborhood bordello

owned by a mean-eyed man known as mister good fellow.

and everyone heard his whispers making a threatening noise;

saw his girls playing with their friendly boys;

read the headlines;

paid their parking fines;

beat it out of town before the next big fight,

trying not to be afraid of the approaching night,

as the sounds of gun fire and traffic jams erupted,

finding nothing anywhere that's been left uncorrupted.

and when they gathered in the public park,

everyone had an indelible mark

tattooed on their forearm before slipping off to bed,

sharing the remaining pieces of a single loaf of day-old bread,

turning down the lights,

dreaming of a dream of first principles and last rites.

i'm not ready to be labeled obsolete

what did you do?

i walked a mile without your shoe

in the afternoon in the rain

and it was simply such a pain

but i really couldn't complain.

so why did i go?

and i can't say much because i don't know

i went heading around the back

crossing the nearest railroad track

growing tried before hitting the sack.

what did anyone say?

a lonesome cowboy came heading my way

strumming his folk guitar

hoping he'd get pretty far

sitting in the back seat of his convertible car.

what was he singing?

well, my nose was twitching and my ears were ringing

i stomped my feet

and met him halfway down the street

handing him a rodeo treat.

where was his best girl?

i saw a necklace and a single pearl

but heard nothing about a wife

just sad, sad words about a sorry life

and an angry sheriff and a bloody knife.

what could i find?

there was confusion on my mind

and i couldn't understand

why i didn't hold a winning hand

just going nowhere stuck in the white sand.

so, what caused the fire?

there was a low low down and a high wire

and i was feeling stuck

rummaging thru the trash expecting to better my luck

but try as i might i only found a single buck.

where was all the fun?

some day i'll be less crazy but now i'm on the run

tapping out a steady beat

looking for a good time on an easy street

hoping to separate the chaff from the wheat,

and that's no self-conceit:

i'm not ready to be labeled obsolete.

the truth spoke

pounded on the butcher block

behind a door with no visible lock,

i'm being told what everyone thinks

and how to dress and how many drinks

i'd be allowed,

while i'm unconsciously floating on a cloud

above the tumult of a storm.

i was trying to find a place that's safe and warm

when a voice appeared,

and it didn't seem weird,

so i didn't ask it to stay or leave;

there was nothing to find hiding up my sleeve.

i was told to pull on my pants,

to bend low learning how to dance

the American Way and the tango,

whichever way the prevailing winds would blow.

there are those who are confused and others in the know,

some are close by but many out of reach,

often fighting and criticizing my freedom of speech. 

so i just taped my mouth shut and ran away:

i tried to focus on what i did and not on what i heard them say.

but then the truth began speaking and i had to agree,

the one who gave them permission to be censors was me.

i saw the golden Buddha and heard Thomas Paine

and their philosophical friends coming out of the dark rain.

everyone holding hands when the sun came out ,

and in the evening quiet there was a defiant shout!

no one could ever be completely wrong 

singing their own personal diary song,

in honor of the message that was written on the original wall

which warned we all must stand together

or everyone will fall.

and leave Minsk

"Go away, rat!"

the crowds chanted.

take your fleas

and water cannons,

thieving thugs

and their night sticks

and police vans,

and leave Minsk.

leave, and take the

oppressor's grip along with you,

the fingers stained by deceit.

"Go away, rat!"

the crowds chanted.

but leave the colors white-red-white

for the people of Belarus,

for the many neighbors in the neighborhoods,

for the mothers who gave you birth

when your cries were for a universe lifting its' face toward the stars

and your fathers who gave you birth

so that you might breathe free, learning to laugh.

"Go away, rat!"

the far shore is closer than it seems.

in the Nigerian field

i did not bend to gather rice

or any crop

but those who did

were in front of me

and behind and to each side,

and they were assembled in the Nigerian field

to have their throats slit,

below their ears and noses,

and buzzing flies soon came when they

heard about the banquet of oozing liquid.

i did not hear the dead singing,

(it was too far away)

but i could cross the bridge

before the bodies disappeared,

to witness the terror in each voice

still farming the hard soil.

warm drops of sweat 

and dark eyes finally at rest,

but not at peace.

the village women who saw this scene are no longer smiling,

sweet music on their tongues like grief heavy at a child's funeral.

i can not sing, but played a three-stringed molo with no color

in my face, beginning each note as though it were my last.

i did not touch the ground.

"Remember that name."

Mohsen Fakhrizadeh,

living in the shadows

and dying in the shadows,

while i hear the sounds of gunfire,

feel the heat of faraway death

pouring from a rural road close to Tehran.

with no warning, his horizon vanishes

and the sun abruptly sets;

a light flickers and dims,

and later alone in a hospital, he dies,

briefly remembering bodyguards screaming,

shatter-resistant glass shattering:

a final nuclear chaos amid the atomic calm of a back seat cell.

and a hush falls while the wheels of retribution begin to spin, 

as the wheels of the black Nissan remain still, 

blood and bone signaling the street battle was intense.

"Remember that name, Fakhrizadeh," Netanyahu once brazenly said,

his own wife becoming nervous, 

noticing how slowly the hours pass.

with heavy jewelry rattling,

she walks to her bath,

briefly gazing into the mirror.

the southern coast of Portugal

sailing 6 miles off the southern coast of Portugal

heading for Gibraltar

and the anxious arms of an urgent Hercules

where the Atlantic and the Mediterranean embrace

in a swelling disturbance

which old salts know so well,

keeping an eye on the shipping lanes,

the ferries splashing north and south.

on the hard, ladies dress in traditional costume

and the Spanish men wear baggy pants and ties,

drinking lunch among the smells and spices

of narrow streets and goat cheese.

Barcelona bound, eventually,

but the lure of a British territory is strong,

if only for a cup of tea,

as the light burns dimly in the west.

if i could listen

we forgot to care,

to remember how to share

in a world torn apart

crying about losing its' loving heart

we're together but can only sit and stare

as though no one else is there,

blowing kisses into thin air,

speaking words that never seem enough

to heal our wounds and smooth the rough:

we're alone and it didn't have to be this way

we didn't know what words to say

in a world filled with angels of the earth

all searching for sensations of self-worth.

we're alone in rooms we've made

fighting feelings that somehow we've been betrayed,

but doors swing both ways and windows open in and out;

if i could listen, i could hear your shout

if you could listen, you could begin to remove your doubt

in a world filled with angels of the earth

all searching for sensations of self-worth.

we're alone in rooms we've made

fighting feelings that we've been betrayed,

but doors swing both ways and windows open in and out

if i could listen, i could hear your shout

if you could listen, you could begin to remove your doubt.

singing folk sings for the remainder of the night

standing on shifting ground

almost afraid to look around

at the noise seeping in thru the floor

almost afraid to open the door

where there's a ghost with a drink

he's emptying his bottle in my kitchen sink

telling me i have no official permission to think

and with a trembling nod of my head

i start filling with dread

there's so much confusion and shouting and hate

i can't even decide what to put on my dinner plate:

should it be sausage and a baked potato with butter?

but like a ship in a storm without a rudder

i crash onto the shore and swallow sand

just before a damsel in distress offers me her hand

in the waning light of the day;

we look into each others' eyes and forget what to say.

she took me to the local chicken shack

where they grill their best meat on hot coals in a steel kettle out back

we had a bite,

singing folk songs for the remainder of the night,

dancing like lovers' when their bodies are feeling the drums,

dreaming like babies in cribs who are sucking their opposing thumbs.

she in glass slippers and i carrying my suitcase

running to our carriage ride for the thin air of outer space

and at the stroke of midnight

we had a bite,

singing folk songs for the remainder of the night,

pretending that hope was eternal and everything would be alright.

his name was Mister Navalny!

his name was Mister Navalny!

and he had me sit on his knee

to listen to the tale of a hot cup of tea

and an airplane ride

when he fell sick and almost died

at the hands of the FSB,

an unscrupulous spy agency

lurking in the eastern shadows

and everybody there knows

which way the Russian wind blows.

so Putin, they say,

always gets his way

and as he grows older

he grows bolder,

killing morning flowers with a stroke of his pen;

killing poets and friendly businessmen.

there are times on a Moscow street,

one recognizes the face of a passing stranger they meet

and it's frightening,

like swallowing a bottle of vodka thunder and lightening

on the birthday of a fresh-faced baby

no if, and, but, or maybe,

simply a sudden spark in the dark

or a swim in a river guaranteed to make one splash and shiver

a final time before a change of the mind,

hearing footsteps scurrying from behind

on the thirteenth floor and the narrow balcony:

two more places for a last breath before checking out of reality.

his name was Mister Navalny,

taking a soft drink while sitting in an aisle seat

listening to his steady heartbeat.

and steady as it goes,

wearing his commoner shoes and clothes

and everybody there knows

which way the Russian wind blows.

the blueberries from Peru

the blueberries from Peru

gave my hunger an early morning wink

as i picked up their plump promise

from my kitchen sink.

i offered up my mouth,

and enjoyed a special lap dance

with sweet young things

and it felt like romance

as they slid down my throat

before tumbling away

into my smiling belly;

it felt like foreplay!

and nothing else that i swallowed

had such an personal impact;

i asked them all

if we could reenact

the first bite of each day?

and i'd applaud their blue beauty,

their dancing moves like operatic ballet,

satisfying my appetite

like a lover at a candle lit cabaret.

i am not among them

there are cities

underground

where dark creatures swim

holding a fake rose in each hand,

mouthing a hateful grin.

and their banners waving overhead,

flapping proudly in the wind,

are enough to catch the crooked eyes

of the frightened dead and their lies.

it is not sufficient to smell the street

and to hear the noise,

to be alarmed of their plans

and their dangerous toys;

it is not enough to feel the heat

and the rushing air,

to taste the scent of harvested hate

on busy corners every where.

those dark creatures might wait for me

as i take another lyric step,

but i am not among them.

my god, they shot him dead

my god,

they shot him dead

along a public thoroughfare

in front of everyone who was standing there

including Cicero

and a roving band of merry pranksters

all holding signs

detailing their nefarious designs,

but forgive my ignorance;

my eyes are balls of flame,

trying to focus all the blame

on the shadow world of conspirators playing in this game:

the motorcycle agents with menacing Israeli guns

and i should admire their handy work,

but am stuffed with a personal quirk:

i want to experience a type of world without endless war

like the moon i see outside my backyard garden door.

but the streets are wet with blood,

little drops like hot grease bouncing inside a frying pan;

and some crowd of crooks saw him as a monster,

not as a human man.

and 

my god,

they shot him dead,

not waiting for a final word that he might have said.

a dog barked at the moon

when i crawled from my hole

a dog barked at the moon

it was a nearly perfect white one

i read my book by the glow of that celestial lamp,

grabbed a bottle filled with ripe red grape,

and shouted to an overhead airplane

it glided down to grab me by the throat

and laughed when it went by

i sat near the shore of a small pond,

under the tree with no leaves.

three gold fish swam nearby,

and headed to the bank.

like criminals that have no money,

they looked at their hands

which were empty.

i often see them when the water is low.

they wear wigs and pray for rain.

i worry about their happiness.

the moon drops and will not get back up.

it is asleep with the dog.

i do not finish my book.

in Tehran sipping tea

all the sad dead

in Tehran sipping tea

remember the CIA

oiling the gears in 1953

when life was hard

and wine was cheap,

stealthy on the street,

digging the knife in deep,

slipping into shadows

concealing their eyes,

employing the language

of powerful lies.

Prime Minister Mosaddegh

was sent to his house

by the crafty Shah

to live like a caged mouse.

and now,

no one knows

about the disappearance of

the fragrant scent from the Iranian rose!

noble Persian aspirations

play to the dramatic music of grief,

written in hot desert sand by

a swift and terrible thief.

still visible to one another

i kicked the can far down the road

you waited for time to stand still

but it only slowed

as the dead,

buried under crosses in the forest across the field,

heard the rattling of our bones,

it saw us share lovely memories

as we sat waiting for the dark river to stop flowing

we swam, resembling each other

resembling the stars when they shimmer and shine

resembling the moon circling in eternal adoration

the eyes of a flower, patiently smiling in fragrant dress,

light up the day

and at the dawn

words come forth

saying again what they know best how to say

and we listen, still visible to one another.

unafraid of the dark

i know what i saw

i know what i heard

counting every vote

respecting every word

and you said the country beneath your feet

once held its' head high

and its' air was sweet.

but what impressed me the most

was the story you often told

of the undying ghost.

it kept repeating inside my head:

the tragic bloodshed

of a civil war;

the battlefields and the untimely dead.

the lusty songs as young men went marching past,

proud of their skills,

but fearing that it wouldn't last.

the final exhale of a deserving breath;

a Union asked to choose between life and death

chose the memory and the Revolutionary deed

of a Republic and the ultimate need

to free ALL men and firmly hold

ideals more important than acts of merely accumulating pieces of gold.

where ALL men have an authentic voice

and the will to spontaneously rejoice.

i walked into my home town

and looked around,

seeing children playing in the park,

in each eye a knowing spark

unafraid of the dark.

between Ethiopia and Senegal

it was election day

in the desert,

between Ethiopia 

and Senegal

when all the bedouins

came 

to give their tribal call,

looking for the wailing wall

under stormy skies with a chill in the air 

and a bout of heavy rains.

i saw crowds of wandering people

and all that remains

of their private wishing well

and what they brought,

hoping to barter or to sell,

and a public place for women to gather,

to laugh and cry,

but what could i really see

when i turned my blind eye?

the sad men, they gambled and all their cards

came up short;

they took their petty grievances

to a higher court.

and i heard the angels preparing a nighttime meal

while cooking up thin excuses

for everything they could steal!

they put their food into a heavy pot

which heated to a quick boil.

they chose to be the first to eat

before anything had a chance to spoil.

i watched their smoking fires

and heard nervous voices 

speaking about roaming free,

riding rapids down the wild Zambezi,

looking for a safe place to pull ashore

devoid of discord and hungry carnivore.

i was hanging by the seat of my pants,

but couldn't shake the trance

of being inside a big circus tent and feeling strange,

wishing i could make amends and rearrange

the nomad  into a well-wisher 

and a passionate lip kisser.

in the small world with big butchers and their raw beef,

i found myself trapped inside a colosseum with a marauding thief

who drew his sword and challenged my belief,

but much to my relief

it was a passing dream and i awoke renewed

near a hilltop village painted with strokes of simple solitude,

wondering if everything i felt was nothing more than prelude

between Ethiopia and Senegal.

Ashgabat

the Gates of Hell

swing open,

not near but not too far, 

when driving in an old Soviet car

away from Ashgabat,

and it's hot

if you can find the spot,

where white marble and the wall

come together five times a day

for the muezzin call.

and seconds pass and years,

but time stands still

on the rise of an ancient foothill.

there are camels in the street,

being butchered in the heat.

horses and sheep

walk the dusty roads,

carrying people and their heavy loads.

and the President for Life

applauds his political skills and knife,

keeping Turkmen under lock and key

who might otherwise choose to be free

but have no voice,

no human rights or choice.

a natural place for the tourist to view

all the animals feeding inside the zoo.

off the foggy coast of wild Peru

how did you survive

when they killed the number five,

and tossed your Father in a cell?

because in Kashmir there is a riot

when Indian troops demand a total quiet

from early dawn until an indefinite tomorrow

like a conquering Spanish Pizarro

off the foggy coast of wild Peru.

what will you do?

a sharp-eared owl heard the softest drums

of an approaching storm:

she saw the clever swarm

of power-hungry mouths

eating the primordial forest nude and bare,

leaving

nothing but thin air:

her tongue could taste the odor

of a menacing nightmare

softly creeping 

into bedrooms where children were safely sleeping,

dreaming of their grand empires

of laughing moons and shooting stars and youthful merriment.

their closed eyes and gentle faces,

wrapped in imaginary blankets of loves' good graces,

rest in peace.

what will they become?

or was it Bangkok?

the imperial family,

buried in St. Petersburg cathedral

or was it Bangkok?

are kick boxing the golden rule,

drinking a Moscow mule

with a revolutionary head,

filling it with the dread

of Chinese schemes

and the unexpected night screams

of the golden Buddha.

in the Ukraine,

black clad mercenaries

with white penis brains

are seen urinating in the harbor,

while stroking their friends,

hoping to make amends

for their complicity

or was it Bangkok?

the foreshadowing grows

and hopefully someone

somewhere knows

the stories that

Churchill might have been a minor drunk

but it was the major battleship Bismarck

that was sunk

in the Atlantic, west of Brest, 

while imagining a Nordic woman's fine breast,

all the way to the bottom of the sea.

and a mysterious Romanian lady,

who never said the word 'maybe',

realized her own desires

were perfectly-formed internal fires

and her eyes were clear.

she placed her wine glass on the small table,

picked up her brush,

tapped a bit of custom-made pigment blush

on the handsome face of a portrait lover,

who did not speak her tongue,

but knew where her closet skeleton was hung.

under cover,

in Indonesia,

Bali, actually,

i went to a knee

to have a better view of the incoming tide

or was it Bangkok?

where all the Russian mobsters

used speed dial to call their mother.

there are stories that they knew Churchill

and drank with him in the bunker underneath

the back streets of London

or was it Bangkok?

perhaps Bucharest?

i once asked a Croat

and a Serb

but they gave conflicting answers:

one a noun and one a verb.

contained in totality

time seemed to vanish,

running from the inside out;

even when i thought i knew,

i felt creeping shadows of doubt.

but a mountain is a mountain,

tall and fine as it stands,

allowing itself to be admired

without making demands.

and the sunlight, 

pouring down like a heavy rain,

makes no excuses for being happy

as it doesn't try to explain.

just everything i see,

especially the emotion of being,

is contained in totality.

when the world is asleep

back down

in my home town

moving slowly through a crowd

being ignored but feeling proud

taking a deep breath

the way a river escapes it's banks

remembering my childhood

and always to give my thanks

like a flower in the park

dressed in nothing but light 

but heading for the dark

around the time i still believed in all the stuff

i was told makes a real man tough,

like how to be angry and how to bleed;

how to make peace with the hazards of greed;

like anything worth doing was worth doing at top speed:

touched in the head

by a creed that misled

all my steps in the face of a sun-soaked storm,

failed to enlighten and failed to inform.

so just sipping my beer

resting my rear

while i'm sitting here

listening to the murmur from a soft wind

lifting its' head to the quiet blue sky:

the world seems asleep and so do i.

i would like to be the moon

when i shot my M-16

for the first time,

it was on a target range

in the state of New Jersey, USA.

and there was very little recoil.

i wore my army uniform while 

adjusting my sights,

and there was gravel underfoot

and the day was hot.

it was my responsibility to be accurate.

i couldn't see my face,

but i probably looked like a judge

who was good at what he did.

it was horrifying to contemplate the purpose

of my training with this weapon,

but i took it with me to South Vietnam in 1969.

eventually, i was awarded a medal.

and now i would like to be memory-free,

simple and one-celled.

i would like to sleep under a warm sun

like a fat house cat.

i would like to be more tender.

i would like to be a wild wood duck, 

flying freely toward the full moon.

i would like to be the moon!

on the path to loneliness

the Giant with five eyes

keeps claiming to have seen the living dead rise

across the open prairies 

underneath crimson skies

where factual truth is ridiculed and compromised,

twisted into pieces and distorted by his lies.

but i'm sipping Kentucky bourbon 

while reading the international news:

it doesn't comfort me but it's simply what i choose

to keep on open mind

on what he plots and what he eats and brews.

his friends are hiding inside a box!

they talk about fake gold inside Fort Knox

and never dare 

to complain of lack of air!

no! he'll rip away their faces and tear away their hair.

they're waiting for the end days,

humming Bible stories and singing Christian praise,

filled with the weight of fear and sunk by a deep despair,

they won't save themselves but only sit and stare,

even when the sign posts proclaim everyone should beware!

the workers in a field who never read a book,

never stood a chance against a machine that only ever took,

when the highest goal was owning all the land, 

the oceans, and all the oil-rich sand.

the giant with five eyes,

much to my surprise,

dressed in a complicated disguise

to which there were never any independent replies,

and all around were murders and mysterious spies

smiling as they pledged their word and said their sly goodbyes.

it was all good until it wasn't fun anymore,

when the counting man couldn't tally the final score,

but on the path to loneliness there are greater mountains to explore.

don't be sad about the horrors of war

i saw her in a corner of my neighborhood bar

sitting on a lonesome chair

with a look both near and far

and her eyes were shooting stars

more upsetting than a shopping mall

full of war damaged vintage Russian cars

and the banana merchants who quietly slipped away

without a word when they were asked to pay

for all the hearts they ever sold without an honest smile,

or the hanging judge they bought before the latest murder trial,

and the several dirty rugs they tossed out on the floor

which they assured would entirely stop the coming holocaust world war

but a savage looking one with ashes in his grey beard

said he knew what it was his ancestors feared

while from around the hidden corner i mechanically peered

i saw her in a corner of my neighborhood bar

dreaming of a future with the sweet taste of desire

like a tune was caressing her rose-colored lips

under the shadow of an impending apocalypse

i looked at her for a long, long time

waiting for my moment to strike

waiting for the bell to chime

but everything was counted and nothing else i saw was mine:

the tracks around her neck and the sad hair on her head

gave me nervous sweats and filled me with dread

so with one leg ready i turned to run out

but i juggled with indecision when i finally heard her shout

"don't be sad about the horrors of war;

beyond this earth everything that happens has happened before!"

and in a far distance i heard gentle voices and saw a growing void

reminding me of what to harvest and what to avoid:

an underground and free spaces overhead,

making room at the local bar for all the phantoms who are acting dead:

but through their bony mouths they were sipping drinks with ice cubes in their teeth

while softly asking "what is my belief?"

but i didn't have to answer much and much to my relief,

i grabbed that girl and tip toed out the back door like a disappearing thief.

looking for a simple meal of something good to eat

 the Edmund Pettus bridge

still standing in its' dress of steel

with memories and nothing more to prove

it's vibrant and oh, so real

with streets full of people marching

holding their signs and their life breath

fighting to stay alive

in the face of unnecessary death

holding hopeful heads up high

wondering all the time why

it has come to this

inside a nursing home without a lover's kiss:

and where is the tall ship of state

willing to serve a hot dinner plate

to a hungry man falling down on his hard luck?

one who wants to work for an honest, hard-earned buck

with no interest in a gilded chair or a first class airplane seat

just looking for a simple meal of something good to eat

far from the confusing shouts coming from far down the street

when the air was cold and there were dark clouds of an impending storm

he was asking for a silent smile and a heart full of kindness and warm,

though his boots were tired and his pants and shirt were torn.

and the wine from Portugal

a few questions remain on my chin

like drops of dark cranberry juice

with a neat twist of lemon,

hijacking my tranquil mood

as i'm returning a container of fresh milk

to the kitchen refrigerator.

a woman is speaking on live tv

to a white haired man with a pancake face

and a soft cream grin, who tries to interrupt

with a house fly on his head,

eating shit and bits of stale popcorn.

and yet another hurricane is approaching the Gulf of Mexico

with a Greek name and one hundred mile an hour

winds, looking for another city to destroy.

California wildfires consuming millions of acres of forests in an

attempt to engorge themselves, are eating like obese ants at a climate change

party, waiting for the chocolate cake which never arrives.

Armenia is failing. Azerbaijan is failing.

Putin is a tragedy.

Trump is a presidential disgrace.

and Pink Floyd is playing a British song about my mother dropping her bomb

over a dusty New Mexican desert.

a border wall is being built from steel plates while a pod

of pilot whales remain stranded on a remote New Zealand beach.

there are children in a prison without lights on at night to make it impossible

for them to find their parents, who are also in a prison without lights on at night.

a public picnic table is empty under the spreading chestnut tree.

the village blacksmith is looking for his lump of coal and a hammer for the anvil blow.

a square-jawed sheriff is looking for his shiny badge when the wall clock strikes high noon;

the nearest saloon is filled with lonely drinkers, all eyeing a table holding the ace of spades.

the Earth is spinning like a busy top playing games as the warm winds blow in

from the southern ice shelf, groaning in a whirling fit of exasperation,

while to the far north Santa Claus sits on his snow sled looking inside a big brown bag,

empty of gifts for the needy and the lost, but filled with voices singing Mozart's Requiem in D Minor. 

and the wine from Portugal is better than you think.

a solitary tree

rough bark lovingly hugged woody arms

around the middle of a solitary tree,

which stood tall with a quiet oak sound.

on the horizon was a young deer chasing its' spots

across a dry autumn corn field, heedless of

the deep blue sky and

the alert archer watching from his stand, anxious for

the first pull of his bow.

Osa, a silly dog, saw the deer

but not the archer and gave an energetic yet brief chase.

the solitary tree remained stoic but dropped everything to

listen, including the remaining few leaves which drifted slowly

to the soft ground, inaudible to human ears.

but she can help you

but she can help you

there's perfume in her hair

flirty whispers thru the air

you've got thumb

don't be so dumb

aye, there's the rub

you're no ticket stub

in the heat of the night

when nothing seems right

but she can help you

tie your shoe

pick your lock

and you've got rock,

and roll,

and a black hole

with no lump of coal.

you've got thumb

don't be so dumb

aye, there's the rub

you're no ticket stub

but she can help you

there's perfume in her hair

flirty whispers thru the air.

Black Panthers

i was prisoner in a cell

with a job sweeping up the cement floor

i felt warm inside the joint

listening to stories of a new cold war

suffering inside my locked door

but i took my escape from white-washed walls

while running at my mouth

up and down the injustice halls

into another heated Oakland night 

looking for a little daylight

across the narrow bridge

hearing stories of police oppression and the bloody Pine Ridge

and there were Black Panthers feeding kids

in the early morning hours before school

teaching each and every one the precious golden rule

while they sat with spoons and forks and a dull knife

learning to avoid a world of drug-dealing and  low nightlife

where pigs in patrol cars pull up to the broken curb

smashing any black sign that says "Do not disturb!"

but kids kept reading their books

while giving me curious childhood looks

as if to ask who i might be and what was my ultimate goal

but i was running flat-out out on my fake parole,

both fists held high and tight in my striped uniform.

i mounted the hard-to-climb ladder and stood on my own platform

calling for justice and civic reform

but no one heard

as i gathered each angry word

before ominously, Mister J Edgar Hoover and his criminal FBI

gagged me by the mouth and poked my one good eye!

i was so aggrieved, i began to cry,

and then a mighty pain;

it seemed there was nothing more to gain

and i might have become blind

but it seemed normal being left behind

when the party was about to begin:

no one stood a fair chance to win.

there was barely an open seat to watch the beginning of the freedom show

when i saw an angry bird flying past who said his name was Jim Crow;

i watched him grab a hanging rope,

and tie a clever knot.

his following gang  

hiding in my blindspot

as the circumstances kept changing, and the children took their tests:

i heard they all got passing grades 

but were treated like uninvited guests

when the FBI led me to a party wall;

where i entertained myself with a game of American dodge ball,

dreaming of a fertile field, praying for a gentle rain,

picking at my Attica lock 

trying to remove my invisible slave chain.

a shadow and a ghost

waking at the blush of dawn

pulling on my pants

waiting for direction

to begin my human dance

tic tac toe

a one and a two

mental music running in my head

i'm shuffling my blue suede shoe

ready for a ball room

jumping over the spinning top

head long into apocalypse

and a final sudden stop

there's nothing to prepare for

like falling into war

with a disassembled crowd

standing on a soap box yelling at a cloud

with gray walls of confusing mist,

a shadow and a ghost

looking for opportunity 

or a visible signpost:

but there's no park bench without a rusty nail;

no free river running with a nearby nature trail,

calling names out for a chance to play;

the game close but slipping away.

there's fewer willing to speak or stay

when the rain hurts the skin,

and fewer able to win.

so, it's time to dress

while there's still time to guess,

and it's anybody's guess:

a shadow and a ghost

looking for opportunity 

or a visible signpost.

tic tac toe,

pick a number

to sit in the front row

at the greatest show.

a shadow and ghost

are both heading for the coast.

a one and a two,

mental music running in my head,

i'm shuffling my blue suede shoe.

please, stay some more

and the new day saw the low gray clouds

hanging their heads in grief

for that one last breath and the falling

of a golden leaf,

without a sound,

all the way from the highest branch to the cold, hard ground:

there was disbelief

that a clever thief

could steal such a precious life,

without warning or a threatening knife.

and the reason for the end

was elusive and harder to comprehend,

when eyes once bright with a curious spark

could be so suddenly dimmed in the whispering dark.

tears fall, and implore

the memory walking in and out the door

please, stay some more,

pull up an easy chair

for our long, slow talk

before our long, slow walk.

we'll laugh and linger;

see three red fox and point a finger

at a swift hummingbird,

appreciating moments without saying any extra word,

and when your Lord says it's time to dine,

it will also be your time to shine.

the color blue was red

You may not know

when the storm blows in

or how many times the ticking clock

strikes noon.

you may arrive for the hanging judge

an hour or a minute too soon,

before the bartender pours his drink

for the gambler 

who takes a moment too long to think

which cards to keep and which ones to toss;

he couldn't afford another costly loss,

when a gentle woman of the evening 

gave him a crooked smile,

with her scarlet mouth and rosemary hips,

a friendly look with honey-colored lips.

she took her time to take him by the steady hand;

but did he really understand

there was always a price to pay? 

whether he took a walk down some dusty trail,

or spent quality time on her comfort bed,

or in the local sheriff's jail

where he could scratch his story on the nearest bloody wall

about how he remembered to walk 

only after he learned to crawl.

and his head held high!

but he didn't stop to wonder why

there was water flowing over the highest dam,

or out on the street a perpetual traffic jam,

with planes doing cartwheels down the side streets

and over the busy boulevards.

there was no place for a man who played his cards

close to his vest with suspicious, nervous eyes

in company with hustlers and a roving company of secret spies

from Washington and the velvet underground,

who wrote their headlines after and before

the holocaust and the thirty year war. 

there were everyday acrobats toasting with their evening meals,

and barnyard animals eating with their frightened squeals;

and hustlers selling books 

about silky mermaids with their fishy looks;

and a terrible avalanche disrupted central avenue

just to give the busy workingmen something else to do,

beyond the shopping sprees and the investing machine,

when the king appeared with his security and his virginal queen,

carrying bags of fool's gold behind the public scene,

proclaiming everything was normal and absolutely routine:

he spoke with a perfectly mellow voice

so no one had a care or a choice.

everything was as they said:

one plus one was three

and the color blue was red.

Mother Nature

what have you done

with my softest feet

which walked on the damp grass

before crossing the hard street?

what have you done

with my native child,

once unbroken and wild,

now exhausted and exiled?

what have you done with the dreams

which i wrote in my diary?

well, i'll take your answer for what it seems 

while i give you this inquiry:

when the fields are all planted

but the free birds are dying,

will your voice stay silent

while the innocents are crying?

when the oceans come calling with their eyes wide in fright

will babies be safe while napping over night?

yes, i've seen crazy horses stampeded by thunder,

kicking at the iron-clad barn door;

and young men wanting their first warm kiss

but shipped off to a war:

and the gray-haired woman who gave me her smile,

her fingers wrinkled and her fashion seemingly out-of-style,

she offered me comfort on her living room chair,

sitting in silent light to tell me to stand up to dark despair;

yes i ask 

while watching disappearing sand in an hour glass:

when the air gets heated and the desert sands explode,

will there be time enough to find a better road?

in spite of bullies and all the poison that they spew,

there are friendly faces and the better natures they pursue

with healthy hearts and selfless pride,

they seek the good and push the bad aside,

appreciating each pebble has a perfect polish all its' own;

which shines the brightest not when held in contempt,

but when it's thrown.

what have you done

with my softest feet

which walked on the damp grass

before crossing the hard street?

what have you done

with my native child,

once unbroken and wild,

now exhausted and exiled?

what i knew

 i'll tell what i knew

i counted all the greatest men

yet only found a few

who were born in humble circumstance

but spread their wings and flew

without envy in their heart

and that was an important start.

inside my own cocoon

it was about an hour after midnight

when i saw a woman with flowers in her hair

she asked me if i had some money to spare

well, my pockets were empty and torn

and i knew i was looking forlorn

but i gave her what i could share

it wasn't much but when you're down and out

there isn't much left but questioning and feelings of self-doubt

so i went my way

without much more to say

but suddenly i heard her asking me with a voice pure as gold

she wanted to know if i had ever been bought and sold?

if i was a carpetbagger or a military man on his leave?

was i an honest man or was something hanging up my sleeve?

and what exactly did i know and what did i believe?

well, sitting down to reflect on what she just said

i heard the murmur of ocean waves 

i saw the tombstones of the dead

happy children playing on their graves

and i didn't know which way to go

when you get to the point where you realize

there's really no point to all the lies

maybe that's when i'm feeling free

on the backroads with no map and no crushing necessity

each gate swinging open and all the distant hills waiting for me

it's simple; it's easy

on the evening beach under the rising moon

simply reluctant to leave too soon,

like a butterfly spinning tales

inside my own cocoon,

like a deep inhale

with no well-trodden trail

to follow:

substantial with no unnecessary hollow,

maybe that's when i'm feeling free

on the backroads with no map and no crushing necessity

each gate swinging open and all the distant hills waiting for me

it's simple; it's easy

on the evening beach under the rising moon

simply reluctant to leave too soon,

like a butterfly spinning tales

inside my own cocoon.

the fragrance of cherry blossoms

 it was in Tokyo harbor

sitting on a battleship

under the rising sun

that McArthur had his general's fun;

his pants pressed neat and firm,

he offered surrender documents to confirm

that the Emperor really knew

what he came to realize was true:

the Pacific War was done.

it was August 1945,

after Hiroshima and Nagasaki

but Hirohito sat regally proud

inside the Imperial Palace

with fresh memories of a terrible mushroom cloud

when a moment of sadness brushed his eye

for the way of the samurai,

and the sudden desire for the fragrance of cherry blossoms.

then he spoke on the radio

to his people.

Venus in a giant half shell

too tired to mount the stairs,

i'm heavy with fatigue.

strange new cares

are pushing me down

until i can see

to the bottom of the sea,

and all the creatures trying to make it

are dressing in transsexual costumes

or else trying to fake it;

they're pushing open the revolving door

where a television

is portraying the ongoing civil war,

with battles on city streets and in the public square:

people looking for an escape are lost but discovering Mister Nowhere,

climbing ladders for a better view

to the top of the watch tower and down Fifth Avenue;

stories are thrown into the mix

and everybody wants to be in on the fix,

but the glue holding it all together

easily comes undone during spells of stormy weather:

in case there is some confusion when the music cries at night,

i'm swallowing pharmaceutical medicines to help myself feel alright,

and as part of the gathering crowd, i'm looking for an store front to swallow

or when i spy an anxious protest banner, i'll eagerly follow,

trying to find missing pieces of the broken wall

where the body of Humpty Dumpty one time took his big fall,

remembering that all the King's horses and their frustrated dreams

are not always on my side because nothing is ever like it seems.

there's a red glow on the horizon and choking smoke on the breeze;

people are rising and falling, some down on bending knees

and on the radio above the static from the street,

i hear an excited grumbling from a voice filled with conceit;

and echos rumbling like a company of army tanks

tumble down the main thoroughfare, past the parks, and the Wall Street banks:

loose gypsies are dancing on the spinning carousel,

famous minorities are ringing the front door bell,

and Venus, who's still standing nude in a giant half shell,

still has her secrets but she'll never tell

who is favored to win the big game and what's the final cost

for the gambler who bets it all and never once has lost.

yes, there is a still lot to lose 

and someone has to eventually pick and choose,

but when asked which I prefer, I would rather refuse

since all the answers can only be seen 

in the shooting stars or on the evening news.

Bob Dylan was nearby

i stopped in wonder

at a local bar

just to wet my whistle

and look around,

there wasn't a sound,

and right away i felt

like i was alone 

on a hillside demolished by the sunshine;

the face that i looked at was remarkably like mine.

and she came up to me acting like a piece

of fresh fruit, 

ripe and ready to squeeze,

and i wilted 

like a flowery bloom full of one too many stinging bees

but i had the presence of mind to take my first pure sip

before speaking about the deeper truths of life!

she wondered if i came here often

and, man, did i have a wife?

a brilliant mind, which i possessed,

would have lied like a gentleman

but i confessed

the orange that i was eating was a world on fire,

ah,  i couldn't be a simple liar

since my little bottle of champagne

was used only for silencing my dog

and for watching friends

pray on their knees to the universe and to make amends

for their goodness and their beauty

so i offered her a drink like it was my patriotic duty

to act like the leader of a touring band

writing exactly what i was feeling

while on my back pointing up at the heavenly ceiling!

Bob Dylan was nearby 

singing constantly,

all the while

with his Minnesota accent and a Ginsberg smile

when the lady took the next elevator up to the sky,

looking for her lost horizon and not wondering why

i kept gripping her by the forearm,

blowing my horn while rounding her curve.

but she wondered where i got all my romantic nerve

before everything erupted in flame;

i finally remembered to ask her for her name!

clearer than if it were from the distant past,

i realized my single bottle of champagne would never last.

well, put a cork in it, i heard myself say, 

but the bubbles inside my head already popped

and i knew even with the punishing traffic laws they couldn't be stopped.

the overhead lights flickered and went low

but what happened with the lady i really don't know:

she ran out the front door with a bottle of cheap wine and Michelangelo.

"Hey, Lukashenko! Go away!"

 A sea of people

in Belarus:

thousands of women are 

preparing to cook the head goose

where crowds of voices for independence

are marching on the loose,

waving banners to say

"Hey, Lukashenko! Go away!"

take your security and your forces

for a final exit ride on frightened horses

and that's a natural fact,

so please don't look back.

like a bee without his hive,

can this embattled leader survive?

without a glass of his favorite drink

of Soviet commands and government red ink,

he stares confronting the deep abyss and doesn't seem to think

that hundreds of thousands of people want him to capsize and sink,

and not one protester is willing to blink.

losers and suckers

 he said i was a loser

or was it lopsided lollipop sucker?

well, coming from an angry ladies-of-the-night fucker,

that's quite a thing

but now he fancies himself a modern day king

who once had a suspicious foot problem

which excused him from serving in the Vietnam war;

he's now asking for loyalty and demanding so much more

from his favorite daughter and his personal staff.

it was said to be tiny bone spurs sleeping inside one foot so let's laugh

when he's playing golf and bends to cheat:

it's obvious he's driving down the fairways with two good feet

looking for his tiny white ball,

but it's escaped to the rough and he'll need to crawl

on all fours to find where it timidly hides.

and to my astonishment he now resides

in the infamous American White House

where he wears an 'I Don't Care' blouse

while eating vanilla ice cream with his wife who's on the phone

talking to him from her bedroom in another time zone.

our best plan

i worked with her on an evening plan

before the sunset ran

and the rain drops fell

into her basement stairwell.

we agreed it would be nearly perfect

with just a few changes yet to make:

one idea was a recipe for rice and bean cake

i gave her to bake,

but on second glance

she said she'd rather dance

than cook 

from a simple kitchen book.

so, we stood looking through her small window

at a passing burlesque show

when another novel notion,

like a brown bottle of lavender body lotion,

stuck to our noses,

like a fragrant bouquet of freshly-picked roses:

it was to turn the ticking wall clock

into an image of a busy metropolitan city block

where swift crowds of people rattled and roared,

trying their best not to seem bored

by the futility of another insignificant day,

with not much of importance to say.

yes, we had a hell of time together

as the inclement weather

smacked us between the ears,

but we had our ice-cold beers

and a decent bottle of red wine:

our best plan was that everything would turn out just fine.

Come and See

Come and See

what is left of me

after crawling through the mud

spitting blood

listening for the break of dawn

trying to carry on

wondering where all the other children went

as if my youth has been misspent

reading words from important library books,

grooming myself and worrying about my looks,

when nothing is anymore what it seemed

i try to remember what i once wistfully dreamed

but it's easy to forget when life is being torn away

and everything is more difficult than it was yesterday.

Come and See

an angry soldier suspended in the tree

struggles as he points his rifle directly at me;

i can clearly hear

as his shot comes near

yet strangely i have a moment without fear.

Articles of Confederation

no story can tell the true tale

but sometime late in mid-afternoon

the flapping flag got loose,

and became a flaming balloon,

blocking out the setting sun and the blood-red moon

over the Mexican border and across a tall fence;

it began lighting fires 

and immigrant piles of bilingual incense.

there were caravans of desperate people heading north

weaving carefully across a flooding river

back and forth

to where it seems

it might still be possible to entertain big league dreams,

in spite of all dire warnings and the crazy coughing cries

of advertising cheers and the Mother of all Lies

of when's and how's and ifs and why's;

many Christians thumbing the pages inside their bibles 

looking for parables about how to treat their rivals

and then up the polished steps inside each pious church,

poking around in solemn search

to bridge the holy gap between what is promised and what is real 

and for Porky Pig and all the barnyard animals that scramble and squeal

along with Rocky Raccoon and Jesse James and his criminal gang,

hoping to hear the now-famous songs that they sang

about injustice and the Articles of Confederation:

especially the small print which is hard to read

about the founding of a newly-independent nation

and the rattling of southern chains,

across the cotton plantations and the great, grassy plains.

it might be all that remains,

but there were little puffs of gathering smoke

so it didn't totally resemble a school-yard joke

with moving public discourse

keeping the ship of state on a righteous course,

away from the perilous rocks,

picking away at the prison locks,

remembering that shining city on that distant hill

without a second glass of bourbon or hallucinogenic pill.

no one could wish for any less.

it was said and written in the liberal press,

so it must be true, 

and much like Ulysses S and his famously loyal crew

with salt-spray stinging every abolitionist face,

they prepared for a thrilling chase,

but it wouldn't be a simple foot race;

they stayed buckled up for a wild ride 

across the changing countryside

refusing to run and hide,

just in case

anybody wanted to gather and embrace,

or disappear completely without a trace,

to save personal memories of honor from disgrace.

too proud to kneel for another expensive Western meal

The Yellow River

with its' mighty brown flood,

and the Yangtze

with potent dragon's blood:

millions of buried ghosts,

tears dead and alive!

brave protesters in Hong Kong

finding it hard to thrive

inside Mao's little Red Book,

raising their heads for a gambler's quick look.

See!  there's the Great Wall:

a Terracotta army of the first Emperor

holding swords and shields, standing tall.

Dynasties leading deeply into the historical past,

with echos of great tragedies

which last and last.

fields of plenty and loss

almost too far to walk across;

sprawling cities on the expansive coastal plains;

thunder over the mountains followed by torrential rains,

arriving early or leaving too late,

keen eyes sipping pearl milk tea from a special China dinner plate,

too proud to kneel

for another expensive Western meal!

the No. 4 reactor

you're telling me what to think

you're telling me how to think

you're telling me what to drink

you're telling me your shit don't stink

well, i'm saying watch me wink

'cause you're blowing smoke

blowing smoke

and your pipe is broke

a walking tangerine eating his own bad joke

spitting out the seeds

watching to see what bleeds

'cause you're blowing smoke

blowing smoke

and your pipe is broke

like the No. 4 reactor

you're a deadly, dangerous actor

blowing hot radioactive air

blowing your tuxedo-styled hair

you're blowing smoke

blowing smoke

endangering lives

discarding dirty laundry like former wives

like the No. 4 reactor

you're a deadly, dangerous actor

blowing hot radioactive air

blowing your tuxedo-styled hair

you're blowing smoke

blowing smoke

a walking tangerine eating his own bad joke

spitting out the seeds

watching to see what bleeds.

the path over the cliff

the path over the cliff to Monterey

it would be a tough road to get there, they often say

unforgiving sun and dry desert sand

where i found a beautiful mirage but i don't think it was planned

traveling light

under the stars past midnight

she once gave me a map which i could no longer find

and i had a letter she wrote but it was never signed

i couldn't hear her thunder and i didn't feel any rain

while looking for some relief but i didn't feel any pain

i remember how i used to sing in the choir

how my voice came out softly and easily flew away

i'd give anything to have that voice again

but i've forgotten how to pray

and anyhow there are too many twists and turns

with lots of steep uphills and scary downs

crowds of heavy people hanging heavy heads

hiding natural smiles behind their unnatural frowns

i've walked to the tower and i've seen the wider view

wanted endless happy times but i've only had a few

i can't recall

all the ugly moments that i saw

crossing the river and wading the stream

but in the mirror i see an old man

still chasing his dream:

looking for a sand castle that no tide can destroy

waiting for her laughter to tickle my skin

holding hands with my lover in the middle of the road,

not ready to call it quits but ready to begin

the path over the cliff to Monterey

it would be a tough road to get there, they often say

unforgiving sun and dry desert sand

where i found a beautiful mirage but i don't think it was planned

traveling light

under the stars past midnight

son of Zeus

 when i cut my hair

i swear

i thought about Hercules

leaning on his strong knees

with his tongue on her breasts

his eyes on her face

thinking of the ending 

but it wasn't a race

it was poison in the blood

across the river before the flood

and the death of a centaur;

it would be many an ancient hour

before female jealousy killed the man,

his immortal side getting loose

reuniting on Mount Olympus with his father, Zeus.

after all the successful labours,

countless favors,

and the final funeral pyre:

male lovers and wives,

bows and arrows and stinging knives,

50 women in one night

before the following daylight

and not a single rival in sight.

Elena

"You sons of bitches!"

i'll find you in narrow ditches,

piss on your faces,

cover your eyes with needles and laces

to better blind you like a puppet tile:

it was a mockery of a trial

with no evidence or proof of any kind.

what? you think i've lost my mind?

i'll sneak up on you from behind

and bite off your ears:

of course you won't cry out or shed any tears

while holding machine guns fully loaded.

my husband and i have been railroaded,

but he'll sing 'The Internationale' while i scream

a pledge to forever haunt your every dream;

"You sons of bitches!"

the other seats were taken

 i saw you on the windowsill

big dumb eyes

like black skies

you didn't know where you were going

sitting on the edge of night

holding your skinny flashlight

straining to see a friendly face

on the television screen

making the New York scene

or making out

without a shadow of the doubt

with a shifting wind stirring your hair

you moved to the last velvet chair

to find a dime

but you were running out of time

to make a splash

all the other seats were taken.

cockroaches! Get out!

"cockroaches!

Get out!"

the people shout:

what don't you know about humility

and crushing futility?

the people see your rule

as self-serving and cruel;

the people won't fade away;

the people will make you pay

with your neck.

waiter, please, the check.

the blood on the street

is washing your feet.

the tears flooding the square

are running everywhere.

there's a noose on the loose:

one day the trumpets roar,

the following day,

they're heard from no more.

no sound is heard

after you broke your word,

when you tried to proclaim

your good name.

the people won't fade away;

the people will make you pay

with your neck.

waiter, please, the check.

it's you i adore

 and it was so hot

everything i got

it was all for you

i just never knew

everything we do

and what we've been through

baby, i'm impressed

baby, you're the best

from the sea to shore

you take but give more

it's you i adore

there's so much to miss

it's not just your kiss

your heart and your soul

in part or in whole

we rock and we roll

so fire up the car

follow the North star

it's our beam of light

our wings will take flight

i'll keep loving you

no holes to fall through

i just never knew

everything we do

and what we've been through

baby, i'm impressed

baby, you're the best

from the sea to shore

you take but give more

it's you i adore.

one hand on my pistol

on my face in the middle of the sea

thinking of my other favorite place i'd rather be

with one hand on my pistol and one hand on my gun

i heard cowboys riding their horses toward the setting sun

running from the law while hiding in my backyard,

trying to avoid being seen by the approaching prison guard

who's looking for an orange suit inside a heavy, full metal cage

inflated by an enormous ego according to the latest gauge,

and it seemed to be all the modern rage.

and there was a white ghost seen counting ten thousand bones

last noticed wrapped up inside the thin skin of howling Mister Jones

who was blow drying his hair listening to a morning talk radio:

it wasn't all good news but it was currently his favorite show

full of shouts with flapping lips that flattered 

all the nonsense that he thought mattered

about horses when they soiled the Old Santa Fe trail

and confederate cowboys when they tried to break out of the Union jail

and people down on their knees

their heads exploding when they sneeze

see, it's all front page news! 

there's not much more to gain and nothing else to lose;

walking seriously to visit a church across the desolate street

playing with a smiling lady in her friendly back seat

who's asking for a hundred thousand but only gets offered a single buck

getting out she removes her teeth and mouths her fatal words: "Hey! good luck"

and throwing a kiss and waving a hasty goodbye,

she's looking for an attorney who she knows is living nearby.

while on a battlefield there's a story and a Wanted: Dead or Alive poster on the border wall;

i tried to read the finer print but my hands were much too small.

on my face in the middle of the sea

thinking of my other favorite place i'd rather be

with one hand on my pistol and one hand on my gun

i heard cowboys riding their horses toward the setting sun

running from the law while hiding in my backyard,

trying to avoid being seen by the approaching prison guard

who's looking for an orange suit inside a heavy, full metal cage

inflated by an enormous ego according to the latest gauge,

and it seemed to be all the modern rage.

the later pretenders

Picasso who

penis in or out of his pants

paints and pigments on his tongue

hunger on his fingers

Spanish fire ball eyes

drinking to himself and a self-portrait

hanging inside a beachside cabana

bouncing balls, flying kites, smoking sideways

his wife with her dark Russian accent

but light blonde hairs on his studio chair

French smiles for the small spry guy

in galleries famous or unknown

a cheap room in Montmartre

glasses of inexpensive red wine

bohemian buddies, empty bottles

puffs of passion

poets, photographers and players of

parlor games

costume parties with the bourgeoisie

clowns and jugglers

cubes and cubists

metaphorical flowers and les Demoiselles d'Avignon

hanging on an expansive wall

playing with knives on a cafe table in central Paris

surreal "J'suis!"

in a castle near X

with bullfights and bombast and brilliance,

paving the way for the later Pretenders.

endless blue skies

there's nothing new in my backyard;

my face is soft; the ground is hard,

flowers growing with a rosy smile

i sit and pause for a little while,

looking for some peace and solitude,

hoping to find a more relaxing mood.

and the neighborhood birds sing and dance

i'm in an American trace

remembering how carefree 

solitary life can be

but i miss you being near

maybe magically you'll appear

adding to the garden atmosphere

along with the butterflies

the endless blue skies

and all the songs singing inside my head

dreaming of my special lady and her feather bed

i see you dressed in intelligent red

and here are the first words that i said:

let's plant a kiss on our lips

touching the earth with our fingertips

make it grow blowing on the breeze

and we can have it all, if you please

along with the butterflies

the endless blue skies

and all the songs singing inside my head

dreaming of my special lady and her feather bed.

i see you dressed in intelligent red

and here are the first words that i said:

let's plant a kiss on our lips

touching the earth with our fingertips

make it grow blowing on the breeze

and we can have it all, if you please.

what will i find to do?

 when you showed me the door

it was one i've opened and closed before

no one ever had to tell me how to sweep the floor

or clean my living room

when i stood by your side i was never in a stranger's costume

i always used my own custom-made broom

to clear the dirt away

i woke up every day knowing what i wanted to say

no hastily written script was needed for my play

or ignoring the pain away

if you didn't want any surprise

i recommended using your own eyes

to wash away the confusion and the lies

when the months turned the page to become years

you heard no mindless cheers

i'm not sitting on a bar stool drinking cheap beers

or smoking expensive cigarettes in a cloud of mild regret

and yet

either lonely or in a crowd, i'll never forget

how the changing story goes

whichever way the wind blows

there's anonymous poets writing romantic Broadway shows

where there's always a lady in a white dress

and a well-heeled man who's more than an overnight guest

it's everything i know, i guess

yes, i guess, yes, unless

another clue

points to a different notion of what's true.

then, what will i find to do?

well, i'll have to keep on getting through

it's everything i know, i guess

yes, i guess, 

yes, unless.

daddy's farm

 one pretty star,

but she doesn't know who you are,

ordering a round of drinks from the local cash bar. 

with her cherry colored lips and golden throat,

she took one ride too many in her basement boat:

cold to the bone but she doesn't wear her coat.

a silver wound in her naked arm,

machine gunning herself away from daddy's farm,

away from the evening when memories took flight,

she lost her hearing and couldn't find her sight.

a rosemary kiss and silent shadows on the shifting sand;

treasure islands where only the sleepy natives still get tanned,

one step forward and no where left to go,

lowering the final curtain for the ending of the show.

she didn't realize her promise was a spoken prayer

slipping like seaweed through her salty hair,

it's changing colors under a spacious sky

before anyone watching had a chance to cry.

 one pretty star,

but she doesn't know who you are,

ordering a round of drinks from the local cash bar. 

with her cherry colored lips and golden throat,

she took one ride too many in her basement boat:

cold to the bone but she doesn't wear her coat.

Germany calling! Germany calling!

 Lord Haw-Haw,

who was ultimately not very successful with a microphone

or holding a British passport,

was found hanging by his tongue,

bobbing up and down like a hungry fish on the line,

blowing his own horn before rounding the bend

like a drunken driver looking for his secret pot of gold,

which he never found;

it might still be there,

hiding somewhere below the gallows.

windows closing like a door

our weather is daringly stormy,

like a thundering stallion drunk with drama

in a wide open field,

unfenced, but with a distant wall,

(no small detail!) on the horizon.

and the winds blow my hair like a crazy dream

of hunting uncaged game.

i try to avoid eye contact with the noise

which wants to silence me,

the lashing rains which try to poison

my sense of balance.

there are many sheep running in a nearby pasture,

and a black bull watching the huddled cows leave

for the evening, singing softly as in prayer.

i can hear windows closing like a door,

and see a beautiful rose bleeding from its' thorn.

an Independence Day parade

the bridge at Remagen

is not in the United States,

but it is a bridge too far,

no matter who you are:

what don't you understand?

it is not in Portland.

never has been

and never will,

no matter who you are

or how many you try to kill

with a hammer or an ice pick,

you prick.

the Super Dooper Looper

is a roller coaster

not a super storm trooper

with kevlar vest and thermal eyes,

a black heart of steel and forked tongue of lies.

so, a grieving mother cries

under your cloud of steaming gas:

she's all the way from the fertile underclass

with an academic degree and dirty nails,

disdainful of your modern jails,

scornful of your belly fat

and your constant bragging about this or that!

if it's not a charade,

it's no longer an Independence Day parade

as far as i can see,

morally and intellectually,

it's a battle for the deepest soul

and everyone has a role.

Lilya and Mayakovsky

a futurist collection

similar to Elvis and his shocking thrust,

but drawn like a dagger

with typical Russian swagger

across the entire page,

magically appeared!

but it wasn't yet all the rage,

although there was certainly hope

for this new literary dance

called something like...A Cloud in Pants!

penned in verse

across the sprawling universe

with buckets of poetic awe

at what he saw.

then after traveling miles and miles,

weathering the Moscow Trials

and the Great Terror;

what was the fatal error

that left Lilya Brik homeless?

she, of course, the beautiful seducer:

a lover of talented men, revolutionary music, and language skills,

who climbed seductively over and under artistic hills

but committed suicide

with her mouthful of sleeping pills

at the age of 86,

so no more Cheka tricks!

all the drops of water are equally wet

all the drops of water are

equally wet,

from the surface to the depths

of despair:

it's always in the air

we breathe,

the food we eat,

the smiles that greet,

and the tired hands

of revolutionary bands

playing music overtime for a cent or two,

but only just a few.

nothing new

to the fox

running free, 

outside his box,

hunting for the mice 

who are rolling their own dice

in an orgy of self-love,

to keep the anger in,

as they manufacture a cheesy grin

with a 5 o'clock shadow of doubt,

wondering what the commotion is all about,

with whiskers on the tip of each nose

to show which way the wind blows,

most are hiding from the sounding waves,

squeezing behind the quiet of their graves,

looking for a drop to drink,

hoping not to permanently sink

into a darkness where they no longer think.

Vladimir Lenin's dreams

one moment the door is open

and i'm writing the truth,

scratching an itch

and ain't it a bitch

looking outside my front door

seeing fucking clouds of war

and hearing screams

erupting from Vladimir Lenin's dreams

in which he said

Capitalism would be dead

and it would simply kill itself,

when i notice my empty kitchen shelf

with a deep layer of red dust

and the unpolished bust

of young Miss Liberty quietly reading the Communist Manifesto

by Engles and Marx

as the neighborhood mongrel barks,

reciting in perfect Chinese

"I'll bite you above the knees!"

so i grab a cigarette and my handy lighter,

take a deep drag off my typewriter,

and punch a few random keys

in a half-hearted effort to appease.

but i am dealing with a busted thumb,

an inability to satisfy the countless dumb,

and the comrades who are blind.

ain't life unkind,

one moment the door is open

and i'm writing the truth,

scratching an itch

and ain't it a bitch;

the new car is in a ditch

and i'm sweeping with the broom of a wicked witch.

take a knee

i didn't hear what you just said
it was something about me and bed
but i'm too tired;
i haven't been hired
to mow your grass
'cause i'm running on empty
and you're all wired
i'll need to stop to fill my glass
take a drink
take another moment to really think
about what you're asking me:
should i stay or should i flee?
stand at attention or take a knee?
there was a time when i knew
i always wanted a bite of you
but my teeth are worn
and your dress is torn
we drove off the road into a muddy field
i lost control and cracked my wind shield
i saw snakes and rats,
heard barking dogs and pussycats;
saw myself as a lonely child;
heard you answer the call of the wild.
you saw party dust and colored lights,
jumping jack flash and bar room fights.
and we arrived too late
with nothing on our plate
and the crowds were gone
it was hours before dawn
i guess we had our fun
or so they say
you took a seat
but i didn't want to stay.
i didn't hear what you just said
it was something about me and bed
but i'm too tired;
i haven't been hired
to mow your grass
'cause i'm running on empty
and you're all wired
i'll need to stop to fill my glass
take a drink
take another moment to really think
about what you're asking me:
should i stay or should i flee?
stand at attention or take a knee?

now hear this and hear it now

beware of dinosaurs!
flirty party animals,
drop dead donors and night time moaners!

bright bald heads

and blues and reds

and sirens announcing
from far down the street
policemen wearing combat boots on their feet,
shooting balls of hateful heat:

big time cops walking the beat,

arresting everyone they'd meet!

lawn mowers

dads with leaf blowers

moms from the present tense

jumping the fence

teenage werewolves

totem pole fools

midnight garbage eaters

of course your parking meters

babies in soiled diapers

windshield wipers 

on the prowl

now hear this and hear it now:

they'll gladly arrest a Jersey cow

for utter exposure in the street;

it's not who you are but who you meet.

cross the line or dot the i

writing obituaries in the sky

popping pills to hide the chills.

beware of dinosaurs!

flirty party animals,

drop dead donors and night time moaners!

which way do you go

to find yourself 

in the land of innuendo?

in a cell

without a window.