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 a mighty brown flood,

and the Yangtze

with potent dragon's blood:

and buried ghosts,

tears dead and alive;

protesters in Hong Kong

finding it hard to thrive

beyond Mao's little Red Book,

raising their heads for a gambler's quick look.

there's the Great Wall:

a Terracotta army of the first Emperor

holding swords and shields standing tall.

Dynasties leading into the historical past,

with echos of great tragedies

which last and last;

fields of plenty and loss

too far to walk across;

sprawling cities on the expansive coastal plains;

thunder over the mountains and torrential rains,

arriving too early or leaving too late,

while 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.