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.