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?