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.