that old man son of a gun

when my daddy chased me

i used to run

and when he caught me

i used my gun

well, my aim was poor

but he's not living anymore

he joined the navy

and fought a second world war

but he's not living anymore

he's hauling ice

or digging coal

drinking two shots of whiskey

looking for a soul

living down near the tracks

inside an empty hole

while i went fishing for a bite

and it never felt right

tossing a line to wait

using childhood memories

for bait

when my daddy chased me

i used to run

and when he caught me

i used my gun

well, my aim was poor

but he's not living anymore

he joined the navy

and fought a second world war

but he's not living anymore

he's hauling ice

or digging coal

drinking two shots of whiskey

looking for a soul

and i hope he finds one,

that old man son of a gun.

brown eyes watching you

welcome back

to the family room with resting dog and cats

a warming fire

sitting in an easy chair

giving your lover a tender look

reading a book

reflecting on things

at how it all spins around

feet planted firmly on the ground

pine trees

swaying in an overnight breeze

turning the pages

to the old familiar faces

new personalities

vibrant traces

of childhood

the seconds ticking into hours

cooking aromas mixed with gentle laughs

one tablespoon or two

and a cup and a half

a hot bubbling bath

in a candled private room

lights are soft and glow

music and the nearby river flow

and changes come along

you write your own song

skipping a beat

skipping a stone

watching the ripples fade and the sun slowly setting

no hurry to be giving or getting

time enough to breathe

time enough to pause

to pet the just-fed dog

with her brown eyes watching you

giving your lover a tender look

reading a book

reflecting on things

at how it all spins around

feet planted firmly on the ground.

congratulations, your diet is over!

congratulations,

your diet is over!

the sun is rising in the east

and your eyesight is keen.

there are no shadows on the wall

and your dinner plate is clean.

your lover has your best interests at heart;

each new day promising a new start.

there's a whisper on the breeze

scented like a perfect rose.

your face is gently smiling

like in a perfect pose.

there's light shining throughout the day,

even in the darkest hole,

reaching the deepest depths

of your individual soul.

and the overhead stars show you the way

over land and the windy seas,

asking you with welcoming arms

to stay awhile, please.

congratulations,

your diet is over!

without bullshit or insults

there were village raids

but you can't kill all the niggers,

he said,

returning fire

running from the tunnel

into the next tunnel.

the white man with the mad mouth,

probing the coast

dispensing weaponry

squeezing the Mormon ghost,

dug up the golden tablets

and a teamster's ticket to the greater kingdom

where the saints shagged good guns

without serial numbers,

waiting in ambush for the settlers 

heading west

across a mountain meadow

where Indians prowled

to make their dope connections

hoping for a couple head of cattle or a horse

without bullshit or insults

holding history in their red hands

before the lynchings began in earnest.

Plath, keep your head out of that gas oven

Plath, keep your head out of that gas oven 

no matter the time of day!

it won't help you choose, 

Mrs. Hughes,

between Ted or yourself or the children

fitfully sleeping in an adjacent room 

while you fancy some sort of doom. 

your wet towels were a slap in their face 

although stuffed under the doors in no apparent haste,

as part of the scheming.

you became the turkey dreaming 

of her Sunday roast. 

whatever happened to the ghost 

last seen writing on her kitchen floor? 

shouldn't she have arisen and opened the door 

for the au pair at nine? 

the painters with a key on time 

might have been out of breath, 

but it was your death.

after the rapes

in thru the bedroom window

the knife cut screen hanging by a thread

the young blonde girl taken captive

straight from the safety of her bed

sliding quietly on the living room floor

and out the front door

under the banner of Heaven

whispering songs of religious war

a madman with conviction in his eyes

wearing a white robe at night

without any pretense or surprise

His God believed in everything precisely written

no possibility of Joseph Smith lies

and the captive to be held as a wife

at the age of 14,

to become the bearer of a new life

after the repeated rapes.

a post-it note before walking off an empty stage

sun is dumb or dumber

it keeps on shining regardless of the horse

kicking in a small barnyard;

chicken feces and cow dung scattered in the straw

with thick mud,

broken rows of corn.

footprints of the Anasazi point away from a remote cliff dwelling

pinching an inch,

but the inch searching for a destiny

or a worm hole 

and the worm 

tight inside a conical tunnel

surfing the net with a terabyte instead of an overbite.

i saw the rooster on his fence post sipping a glass of Irish whiskey

reading the Atlantic magazine,

a story about Christopher Hitchens reflecting in his eye,

a smudge of ruby lipstick on his cheek.

a gray squirrel was seen scratching hard dirt for a last bit of seed in an eastern

Pennsylvania late afternoon

in the cold air of a snowless winter.

a hungry Cooper's hawk using her GPS

wearing aviator glasses

looking for a hero for just one day;

and a dead rabbit on a well-traveled rural road.

a medium-sized herd of black Angus cattle

puzzled-looking black eyes 

wondering about their evening class in English literature.

across the wide open field

a yellow glow of a fast food restaurant and the smell of French fries cooked in hot oil.

green grass

and cars whizzing

looking for America

where the Cheshire Cat

with a jacket so casually tossed across her right shoulder

was holding nine lives and two aces up her sleeve

listening to The Bee Gees,

grinning,

while three chipmunks,

leaving a post-it note before walking off an empty stage,

waved to a singer sitting behind the theater curtain, sound asleep.

we all need a warm embrace

i've been thinking about a strong man

who has been feeling weak,

doing what he can to keep his three dogs occupied.

but his youngest son is struggling

with personal issues;

his aged mother is widowed and unsteady on her feet;

his wife is busy with her corporate work;

his mind is overwhelmed and

the bathroom mirror doesn't have all the answers.

like, who's the fairest of them all?

and clouds are piling up in the sky,

hiding the sun.

the air remains chilled, even as a backyard campfire

spits sparks into the night air.

what don't we know about ourselves?

is balance only found in the gym on a narrow beam?

if you're not who you are, then who?  or whom?

i heard that he cried this recent Monday night,

the first time since his sister died.

he said he feels he doesn't need any help,

but the window to his soul is open.

a breeze is coming down from the north,

and we all need a warm embrace.

far from Monmartre

so Picasso

didn't know

James Madison

but he knew quite well

Dora and her magic spell.

he often wore a dandy hat

going to a fancy Paris ball. 

Olga wrapped an ankle

because of her opera fall.

their marriage took a turn for the worse,

but there was no Spanish curse.

he simply decided he deserved what he wanted

and vows be damned,

and how the wind doth ramm!

like the unholy penis in his skillful hand,

he felt great and had the EYE:

short and spry,

full of himself while painting the female breast.

yes, who could have guessed?

he stroked and poked and painted,

grabbed Jacqueline by the neck until she fainted.

later-in-life ceramics on the shelf and red clay on the floor;

a favorite brush on a small table by his studio door,

far from Montmartre and his room with Fernande and being poor.

the young boy with a gift

on the world stage as an adult like an untethered skiff, 

adrift,

clutching his genius.

Springtime smells like honey

 

Springtime smells like honey

driving bees crazy

wasting away their money

inside a local five and dime

making up for lost time

shopping for genuine smiles

are a mom and her kid shuffling thru the aisles

wearing imitation ten dollar shoes 

looking for something important to choose

but they're walking blind

to how they've been defined

and it doesn't seem to matter any more

the sunlight in their eyes offers a natural surprise

and they blink;

they watch the evening sun sink

and the clouds hanging low

becoming a deep shadow:

there's a garden path and a bright primrose;

wandering footprints filled with wandering toes;

and there's a high hill to climb

inside a local five and dime

making up for lost time

shopping for genuine smiles

are a mom and her kid shuffling thru the aisles

wearing imitation ten dollar shoes 

looking for something important to choose

but they're walking blind

to how they've been defined

and it doesn't seem to matter any more.

south of Porto

she was with the invisible man on the sidewalk,

south of Porto, 

talking a lot of bull

about the rise in the cost of living

like an over-inflated zeppelin 

looking for lost lines and helium loves.

the much weathered fishermen of Aveiro

sat nonchalantly

on their salty chairs,

tongues clucking on and on

about foreign tourists asking about the latest catch.

nearby, a middle-aged woman tossed her bow rope but it missed

everything it was intended to hit,

and she lost her balance listening to the fishermen.

a loud splash was her body hitting the water between the floating dock

and the starboard side of her untethered sailboat.

as the woman was flailing in the brisk tidal current,

in danger of being injured or worse,

the fishermen kept talking about the old days, 

captains of their chairs,

pointing smoothly to the Portuguese sun, which was August hot.

they laughed softly about foreign tourists who kept asking about their catch,

but no one could find the invisible man on the sidewalk,

south of Porto.

and when the wet woman eventually climbed exhausted from the water,

she walked past the fishermen without taking notice of their smiles.

Walden Pond redux

the stage is where you play

there's no curtain 

the audience is intense

you believe you know which way to go

but you're not making sense

the kingdoms old and gray

poetry sighs

the Surrealists barely alive

and parties of God hold the veto

and you might not survive

with fire on your fingertips

traffic in haze

Walden Pond on a heat wave

with fall leaves shimmering over grass

there's no one left to save

spinning around the sun

fishing for life

dinosaurs and human death

clinging to a piece of day-old bread

sipping a final breath.

when the cheering fades

when the cheering fades

she turned her back and walked into the quiet night

paying her final bill

telling me everything would be alright

but i found myself alone

in parts wild and unknown

with excuses which tasted like regret

don't think i will ever forget

spilling her memories on the floor

asking the bartender for just one more

and his drink felt especially tall

setting me up for a hard-earned fall

ready to take my final curtain call

which i paid in full

when on the hill i saw the fool

on bended knee

and he looked a lot like me

when the cheering fades.

Le Coeur a gaz, (1923, Tristan Tzara)

it was three short acts
& the last spectacle on the program
was a complete dada farce,
with a trumpet in front of the infuriated audience
playing the Marseillaise!
this time around, there were no professional
actors to storm out singing
about the utter pointlessness
of playing body parts while wearing cubist costumes
made of stiff tubing
which reduced their walking to a geriatric shuffle.
out front, the police heard the angry voices and stormed inside
where fist fights between the dadaists and the future
surrealists began in earnest, with several badly beaten
and in no mood to be mollified.
shouts for order bounced off walls, hitting no one,
but damage to the theater was considerable.
seats were smashed and faces bloodied.
Aragon tried to rescue Eluard while
the police arrested the entire audience,
but later concluded it was all a big misunderstanding.

my shiny new Cadillac

i drove my shiny new Cadillac

down the shiny new road

and parked at the shack

way out back

watching you cleaning dishes

counting down time

making your wishes

hanging them on the line

hoping for a more perfect design

and the sun was shining and the air was warm

i was wondering how i'd ever conform

to the dreams you have for me

still running wild and crazy

climbing my wall

acting big but possibly still too small

with my face unwashed and blue jeans torn

looking for love but i've been forewarned

the shiny new road is a two way street

i remember i'll need a better song to compete

sung with honesty and no lies

promising no unwelcome surprise

and there's a lot of traffic

some much too graphic

but i'm parked at the shack

way out back

watching you cleaning dishes

counting down time

making your wishes

hanging them on the line

hoping for a more perfect design

and the sun was shining and the air was warm

i was wondering how i'd ever conform

to the dreams you have for me

still running wild and crazy

climbing my wall

acting big but possibly still too small

with my face unwashed and blue jeans torn

looking for love but i've been forewarned.

leaves had fallen, mostly

the early November leaves had fallen,

mostly.

many were still life shades of orange and yellow and red,

mostly

dead,

as i rode my two-wheeled bicycle down

the long narrow rural trail.

the passing air felt fresh and warm like your breath

often was

when we were close.

a love song filtered into my head

just as the deer appeared on my path,

looking like you

with her large eyes full of wild life.

her sleek frame primed for a mad dash

looked angular and fit.

she stopped to watch me approach.

my song startled her and she quickly looked around

before dashing into the thinning forest,

and you left with her,

mostly,

taking the song,

unfinished,

like my ride.

in the black bayou

i found you

in the black bayou

swimming in a crocodile's arms

setting off fire alarms

in the black bayou

in the black bayou

dancing with a traveling band

under the wet marshland

in the thick of night

where there's no streetlight

i found you

in the black bayou

in the black bayou

list'ning to a repeating beat

sitting in the hot backseat

i found you

in the black bayou

swimming in a crocodile's arms

setting off fire alarms

in the black bayou

in the black bayou

of what was to come

and so 

many days have walked on by

from the heat of a wild west Texas desert

to a Rocky Mountain high,

remembering 

the noise of a baby's first cry

i'm occasionally wondering why

the silver was polished to a mighty sheen,

ashtrays were always kept clean,

and the finest print

never offered a helpful hint

of what was to come 

hidden under the heavy thumb

of a valley queen and her rich real estate king:

they wanted applause but never learned how to sing

and why should she care

with her perfect hair

each strand in place

exhibiting perfect taste

and a frown only when she didn't get her own way

yes, what could he say?

so he refused to care,

with his brightly colored hair

designed to hide imperfections with an exacting flair,

for anything that was pushed up against a border wall

assuming he was big and it was small

unworthy of attention like a poor church mouse

dying in a dark corner of a derelict house

and so 

many days have walked on by

from the heat of a wild west Texas desert

to a Rocky Mountain high,

remembering 

the noise of a baby's first cry

i'm occasionally wondering why

the silver was polished to a mighty sheen,

ashtrays were always kept clean,

and the finest print

never offered a helpful hint

of what was to come

hidden under the heavy thumb

of a valley queen and her rich real estate king:

they wanted applause but never learned how to sing.

it was the nose

it was the nose

much more than a simple rose

enlarged and bulb-like

and smelling sex

on a hot afternoon

when the teenager came home from school

curiously too soon

to pose in an erotically green chair

combing Picasso's thinning hair

with her friendly hips,

taking long satisfied sips

with an innocence beyond her years,

exhibiting minimal fears

if any

about the bouncing balls on a nearby beach

constantly in motion,

but never out of reach.

J. Pascin

i will see you again 

but not yet

my friend 

i whispered 

several years after we met 

and i was dead not he 

or they or all else who came to play 

the many artists and hangers-on drinking and eating and loving till the early dawn 

they might say it was madness in my blood, i wrote 

and merely slit my wrists & hung by throat 

threw a bloody testament on the nearby wall 

before the solo show about Cecile and my downfall 

i knew personal triumph & color 

& whores with fine lines and wit or maybe duller 

but if you slept i was alert at Montmartre always the flirt 

never the overly-serious painter as i wanted to be known

so i fade, 

become fainter & fainter 

and wonder between the many bottles of wine 

if i will ever see you again.

Gertrude Stein in Paris

her straight dark hair cut short & tight 

leaned close toward me,

asking for a light; 

she smoked my name,

exhaled at the start, 

tapped her ashes into my heart. 

we were sitting warm at the best cafe 

on a Paris terrace 

with clear words to say; 

we heard a Piaf song from the boulevard. 

i scribbled je t'aime on a French notecard 

by the Eiffel Tower with a small glass of chilled champagne 

underneath her watchful eyes and 

a soft afternoon rain.

i saw a fine Cezanne 

yet couldn't explain 

why it was hung in a fancy wooden frame? 

while on the Rue de Fleurus 

drinking white wine 

we saw approaching Gertrude Stein,

and she would certainly have the answer.

Room 6 of the Hotel Drouot, 06/13/1921

so i punched the dealer in the head &
would have kicked him more than i did
but was abruptly pulled away, 

in a short-lived fit of loyalty,

by his hysterical brother! 

Leonce was shouting and screaming on the floor
when i kicked him some more

directly in the stomach:
he shrieked again, making me proud of my aim.
we were finally separated by Matisse, 

who said
i was right to beat the poor bastard.
and what a pig!

trying to cheapen cubism with an auction
much too painful to watch. 

"Filthy Pole!"
both Rosenbergs are bastards!!
one was ruining the market for cubism,
while brother Paul connived for a return of classicism,
which he knew he could sell for higher prices.

growing old living a rural life

drinking iced tea

wondering about you and me

watching the movie

about a dune in the middle of the desert

seeing masked people getting hurt

flashing knives

running for their lives

from a large worm heading south

opening wide a menacing mouth

swallowing sand and spice

and we thought it was pleasantly nice

when it seemed no one actually died

so we never cried

drinking iced tea

wondering about you and me

watching the movie

about a cowboy in a confederate hat

who mounted his horse where he sat

writing a short letter

hoping hard times soon get better

when the posse takes a wrong turn

hoping they never learn

he grabbed a hoe and bought a small farm

never intending to do anybody any more harm

raising crops along with a wife

growing old living a rural life

drinking iced tea

wondering about you and me

watching the movie.

lost on the forest floor

so i know i'm old

living where it always feels cold

remembering being bought and sold

thinking all that glitters is not gold

when it seems everything has already been sung

from years gone by 

when i was young

dodging bullets meant to hurt

my hair grown long

in a torn t-shirt

lost on the forest floor

unable to keep the score

of who's winning the latest war:

there was a beginning which i couldn't find

heading to the front while looking behind

not realizing that i was blind

and you could see 

reaching out for me

offering hope but there was no guarantee

that i would remain restless or agree

and those hours were long and now feel short

writing about love may be my final report

so close to living on life support

sitting alone by candle light

counting the days thru another night

when it seems everything has already been sung

from years gone by 

when i was young

dodging bullets meant to hurt

my hair grown long

in a torn t-shirt

lost on the forest floor

unable to keep the score

of who's winning the latest war,

so i know i'm old

living where it always feels cold

remembering being bought and sold

thinking all that glitters is not gold.

moments after the last call

it was about everything i saw

moments after the last call

there was a head with a halo

smiling at me with a soft glow

i thought it was all a tease

but heard myself whispering "please"

it was a lady with a torch

sitting by my side on my back porch

where she said i looked like her dad

which always made her feel glad

and we were alone

like being on top of a king's throne

and the banquet table was all prepared

for anything we might have dared

she told me she wanted something to eat

it wasn't cold but i could feel the heat

starting to rise

and then much to my surprise

she started to laugh

said it was time for her evening bath

it was well-past midnight

and i loved the sight

of nobody around

totally silent except for the sound

of her eating a stolen grape

as we quietly made our escape

all happening before the break of dawn

with all the heavy curtains drawn

in my room

where all the special flowers bloom:

it was about everything i saw

moments after the last call

there was a head with a halo

smiling at me with a soft glow

i thought it was all a tease

but heard myself whispering "please"

it was a lady with a torch

sitting by my side on my back porch.

reading between your lines

Zelda

what you got

it's what i want

reading between your lines

polishing a penny until it shines

on an empty dance floor

hearing the noise of a skeleton key

scampering into a widows' door

your smile leading me astray

every time you had your own way

i was dying embarrassed 

by the things that you said

while painting my body red

when it should have been blue

instead

what will you do

as the madness grows inside your head?

Zelda

what you got

it's what i want

reading between your lines

polishing a penny until it shines

never fake it

so was Al Jolson greater than Jesus

or just another pretender?

perhaps a crazy dead-ender

like a comic book character

with hair down to his knees?

oh, please

don't be insane:

if you find a way to win,

take it

never fake it

with a diamond pinned to one side of your nose

running 

when the wild wind blows.

there might be a call saying "It's for you!"

but how can it be

if you're not being true?

does Authority always win

or is that only in a Mellencamp song

where everything seems right 

but it's always wrong?

oh, no!

even Hemingway looked back in

'A Moveable Feast'

but eventually lost his way to a savage beast

hanging around,

listening for a well-timed shotgun sound

and then...

there it was!

so was Al Jolson greater than Jesus

or just another pretender?

perhaps a crazy dead-ender

like a comic book character

with hair down to his knees?

oh, please

don't be insane:

if you find a way to win,

take it

never fake it

with that gun in your hand

eyeing people across the land.

who can't see who you are:

they have no car

they have no shoes

they sing the southern blues

in the land of the free

the home of the brave

imagining life as a former slave

heroes and bums and lovers at night

eyeing almost everything in sight

and what do they see?

so was Al Jolson greater than Jesus

or just another pretender?

someone somewhere

someone

somewhere

stopped in at 27 rue de Fleurus

late in the afternoon

after a short walk

before a long talk

and a quiet laugh about Germans

or the gay part of the world,

just never the bad

or whatever seemed sad.

he was tired after a morning writing

and needed the fresh Paris air,

then went inside listening to her French

but never reading in that language

which seemed much too hard,

while sitting on an easy chair in her salon.

they both liked to read,

especially stuff by Scott Fitzgerald

and of course their own work,

and talked often about other people,

but never more than once 

did she speak about Joyce.

and if he did,

he wouldn't be invited back.

nothing was simple there.

everything seems to fade away

shuffling the cards

cutting the deck

looking for fives aces

and my disability check

pouring a drink

grabbing a smoke

wondering why 

i'm always close to broke

near the end of the day

how many times do i have to pray?

watching everything as it seems to fade away

i've got no new games to play:

there's the old dance floor

where i once used to explore

with a woman in my arms

and all her youthful charms:

a forehead kiss

something not to miss

when the lights turn low

near the end of the all-night show

i've no place else to go

no spare life left to borrow.

dreaming alone

blowing some smoke

listening to old friends

tell another old joke

walking a mile

paying my fines

dreaming of days

without any deadlines.

shuffling the cards

cutting the deck

looking for fives aces

and my disability check

pouring a drink

grabbing a smoke

wondering why 

i'm always close to broke

near the end of the day

how many times do i have to pray?

watching everything as it seems to fade away

i've got no new games to play:

walking a mile

paying my fines

dreaming of days

without any deadlines.

the hole in my heart

finding graves

counting all the people who were slaves

never knowing when the end will come

hitching a ride with my corporate thumb

wondering where the road will lead

trying not to bleed

out the hole in my heart

there's never an easy way to restart

and no way to avoid the fall

no one to reach me when i call

an engine noise metallic with spinning gears

the grinding sound as it nears

around the bend and on the long straightaway

gathering speed with nothing new to say

blowing past in a swirl of dust

challenging me to move aside if i must

finding graves

counting all the people who were slaves

never knowing when the end will come

hitching a ride with my corporate thumb

wondering where the road will lead

trying not to bleed

out the hole in my heart.

I almost forgot

I almost forgot

On The Road 

was written a long time ago

but Jack K is still here in memory,

hunting for Old Bull Lee

who is somewhere shooting bullets and drugs,

lots of drugs.

Jack K drove to Boulder on the hunt,

but the Institute wouldn't admit him,

so on their Buddhist front steps, he started to read an important poem,

Howl,

and the pages still held power,

although the original author was a former mental patient from New York City.

a listener standing on the top step said she didn't understand the words or the work!

and to "Please return tomorrow or never."

Jack said, in his courteous Catholic way, that he used to hang out at Columbia University,

when the poem's writer was once a student,

but the comment dropped on her like an unwelcome flash of insight.

Picking up the insight idea was Cassady,

who threw it into his car,

along with Jack, driving off with great haste,

listening to jazz played at the highest volume,

and began yelling that he'd fuck everybody if he had the time,

though he seldom stopped speeding,

and took every turn he found,

looking for adventure.

Jack said he'd write about it

as soon as he found a working typewriter and a long

scroll of paper.

maybe he didn't need Old Bull Lee after all.

But Cassady didn't hear none of it.

you are a God

and tonight
you are a God
or a Roman Catholic priest
with a small dog on your lap

instead of an innocent child waiting for a father-figure.
you dream of riding a white horse in
the woodlands of upstate New York,
having fled the midtown scene
because you were down on your cultural luck.
you are NOT a naked Allen Ginsberg
descending an ornate stairway with Peter
to greet an irate Gordon Liddy,
who would soon leave empty-handed,
laughing all the way to the bank.
in the morning, you are noticed:
wearing a new psychedelic beret
with slender, sparkling strings of golden beads
dangling from your neck,

smiling like a Cherokee with wise eyes and an insomniac heart,

resembling the most dangerous man in America
surfing chaos
marveling at grains of sand on a fantastic beach,

running for governor of California,
singing autographs for the unclothed members of a lost Berkeley tribe
and praying with your alter ego friend, Jim,
who said his real name is Timothy Leary.
he would soon donate his brain to medical science,
which he did.

you moved quietly to the Taos Pueblo,

married Juanita, a native Indian woman

and tonight

you are a God.

nothing was going my way

went downtown

hoping to fool around

with a bottle of wine and a couple of smokes

found a joint where they told party jokes

but still felt blue

wondering what to think and what to do

but nothing seemed right

spent too many hours watching the night

turn into day

what else should i say?

nothing was going my way

people stood up and looked around

wondering how to stand their ground

and soul music played

but no one got excited and no one got laid

on the ground

the Salvation Army lost and found

little bits of this and some of that

collecting memories in an old top hat

no one can say if the winds will blow away

all the negative things that people say

and it's so quiet there's no other sound 

hoping to fool around

and soul music played

no one got excited and no one got laid

on the ground

the Salvation Army lost and found

little bits of this and some of that

collecting memories in an old top hat.

rolled a joint on Friday night

rolled a joint on Friday night

it was so scary it gave me a terrible fright

like at a Halloween party with a circus clown

dipping for a bobbing Adams apple and i almost drowned

thinking of the weekend and the local rodeo

singing cowboy songs for the country radio

station and all the girls looking for a wild time in the saddle

playing table tennis with a hard wooden paddle

bouncing that little white ball over the sagging net

and i'd gladly take whatever score i could get

but it was Christmas time without a foot of snow

so naturally i had no idea which way to go

when the ballroom door swung open with a rush of cold air

and Cinderella was the prettiest princess i saw standing there

in a slim rainbow dress and wearing shiny glass shoes

she was the spitting image of a bottle of booze

i was like a meek mouse with nothing to lose

said to her i'd like to be her driver before midnight

but now thinking in hindsight

that was a silly thing to propose

or so i suppose

'cause i read the book and knew the ending was fine

and my editor kept reminding me of a deadly deadline

which i completely forgot about

but when the clock stuck twelve i could hear her shout.

with most of the pieces missing

it was on Tu Do street

where i went to meet

someone who i didn't know

for a simple bite to eat

it was long after first light

but before Friday's Follies

and i'm listening to the Hollies

Long Cool Woman In a Black Dress

with too many questions unanswered

so i could only guess

when she would eventually stop to rest

to take my pulse or steal my heart

but i never got her name and we would shortly part

she staying east and i flying west

no more than a temporary visitor and destructive guest

failing every morality test

digging the tunnel where a white rabbit

sat shooting up with a destructive habit

some roads heading north or south

i felt the blood in my mouth

read newspapers which told of savage indifference

and it suddenly made no sense

standing on the wrong side of the fence

but there were shooting stars and the moon kept spinning

even when the losers claimed they were the ones' winning

and i thought i remembered her name

but it was only a memory from an old board game

with most of the pieces missing:

it's only shadows now that i'm kissing.

at the intersection of five and dime

hey Lou

what was that sound?

is it you digging deeper underground

looking for an exciting place to go

but you still don't know,

as you've said many times in your song,

trying to understand where you went wrong

on a dirty New York City street

moments before we were supposed to meet

at the intersection of five and dime:

maybe you'll come around some other time

drifting inside your mind like softly falling snow

looking for an exciting place to go

maybe Paris on the famous left bank

sailing your vanilla vessel before it sank

and you'll have no one left to thank

wishing you were born a long time ago

looking for an exciting place to go

maybe with a poison spike in your hand

dripping blood onto a beach of white washed sand

playing electric guitar with a massive echo

listening to the haunting voice of beautiful Nico

blonde and slim and dark-eyed

I heard you broke-down and cried

looking for an exciting place to go

as you've said many times in your song,

trying to understand where you went wrong

on a dirty New York City street

moments before we were supposed to meet

at the intersection of five and dime:

maybe you'll come around some other time

drifting inside your mind like softly falling snow

looking for an exciting place to go

but you still don't know.

Pascin's Funeral Day: June 7, 1930

at 36 boulevard de Clichy, 
the walls of his studio were sticky red
with an explosion of ultimate sadness 
when he drew a final kiss for his mistress, 
and drew a final breath
for himself.
on the day of his funeral, she dressed in black.

his wife in black.
waiters and bartenders in black.

saloons in black.

black was the cloud and black was Paris.

those streets, preoccupied with their special mourning, 
allowed only the walkers to follow behind his coffin
to a simple grave site.

their shoes were black. 

their grief was black.

but there, the turned Earth was a fertile brown.  

the near grass brilliant green.

the sky a Matisse blue.  

colorful birds sang and flew 

into the air, a sweetly poetic painted still life. 

windows were flung open.
fragrant wine was poured into buckets of remembrance,
where thoughts like flights of gaiety lifted and blew away as tiny bubbles.
later, his family moved his body to Cimetiere de Montparnasse,
where today he still turns inside that hole.

the sly head of Apollinaire

after the exploding shells

targeting the trenches

of the western front,

a shrapnel wound

wrapped by a large bandage 

walked a side street of Paris,

retreating with a handheld bouquet of field poppies,

watching horses making their early rounds,

gaining insight into the educated mind of

modern man.

it was the sly head of Apollinaire,

crafting written lines like a fisherman casting bait

before the hungry eyes of curious fish,

remembering the recent war,

dabbling in the moods of philosophy.

an Italian by birth,

he kissed the French battleground 

with a faint cubist mouth,

licking his wound with a deep introspection.

in his Paris scene, the wooden entrance doors,

opening and closing at all hours,

were painted in different colors,

but he always knew which were the more expensive,

accurately guessing prices with a practiced eye.

what seemed unimportant, he knew otherwise.

and his friends knew where to knock and when to embrace,

and how to count the cost

of remaining silent.

they were artists and poetic lovers and

he loved them all in still life and 

when candle flames went dancing across skin,

creating the world that he saw,

and the one he imagined.

he lived in both.

when he died, a myth was born along

with the man.

the door colors have now faded.

his poems remain eternal.

on the far side of planet Earth

on this day I ordered

thousands of young men

into a foreign war

and what is more

no matter what they think

from cleaning out the kitchen sink

to polishing the bedroom floor

circumstances being what they are

following the Northern Star

there's no escaping what I've decided

unless I've been misguided

on the far side of planet Earth

they'll give it everything they're worth

is what I've said many times before

and what is more

on this day I ordered

thousands of young men

into a foreign war

and as for their reputation

coming from a freedom-loving nation

their belts are tightened and loaded rifles cocked

front doors opened and back doors locked

on the high seas rolling over waves

heedless of the sacrifice but they're digging their own graves

lighting smokes and telling jokes

remembering ma and pa

and the most beautiful pin-up they ever saw

it could be good and it could be very bad

but no one worries it will turn out sad

on this day I ordered

thousands of young men

into a foreign war

and what is more

no matter what they think

cleaning out the kitchen sink

or polishing the bedroom floor

circumstances being what they are

following the Northern Star

there's no escaping what I've decided

unless I've been misguided

on the far side of planet Earth

they'll give it everything they're worth

on the high seas rolling over waves

heedless of the sacrifice but they're digging their own graves

lighting smokes and telling jokes

remembering ma and pa

and the most beautiful pin-up they ever saw

it could be good and it could be very bad

but no one worries it will turn out sad.

on the rue Boissy d'Anglas (1922 and beyond)

behind the black door,

Barbette in drag was a great laugh:

boys and girls

dining and drinking and dancing

the high and low

gens chic and gens louche

often broken lights and leading lights

a thick flood of cafe society

gorgeous young men and women

often free, others at a cost

pouring into Le Boeuf 

like refugees from prohibition

and puritanism

with Picasso and Proust

(who would soon be dead),

arriving around eleven o'clock

with a drunken argument and their friends

in white tie and tails

or black like newspaper clippings

in a dinner jacket,

the men with ladies

in Chanel, Lanvin, or Vionnet

the ladies with ladies

watching Doucet, the house pianist,

make the rounds with his Corsican brandy and his keys,

past throngs of the beau monde

fashionably discrete he could hear them

whispering softly for their latest drug score,

or conversing with some unbelievable

pimps and queers before being turned out at 2,

when the bar closed to the Paris streets

and another day began.

"It's a Picasso!" she smiled.

Picasso imagined his penis (always!)

like an warm opium pipe

ready for stroking and sucking,

constantly ready to continue the quest

to satisfy only himself

with a new Goddess, 

if she would promise

to swallow him like a long sip of absinthe.

for solace, he once painted a scene

as background for a famous Russian ballet 

of a massive horse head slightly smaller than his ego,

full of color with two sturdy testicles for ears.

in his studio he was the absolute master of any

situation involving female breasts, enlarging,

distorting, playing with realism like a curious infant

fond of the tidal surge and the summer sun over Paris. 

once, when a pampered princess asked for his autograph,

he pretended to be seized with disgust and quickly drew her face as a black vagina.

she was intrigued, and asked him about his idea of feminine seduction;

he said

it consisted of a bathing belle in nude attire,

playing with beach balls inside his private cabana.

she asked to see his tent,

and in his fertile imagination

the curtain door flapped shut, 

her spacious mouth wonderfully opened.

“It’s a Picasso!” she smiled.

darkness blew a final whistle

maybe he knew

about the benefits of blowing

in the Mexican wind

after a riotous party at the Cucaracha Bar

in San Miguel de Allende.

afterwards, in a nearby village,

he was a later arrival for a wedding

party,

but he gathered himself to toast the groom and bride

with hands polished by years of hard living,

using the free booze to gain

even more perspective on life, life, life!

he yelled to the open sky.

showering himself with peyote and purpose,

he walked to the edge

of the tiny town

and found a train station poorly kept

and ill-lit

where a ticket could be had for nothing,

his favorite price. 

he bumped into a slow burro in that cool mountain air

before wandering off the side of the tracks,

stopping to sleep.

he imagined himself merely pretending to rest,

while dreaming of driving a manic bus across

the faint heartbeat of America.

and then darkness blew a final whistle.

listening as i eat

with Sugar Hill on my mind,

i'm walking the dirt road to LA,

weighting mostly

the direction of my travel:

heading west, i'd guess,

but it's a dream.

so, i could be traveling anywhere,

at night,

without seeing things

as they unfold,

since there's no light for me to go by.

there's a door somewhere which needs

opening,

and i expect my hand to do the best

it can,

without me watching through the window glass.

when we meet,

you offer me soup or a song

and i chose both,

listening as i eat.

Cranberries on my brain

Cranberries on my brain

righteously wet in a Dublin rain

squished between my fingers

i find no one there

on the cobblestone square

of Londonderry where i sit

imagining the times when it was tough

playing golf in the deepest rough

with the lights turned down low

and there's no where safe to go

looking out from center stage

smiles turning into rage

British troops keeping score

from an empty dancehall floor

with their Queen and King in royal robe

claiming an empire that spans the globe:

but the Belfast boys

will not be toys

for anyones' amusement

fighting to be free

and not a mindless zombie.

nothing could be found in Poe!

"use your guns to kill them!" he screamed, wearing headphones while listening to Bob Marley

and re-reading Jack Kerouac, and he droned on and on about Stella, who was thought to be hiding

behind a permanent lie and on and on about horseback riding across battlefields and honoring life

and affirming all the while he knew for certain that nothing could be found in Poe, who was last seen

ascending a narrow stairway for a view of a tomb by the sounding sea while the raven watched and said

"I'm simply 

reciting the mysterious words he gives to me!" 

eventually, with headphones removed, 

he could hear an elephant crashing through the jungle with a trunk 

filled with family skeletons and memories yet to be forgotten, 

and dangling from its' tusk, an angry drunk shouting nonsense.

and he saw clearly, hanging from the dark trees in Mississippi or was it rural Alabama,

the swinging cries of young voter registration workers before they were muffled

by the satisfied sounds of a white motor gaining distance from the scene of the crime with soulless

cigarette smokers sitting in the front seat 

swaying softly inside their custom-made Ku Klux Klan

southern shit sacks,

muttering "use your guns to kill them!"

later, on a tiny television, he watched Martin Luther King and listened to Lena Horne and Billie Holiday

proving to skeptics that they could sing.

reading Maya Angelou, he tapped his reluctant toe

and went on and on about Texas and that dumb Governor who should know that

MEXICO MEXICO claimed the territory

before the Alamo was a mission 

before the Mayflower made landfall

before the European white man betrayed the Iroquois Confederacy

before New York island was Dutch

before the current Dallas sprawl

before Burroughs and Ginsberg and the Grateful Dead and Leary died trying to say what needed

to be said 

before Ronald Reagan was shot on that Washington sidewalk and Bobby slumped,

bleeding on the kitchen floor of the Ambassador after the primary

before John Lennon died bleeding in front of Yoko in front of the Dakota Hotel

before Mormons traveled westerly in wagons warning of certain Hell Fire

and during the video games that he played mostly uninterrupted,

he never heard a word of what he was thinking

because there were too many distractions

too many enemies he was slaying while imagining invincibility

and it all became a blur or a bust or a boob or a boner 

or a shock wave from the BOMB falling through the 

afternoon air high over the inconsequential city of Hiroshima

and then the shit really did hit the fan!

when he was finally too exhausted to stay awake, sleep didn't come so easily, but that was

before the pills.

and that was

many and many a year ago,

in a kingdom by the sea.

just as it should

it isn't something to write home about

especially when you're already there

looking at your rocky bottom

with an i can't make sense of anything stare

and clearly on the radio 

whenever a 60's song is heard

every single word

is understood

yes, just as it should.

so not dead yet

might be as happy as you ever  get

riding along the scenic coast

not up to speed and not to boast

with maybe a single warm beer in hand

singing at the top of your lungs

to the Sergeant Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band

and digging the scene

regardless of what it might mean

Hendricks atop the Watchtower

playing guitar 

for the promise of People Power

and what comes next

isn't a concern

nothing new or exceptional to learn

out on the open road and down the mean streets

looking out below

could be the only sensible way to go

fast forwarding and decking the halls

grabbing your hat and grabbing your balls

the days change and never return

can't give it a moments' concern

each page of every book

exactly where you need to look

serial dreams where you're the star

catching a break

killing the rampaging vampires with a single stake

it isn't something to write home about

especially when you're already there

looking at your rocky bottom

with an i can't make sense of anything stare

and clearly on the radio 

whenever a 60's song is heard

every single word

is understood

yes, just as it should.

singing songs in the dark

coming home from my war

i went looking for peace

not the most and certainly not the least:

was it man or beast?

the night shooting stars

were drowning out the sound of the city cars

everything was looking the same from my front yard

and i kept standing guard

at the graveyard

where voices stayed silent in bed

reminding me of the recent dead,

the memories never fading

but i no longer needed persuading.

life was more than a walk in the park

singing songs in the dark

monuments were built and stories told;

young heroes trying to remain bold

through the turmoil of tough times:

was it honest work or unnatural crimes?

coming home from my war

i went looking for peace

not the most and certainly not the least:

was it man or beast?

the night shooting stars

were drowning out the sound of the city cars

everything was looking the same from my front yard

and i kept standing guard

at the graveyard

where voices stayed silent in bed

reminding me of the recent dead,

the memories never fading

but i no longer needed persuading.

life was more than a walk in the park

singing songs in the dark.

your breath smells like silence

and i'm able to say

your breath smells like silence

when i hold you by the waist;

i see the expression you give me

when i ask you for a taste.

"There's only so many minutes in a day," 

i hear you say

as you pick up your latest book.

there are shadows on your face when you give me the look.

i would love to give you everything that you already took:

maybe some coffee or maybe fine wine?

i'd give you my heart if i knew it was completely mine,

but there's a question and i know it well:

it's not really mine to buy or sell.

there's memories of darkness and episodes of pain;

periods of loneliness and long spells of rain.

i've seen flowers fade and the great trees die,

wondered if i was strong enough to ever cry?

and i can't escape the feeling i'm not good enough:

too soft to matter or too tough?

well, the minutes fade and the weeks become years;

you'll see me wearing costumes full of anxiety and fears;

but i'm older now, wiping away the tears,

and i'm able to say

your breath smells like silence

when i hold you by the waist;

i see the expression you give me

when i ask you for a taste.

"There's only so many minutes in a day," 

i hear you say

as you pick up your latest book.

there are shadows on your face when you give me the look.

i would love to give you everything that you already took:

maybe some coffee or maybe fine wine?

i'd give you my heart if i knew it was completely mine,

everyone is milked

somewhere

over the rainbow,

near there,

someone 

surely must know 

which way the coldest winds blow,

and the why and how

everyone is milked,

not only the cow,

when the machine is in fine form,

obscuring vision in the blue sky storm:

why there's a damn-awfully high cost

to losing your way and getting strangely lost.

yes, everything seems to be in a deep freeze,

so remember, please,

when you awaken from your nap

bring along your colored map!

don't leave adventures up to chance,

answering the call

to sing and dance

at the great room ball.

you can feel it in your gut:

it's almost time for the final cut,

when the machine is in fine form,

obscuring vision in the blue sky storm:

why there's a damn-awfully high cost

to losing your way and getting strangely lost.

yes, everything seems to be in a deep freeze,

so remember, please,

when you awaken from your nap

bring along your colored map!

don't leave adventures up to chance,

answering the call

to sing and dance

at the great room ball.

you can feel it in your gut:

it's almost time for the final cut.

free Pratasevich

piano man

Lukashenko

jumping from a trash can

running at the mouth

dancing east

heading south

don't know what key you're in

or how to begin

sticking your thumbs

into the eyes of the street bums

hoping they don't see

what you're intending to be

burning the news

or whatever you choose

watching the hands tick from hour to hour

hungry for power

eating with over-bite

and it doesn't have to be right

you've got the sway

to get your way

so trim your hair and blow your nose

they're running away still wearing clothes

sitting in an aisle seat

ordering a hot meal to eat

but it soon gets cold

he'll never live to grow fat and old

'cause you've been pulling all the strings

as the final round bell rings

piano man

Lukashenko

jumping from a trash can

running at the mouth

dancing east

heading south

don't know what key you're in

or how to begin

sticking your thumbs

into the eyes of the street bums

hoping they don't see

what you're intending to be

burning the news

or whatever you choose.

a fishing contest

a fishing contest

held for the kids

who still knew how to ride their bikes

carrying tackle and bait,

and could hardly wait

for the first cast

until the last;

holding court

by loving the sport,

excited to land the biggest of the bunch;

sometimes working on a simple hunch

of where the big one waited.

an easy pleasure,

to take the measure 

from nose to tail,

always without fail.

the clear eyes

and bright shiny scales

could become imagined whales,

but, of course, were always smaller sizes

and the trophies weren't the only prizes

we wondered out loud about.

riding on the bus

riding on the bus

my brain is spinning like a kite

into the gusting winds of another night

and i fear things are no longer alright

my feet are stomping on the floor

but i'm not anchored anymore

i can't find the old front door

with no map to lead me home

into the wilderness i'll continue to roam

without an intersection to spy

winking with a helpless eye

hanging by a simple thread

awash with loneliness and unexamined dread

shot thru with yesterday's news

maybe dangerous with nothing to lose

(and) my windows are shut tight

into the gusting winds of another night

riding on the bus

wondering who is driving this thing?

more a servant than a king

at the mercy of the fates

no longer hoping for a lover who waits

shot thru with yesterday's news

maybe dangerous with nothing to lose

(and) my windows are shut tight

into the gusting winds of another night

riding on the bus.

for Allen, at first

for Allen,

at first,

it was just possible to see the changes:

all beard and two huge eyes,

studying the vibrating air

with soft exhales where words hoped to linger

if only for a beat

or two,

hearing of Denver

where a waitress and her sister

curried favor with the boys.

the poet thought briefly about Tangiers

before settling on San Francisco

and a ride on the belly of a friend,

sliding down the slippery streets of a dream.

inside the electric light,

it was dimmer than normal

but buzzing with anticipation.

the small toilet refused to flush

and a waste basket crowded one corner

where tissue paper was balled.

everything smelled of sex

and cigarettes burned like mad incense

until circling fingers held a glowing match

and lit the scene.

everyone gasped 

when the reading was complete,

his every enunciation a hydrogen explosion

of letters and singing exhortations.

he mentioned angels and mental illness

as a blessing

before the altar 

where a priest kissed the newborn baby with sacred lips;

he tossed scorn 

like loaves of bread

to all the heads bowed deeply in thought.

on rhythmic tongues,

a splash of red awe instead of wine.

then Buddha found the rib,

whole and filled with eternity,

and an entire generation escaped the room,

howling

like wolves on the hunt.

much later, when Jack called with the Mexico City Blues,

no one was home to answer,

although the jazzy chorus could be heard, 

written in a certain style,

awash with morphine and meaning,

waiting to be published.

And Allen did what he could.

and then damn fame

i watched the shooting stars

falling thru the western sky

crawling on my knees

trying to catch an escaping guy

who stole my emergency money

and all i can hear is you

calling me your special honey

but your sitting on my face

trying to get another random taste

of who i might have been

before the papers screamed my name

and then damn fame

spoiled how i combed my frilly hair.

i couldn't walk down the midway of the country fair

without getting thumbed and bummed

or rubbed and hitched and bitched and spun around

tossed like warm spaghetti and run to higher ground

by a charging elephant and her helpless trainer

who looked a lot like my fourth wife but tamer

she was running in place

with cotton candy stuck on her face

she held a ticket to ride in her clenched hand

she tried to speak but whatever it was 

was drowned out by a circus band

and i don't know how the elephant knew

but i saw it pack its' bags,

remove the hang tags

from a fresh set of clothes and grab a cab,

sharing the fare with an escaping Chesapeake blue crab.

they went down to the waiting harbor boats

looking for anything that floats

but when they hit the docks,

they picked all the locks

and fled the scene

in an old cuban cigar

painted to resemble a 1950's American classic car:

it smoked and they choked

but made a lot of money selling tobacco to the highway men

recently released from the Florida State Pen

i heard that they retired to a gambling joint on the lower Gulf coast

counting their luck while eating French quarter toast

all the while i waited for a visa to a foreign country and a new name

and then damn fame

grabbed me by the ears

and turned me into an elephant

who could handle a night of drinking free beers

i got good at dodging the natives tossing spears

sometimes studying a list of possible careers

but never choosing one.

oh, i'm dying

oh, i'm dying

i've got one foot on the floor

haven't felt this bad in a long time

if ever before

don't know what's for supper

or should i even eat

my belts not too tight

i can still touch my feet

there's wine in my tall glass

and several words on the page

indicating discomfort

with impending age

but it's not my birthday

the candles are quiet

no Russian music playing

from Pussy Riot

just an odd ache in my stomach

uncomfortably strong

to pretend that it's absent

would be irresponsibly wrong.

oh, i'm dying.

a final breath

the yellow gore in the tree

yes, yellow,

was the guy's intestines

without the guy

who was elsewhere

scattered, hanging around,

bits and pieces and parts

and there was an arm bone

white, yes,

and a dampness although it hadn't rained

in such a long time,

the surrounding mountain

seemed unsure what to do with the moisture.

moral?  moral?

there is love in memory.

there is a final breath too brief to count.

a girl named Sue

her name was Sue

and she told me she knew what to do

smiling by the candlelight

looking like a legendary masculine delight

and so no, she's not a boy

although someone said she might be a toy

but maybe they don't know

which way her inclinations go.

with the window opened i took a quick peek

it was the same vision i had throughout the previous week

when my nose grew cold and my knees got weak

and there was the door

we both got off the floor

she asked if she could thumb a ride

well, i'd go anywhere but didn't want her for my bride.

sure, i had a hole to fill but kept it all inside

where i found a well-used token

she told me there was a warm seat open

and wasn't it especially nice to be together

under drifting skies or in any sort of inclement weather

we could hop the train and ride the rails

following the Comanche and the raiding trails

down into old Mexico 

or wherever else we wanted to go

spending time like we're spending life

well, i'd go anywhere but didn't want her for my wife.

outside of town where the circus set their tents

the statues of red-faced clowns and recents Presidents

cheered for us as we passed by;

it reminded me of motherhood and apple pie

there was a baker playing with his dough

and William Tell shooting his crossbow

splitting his syntax

a sloppy man tossing his axe

and a barker with his cutting-edge knife

yelling at cages filled with disobedient wildlife

and a happy drunk expounding on the purpose of life

so, we pushed our way thru

her name was Sue

and she told me she knew what to do

smiling by the candlelight

looking like a legendary masculine delight

and so no, she's not a boy

although someone said she might be a toy

but maybe they don't know

which way her inclinations go.

recounting stories of the human race

shot your ass

point blank in the face

'cause you're a sucker

recounting stories of the human race

at least the part that believes in Heaven

rolling the dice

for the number seven

in a Salt Lake temple or baptist church

where snake worship

ends the search

for the holy divine.

you once where a friend of mine

but now eat ketchup with cold fries

while i run screaming from your lies

into the starry night with Vincent Van Gogh

into the cold baths he was made to undergo

in St. Remy, France

before he learned how to dance

the tango

with Brando

yes, that was then and this is now:

pastural drawings of a Guernsey cow

on the left chest of a merchant marine

and down his left arm is a coiled copperhead

biting each casual viewer with a sense of dread

but that was his intent

for all the fair-haired sweeties and conventional Joes

uncertain of which way America goes

while it's spinning.

his heavy handed breathing into the breach

guarantees no white whale harpooned on the beach

and that the ship has truly sunk:

no skeletons on the ocean floor

can open up the dead Captain's door

where an empty treasure chest

remains well hidden.

when Nashville jazz plays,

the sky becomes clear as the haze

lifts

the soaring brass horns

to the mountain tops

where the unicorns

get high,

each head filled with pure bliss,

leading to memory loss 

and a swinging miss.

calm and sitting like a lotus flower,

as hours pass and another hour

takes their place,

recounting stories of the human race,

i'm rereading the tales of brave Ulysses

written by James Joyce,

wondering where he walked

on the streets of Paris

and where he eventually stopped to eat,

to elevate his literary feet.

reading between the lines

wait!  had to do it right

on the house

sipping unknown wine

with dirt beneath my fingering nails

on the mark

but off the rails

reading Howl

and somehow

it fails to resonate

before the third glass

but after the fifth

there developed an impasse

between my pinwheel eyes and scatter brain,

thinking of the angelheaded hipsters

and the old lady spinsters,

trying to find their way home.

someone called near the end

and the phone ringing went unanswered,

so it was up to me to pretend

that everything made some shuddering sense,

even as i was being destroyed by 

a drunken midnight madness

while ironing my underwear in a lonely room,

imagining a copulating bride and groom

reading between the lines 

neatly arranged on the floor.

in her undying love

so it's true

Bette got my cheese

and the dog ate my pretzel

after a swim 

chasing sticks

getting in their licks

while the sun was bright.

yes, it was quite a sight

in the short grass by the creek

at the end of another work week.

and a song passed thru my head

about the fragrance of homemade bread

and the taste of French red wine,

sharing glasses with the special lover of mine.

it ages well 

like a magical spell,

looking backward to the ages once before,

sitting on a soft carpet on the hard floor.

growing older by the stream as it flows,

no longer caring where it goes.

there are memories being carried away,

never to return on some other day.

and i looked across a quiet street

wondering who i would eventually meet

when the dog fell asleep

and the music came to an end,

always dreaming of my special friend:

would the truth be revealed

like a tasty orange newly peeled,

which is my fondest wish,

like a childhood comfort food dish.

yes, searching and never ready to pause,

immune to the audience and their passing applause,

dreaming of home and the embrace

of my cheese lover and her welcoming face;

spring flowers are blooming in her vase

and i can rest,

feeling blessed

in her undying love:

it's what i'm always dreaming of.

the bombs rained down indiscriminately

before the war was over

the bombs rained down

indiscriminately

splashing into pieces of people

all over town

and some were running away

others down on their knees to pray

most with nothing more to say

but it didn't seem to stop the rain

there was suffering and too much pain

and too much hate 

no time to hesitate

no one could predict their fate

looking at the remaining crumbs on their only plate.

no good reason left to smile

when the bodies are heaped into an unmoving pile

smoking underneath the stones

buried skin and busted bones

burning flesh and the burning bush

each historic pull becoming a push

and there's no service beneath the setting sun

for escaping the angry, pointed gun

no childhood cry calms the disfigured sky

no single answer to answer why

before the war was over

the bombs rained down

indiscriminately

splashing into pieces of people

all over town

and some were running away

others down on their knees to pray

most with nothing more to say

but it didn't seem to stop the rain

there was suffering and too much pain

and too much hate 

no time to hesitate

no one could predict their fate

looking at the remaining crumbs on their only plate.

he eyed those in attendance

i learned about Paris

and the bridges that were burned

by Picasso

with a wave of his skilled hand and 

the casual cigarette smoke

and how he saw his pet penis on Her nose

while she slept

fully awake on his red apartment chair.

his first wife knew more than i

but less than he

when they went on vacation

by the early-summer sea

where giant answers went unquestioned,

and kites flew high in the Dinard breeze.

there was a nearby mountain top

and a famous cliff close to the shore

which in a certain light was shimmering period blue

like an ocean wave inching toward 

the colorful fabric of a cabana

which hid the man 

and his youthful blonde toy.

flirting with his paintbrush

like a matador with his sword,

he dipped into Her custom colors

while painting his own legacy,

weeping and laughing,

as the heaving canvas called his name,

imitating the bull in triumph.

and at each future opening,

when he eyed those in attendance,

he feigned an aloof indifference,

always in love with himself,

regardless of the hour

or the name of a song

echoing inside his head.

don't touch me there

the old grey whistle test

rated highly among the very best,

and a lonesome kid running down the first base line

once rated as a very good friend of mine,

both took too long and he was slow:

maybe he didn't remember which way to go?

missed second rounded third heading home

last seen reading about the rise and fall of Rome

he had his legs crossed

hitching a ride somewhere but he seemed lost

a white punk on dope

without a shred of hope

no longer self-reflective

like a long dead 50's detective

black and white and down on one knee

hoping to find a new show on his old TV:

will it be an episode about LSD?

or handmade Indian turquoise jewelry?

when it was time to take a stand

he kept reaching out to hold me by the hand

but i said don't touch me there;

i'm sensitive about my hair

while he stood standing with baited breath

inches from his own death

screaming into the public microphone

ready to blossom but not quite fully grown

infertile like a rolling stone

looking wistfully at the distance hills,

trying to stay warm without getting the chills,

a white punk on dope chasing cheap thrills,

holding the cup of life in a steady hand yet it always spills,

looking wistfully at the distant hills.

the nicest thing was

i've been thinking of the days

when cigarettes were 25 cents a pack from the dispensing machine

including a soft pack of matches

and soda was 5 cents a bottle

but the nicest thing was nobody talked about Trump.

a fill-up at the gas station was typically less than 5 dollars which

included a complete window cleaning and an oil level check

but the nicest thing was nobody talked about Trump.

the bikini was introduced for the young girls who had lithe, athletic bodies

and the nerve to wear one on a warm summer pool or beach day and

they sure looked delightful to the young boys

but the nicest thing was nobody talked about Trump.

Jim Bunting of the Philadelphia Phillies pitched a perfect game on Father's Day

and his team won which was not remarkable although helpful for their standing in

the league

but the nicest thing was nobody talked about Trump.

In the early summer of 1969, in a muddy field near Woodstock, New York, there

was an amazing outdoor multi-day concert of stunning music attended by

hundreds of thousands of beautiful young people, 

but the nicest thing was nobody talked about Trump.

Richard Nixon, in his role of President of the United States, reached out to the

People's Republic of China and it's leader, Mao Tse Tung, for a rapprochement between

their respective countries and it proved to be a welcome gesture

but the nicest thing was nobody talked about Trump.

in 1989, the Iron Curtain separating east and west in Europe was dismantled by

freedom loving peoples tired of the mind control of the Soviet state and that empire

for the most part began to unravel stone by stone and brick by brick,

but the nicest thing was nobody talked about Trump.

on September 11, 2001, there was a horrific attack by Islamic militants

against the United States centered on Manhattan, New York, at the World Trade Center,

with the use of two commercial American Airlines planes crashing into the twin towers,

and later, on May 2, 2011, the master mind of the attack, Osama bin Laden, a Saudi national

living in Pakistan, was killed by United States Navy SEALs during a secret raid on his compound,

but the nicest thing was nobody talked about Trump.

defeating anti-American indoctrination

defeating anti-American indoctrination,

she said,

(swimming in the alphabet soup

of the very small South Dakota state,

one totally irrelevant place north of Texas,

inconsequential,

gasping for air,

practically a Canadian province)

wiping urine from her lips,

clearing her throat before the Fourth of July

honoring Washington, Adams, Jefferson, & Madison

(the four pillars of Rome and Athens)

in concert with Trump and the sad sacks of Marlboro world

twisting facts

inventing dream worlds

hypnotizing pliable minds

in broad daylight between commercials on FOX

religious demigods and thugs

with the heavy handed tools of the trade of misinformation

talking heads of bullshit & discord

with warm smoke seething over their white teeth and smooth complexions

brilliant lies packed like pure powdered cocaine

fake people dressed as mannequins with speech skills

smuggled into feeble brains

smeared into the cracks of unreality

hop-scotched down the halls of shallow thinking 

where lips lick the combat boots of insurrection

kissing themselves watching Sunday news shows while

in bed

frothing at the mouth, 

eagerly looking for a stranger's cock to suck.

the resultant fireworks dominate the sky over Fort McHenry,

near Baltimore, where in the actual world of nature

the momentarily calm waters of the Chesapeake Bay are over-run

with excess nitrates 

and nostalgic stories of the once-migrating mighty shad are still told.

reading Life magazine

i thought of Jack

and the long, shining road

from here to there and everywhere

in between the covers

of Dylan's albums and the

rhythmic chants of Alan

heard softly across the academic streets of Boulder,  Colorado.

Jack was smoking with his clicking typewriter

while his brain jetted to San Francisco

and Kansas City looking for a body double

before calling it a day or two

but he never saw the sun setting over the far horizon.

Neal was speeding

rapidly shifting gears on the fast highway to hell,

bouncing the Merry Prankster bus up and down canyon walls,

without nautical maps, 

off the charts,

tossing Jack and his typewriter into the frothy sea

like a drunken merchant marine in an after-curfew bar brawl.

they were on a scroll, so to speak.

and they ended up in Denver without a dime bag or a nickel,

hoping to be published and make a quick buck.

they went looking for fantastic drugs,

looking for wild adventures;

they went looking for multiple fucks with almost anyone willing.

and when they found Burroughs, 

the real shit hit the fan

his guns exploded in pornographic rage,

savagely insulting J Edgar and the FBI,

and civil moms and clean-shaven pops,

mocking convention and Arizona Barry Goldwater minions,

and then someone was suddenly murdered near Mexico City:

a needle was found in her head,

but they swore it couldn't have been them, being in Denver

and all.

Alan folded his legs in a crowded room of smiling acolytes 

somewhere up north, he remembered later,

writing about his past transgressions with Gregory and the

pantless races they ran, down tenement halls and into the

wilds of a sultry northern Africa night, 

flinging open closet doors to discover starry bliss.

Alan almost died in Boulder, too full of himself,

maximizing

time 

meditating inside an endless moment

but he took a deep breath before exhaling,

held on to it, 

survived.

Jack grew fat drinking himself into history, with his mother by his side.

Neal went to sleep and stayed quiet once and for all.

Burroughs loved his cats to death, but never wasted an ounce

of heroin on anyone but himself.  

the cats used their litter box and so did he.  

His book, Naked Lunch, 

was a scandal only to the people of polite society.

they claimed not to have read it,

instead reading 

Life magazine, 

searching for a life.

an old Russian from Saint Petersburg

the tin man

is wearing a crown of thorns

but it's slipping over his face

and now he's naked

with power

like Boris 

was 

once upon a time

while standing in front of the Kremlin with a hand gun

and an army of western journalists.

the tin man

is the owner

of a palatial estate

which is larger than Titan, 

a moon of Saturn,

but for which he paid nothing,

while stepping over the graves of critics.

the tin man

is riding a wild horse

but he's looking for his shirt

while tightly holding the reins

and kicking his mount

with all the strength

of an old Russian from Saint Petersburg.

the tin man

is combing his thinning hair

while looking into the face

of a beautiful young woman

who is half his age

with smooth skin and an accent

of pure submission.

she tells the tin man

that the seasons never change

and he believes her,

while stroking his chin like a judo master

standing before a private mirror,

whispering

"Mirror, mirror, on the wall!"

Modi and the Nationalists

do not go gentle

but go

kneeling if necessary

standing tall 

walking curiously into the hall

where chocolate pie with whipped cream

was the dessert of a three-course dream

and of course the hotel was filled with light

defying 

the dying 

although the tea was several hours old

and served cold

by Rushdie and the staff

who brought ice water in a tall carafe

while wearing masks

near the fountains of the Taj Mahal.

the conversation was about the human race and ruin

not what simpletons were or were not doing

and two bottles of red wine loosened the tongue

of the old and the young

seated at a busy table counting spoons

between birthday balloons

fleeing the scene

before any desperate group became obscene

or too much whisky was poured

and some martyr brandished a sword

bashing Modi and the Nationalists

charting the rise of crushing Covid deaths

between sips of hospital oxygen and gasping breaths:

the question of the hour balanced on every lip, 

but no one let it slip.