in my pickup truck

went to a local rodeo in Brownsville

and found me a long-haired Texas cowgirl

who offered me a southern thrill

well, i couldn't believe what i found:

there were cowboys and their wild horses running around,

but that wasn't the only sound.

i showed her my leather saddle;

she showed me her panhandle paddle.

said her name was Jill

and she lived near Brownsville;

said her old man's name was James

but he didn't like playing any cotton-picking games!

did i feel lucky? or incomplete?

could i ride the bronco for the winner's treat?

well, i didn't want to admit defeat

but the taste in my mouth was bittersweet

as i jumped in my pickup truck,

thinking maybe there was no such thing as luck.

those big boys with silver belts and ten gallon hats

swinging their big baseball bats,

were looking at me with an angry Texas stare,

just knew i had to get out of there.

with my foot on the gas and a quick backward glance,

her old man can take her to the evening barn yard dance.

me, on the westerly road speeding outside of town,

knowing i'd miss the upcoming hoedown.

there were cowboys and their horses running around,

but i was California bound

in my pickup truck,

thinking maybe there was no such thing as luck,

in my pickup truck,

California bound:

the wind in my hair the only sound.

destination Tokyo, he said

he said

it was on Saipan

not Iwo

that the women who lived 

to give birth

cradled their children in thin, frantic arms

atop a sheer cliff edge

and watched the surf strike black rocks

hundreds of feet below.

he said

it was on Iwo 

not Saipan

where inside a deep dark cave

smelling of rot

an unforgettable stink

he poked around with his loaded carbine

but didn't see the dead Japanese soldier

decomposing underneath his booted foot.

he said

he was on guard duty

somewhere near a barbed wire fence

listening to his pounding heart

and the immense Pacific Ocean pulsing nearby

when a corporal appeared

password ready 

to hand him an urgent message

about a faulty generator in an engine

of a single B-29 super fortress.

the mission was maximum effort 

which meant that the plane had to fly,

destination Tokyo,

he said.

the construction engineers had built the long

wide runways

which were to deliver death.

he was the technician who could make the necessary repair.

he had the skills and knew

where to find the replacement part,

so he left his hole.

it was early March, 1945,

he said,

and there were over 300 planes in the raid

flying high above the ancient city,

their silver streaks gleaming brightly.

bombs dropped.

super heated fires lit the sky.

on the ground, the air melted skin.

people collapsed in the burning streets.

100,000,

he said.

it was just a statistic,

he said.

it was on the USS Independence

that he returned to the west coast of America

in the spring of 1946.

he slept on the fan-tail of the carrier to celebrate

his 21st birthday,

but he felt so much older, 

he said.

until death pulls us apart

everyone was white

even at midnight

no matter which way one goes

in my hometown running naked or walking wearing clothes

downtown or to a farm in the nearby countryside

there was nowhere to escape and nowhere left to hide

from the thought that Caucasian was the proper dress

at least i made the guess

that was what privileged people wore

so I took the oath and swore

to agree

but could I also come to disagree?

Mr. Ziogas with his nose

emphatically said to me that a diverse wind blows

he became my favorite history teacher

opening my eyes to a rainbow world unlike that fundamentalist preacher

who would often pinpoint

that thinking in a certain way was my admission to an exclusive members-only joint:

and it took a while but I finally boarded a special season bus

which had a sign that said there's no them or us:

it said we are all in this together

regardless of the changing weather

it's just us, 

Gus!

one big team with one beating heart

living together until death pulls us apart,

feeling kinship with the highbrow and the low.

it's a bumpy road but it's the way we need to go

taking it with us everywhere,

practicing compassion with great care;

if you have two cookies and someone has none, please share.

but it might get loud

well babe, you're proud

but it might get loud

sitting by your side

i'm on a high cloud

trying to choose

will i play pop or the electric blues?

well, with nothing to lose

my blue suede shoes,

hitting the road

on overdrive and overload,

searching for the next episode,

are growing old.

playing clubs all night

long before first daylight

smoke hanging thick in the air

i'm climbing the back stair

to hell or heaven 

jumping off on floor eleven.

well babe, you're out of sight

but it might not be right

or wrong,

as i play my song

full of life with power

hour after hour.

well babe, you're proud

but it might get loud

sitting by your side

i'm on a high cloud

trying to choose

will i play pop or the electric blues?

well, with nothing to lose

my blue suede shoes,

hitting the road

on overdrive and overload,

searching for the next episode,

are growing old.

to cook the golden goose

on the far side of the tracks

she kept riding on the backs

of her best friends

searching for a timely excuse

to cook the golden goose

of a guy who once crossed her path

after stealing several thousand dreams from her pocket.

she got pretty mad

and went looking for a heavy hammer

to smack his dishonest stammer

into a straight line of honest speech.

he ran up a fireman's ladder to escape her reach

but was exiled

and twisted out of sorts

when her friends, like supreme courts,

passed judgement by explaining why

he wouldn't get the electric chair.

he said many men liked to flirt

part of life was getting hurt

taking a piece of a young woman's heart

was such an easy part.

she hoped to see who he really was

because

although he moved over to the other side

where damaged people went to hide

she wanted to know why some men lied.

listening to you smile

when the power went out,

the snow continued to fall;

life was led behind my door,

under cover

from a world i've dreamed of before

when you held me in your arms,

promised to stay by my side

even though i lied

about being afraid of growing old,

and life is always being bought and sold.

but we're not cheap,

are we dear?

among those who can't be sure,

i can be clear:

as long as you're near,

everything that i once knew

leads me to believe that dreams do indeed come true

even if it's cold

and life is always being bought and sold.

but we're not cheap,

are we dear?

putting on a heavy coat for a winter walk

passing time 

listening to you smile and talk

breathing in the sublime

fragrance of cold air

wondering about people who aren't aware

each day unfolds with a new promise

like a lover's hungry kiss,

even if it's cold

and life is always being bought and sold.

but we're not cheap,

are we dear?

among those who can't be sure,

i can be clear:

as long as you're near,

everything that i once knew

leads me to believe that dreams do indeed come true.

only the basketball players grew tall

watching my home town

being small

where only the basketball players grew tall

stretching for the morning sun

which seemed out of reach

when there was no one left to teach

along slow-moving Market street

where it was always easy to meet

your best girl and her friends

on a summer day

heading for the afternoon pool

no one was a fool

if they knew where the hardware store sat

and the five and dime

which stood the test of time

on a Friday night when we tried on gloves

just for something important to do

it's what we felt sure we knew

like learning how to drive underneath the back road stars

when we thought the world would become ours

or hiding in the community park

on a Saturday night after dark

bouncing on the trampoline

waiting for the back flip to be seen

by the next homecoming queen

one traffic light and a dress shop with mannequins 

behind a glass window

most everything I know

watching my home town

one circus and one traveling clown

they could stop but never did

it's like the whole wide world hid

watching my home town

being small

where only the basketball players grew tall

stretching for the morning sun

which seemed out of reach

when there was no one left to teach

along slow-moving Market street

where it was always easy to meet

your best girl and her friends

on a summer day

heading for the afternoon pool

no one was a fool

looking around

listening for a soulful sound,

waiting for the walls

to fall,

watching my hometown

being small.

pink Cadillac

and when I saw you with an olive on

your tongue

you seemed much older

and I was very young

counting rainbows in the dark

watching thunderstorms in the park

playing samba with the band

singing "I am what I am"

while it's raining on the stage where you sang

no one's left of the bar room gang

we've finished all our drinks

now, no one cares what anyone thinks

so have another one on me

going slowly down on one knee

with no easy way out

no one hears when you shout

no easy open back door

treat yourself kindly

getting up off the floor

getting satisfaction

anyway you like it

sitting in the front row or the back

hiding in a fashion house or a gunny sack

riding in a pink Cadillac

with an olive from the shelf

learning more about yourself.

Homer wouldn't let him die

Homer wouldn't let him die

and all the Gods know why

misty eyed 

he hardly laughed and hardly cried

when the road got rough

he stayed committed and acted tough

tied to the rocking mast

in a lonely hell

where he might have sold his soul

but he never wavered or fell

no matter how savage the high seas

in a Mediterranean storm or a sudden deep freeze

he jumped overboard

and the charging cyclops roared

and angry queens and madder kings,

brief regrets and golden rings.

but he had happier things in mind

thinking of his wife

and his young son

with a sharp vengeful knife

hoping to return in time

to rejoin them for their family life

growing old

but always remaining bold

leaving his past

tied to the rocking mast

with his finger on his heart

never ending his journey for a different start

dreaming of her dreams

dreaming of her schemes

and the comfort of her bed

he'd return is what he always said,

not something he one time read.

he'd return is what he always said.

gazing skyward

you're stuck in my imagination

dancing on a cloud

happy to be a solo star

or busy inside a crowd

with fire in your hair

burning everywhere

you look and you speak

as my knees grow weak

before your beauty

like a fool before i die

gazing skyward from where i lie.

to the center of time

on the road to the center of time

shifting gears from one to four

bouncing across the damn hard floor

landing at your feet

'cause i always knew that someday we'd meet

in the middle of the main street

and it might be midnight

or just about high noon

wouldn't want to be too soon

and wouldn't want to arrive late

hoping to open your front gate

hand you a summer flower like a perfect rose

whatever you propose

well, i'll give it a try

on my heart there's a big bulls-eye

that you can see

it's shaped anyway you want it to be

and we're almost ready for our next meal

moving from almost perfect to just about ideal

on the road to the center of time

shifting gears from one to four

bouncing across the damn hard floor

landing at your feet

'cause i always knew that someday we'd meet

in the middle of the main street

and it might be midnight

or just about high noon

wouldn't want to be too soon

and wouldn't want to arrive late

hoping to open your front gate,

hand you a summer flower like a perfect rose

whatever you propose

well, i'll give it a try

on my heart there's a big bulls-eye

that you can see

it's shaped anyway you want it to be

and we're almost ready for our next meal

moving from almost perfect to just about ideal.

he made them bleed

he made them bleed

near the Seine,

far from the left bank,

where a tourist boat sank,

feeling he was alright

for much of an hour.

i'll give him that

wherever he sat,

he drank to it, too.

he made them bleed

due to an overwhelming artistic need

which they all knew,

offering themselves to the sky,

never once asking why,

like the open palms of a repenting priest

wanting more than the least,

asking God for growth.

he was God, he liked to boast,

singing his song

while smoking or sleeping in his bed

with a woman whose lips were painted bright red,

rising up at times to plant a kiss,

digging a hole that couldn't be missed.

he made them bleed

like an ocean watering a rose.

he made them bleed

like a Spanish nose

hungry for a willing companion

and her willing toes.

he made them bleed

like an animal with it's tooth,

at times sensitive,

but mostly talented and uncouth.

he made them bleed.

the old man painted her in colors

and still I wonder about the young girl

inside the tent

erect on the beach

in northwestern France

and how the old man could possibly be of any interest

to her.

he certainly had the eye

she certainly had the blond hair and breasts.

but the age difference didn't seem to make a difference.

he was a mesmerizing painter!

she must have been impressionable,

like impressionism or surrealism or cubism.

his little cube grew longer over time.

and he did have a proud Spanish chest.

he believed that he was the best.

she slept on his couch.

her nose sniffed his skin.

he didn't grin.

he didn't blush, but had a rose period.

she had a period, too,

but was never his wife.

his wife was Olga, a Russian but not a revolutionary,

and even when she danced,

she was fully clothed.

the young girl wasn't much of a dancer,

but she liked being nude.

the old man painted her in colors

over and over

on the canvas and on the floor

he continually wanted more

coming in the front and from the rear

with a smile or with a leer

never caring to know

if he was a crass lothario

so far from being satisfied,

and still I wonder about the young girl

who would never become his bride.

what I wrote to her

on the high seas

writing letters to my mom

dipping my quill in thick black ink

trying to make sense of the scene

trying to take an accurate count of the vote

wondering how far I have to travel for an answer

to the mysterious arrangement of ripe apples 

in a pure white bowl

resting on a wooden table

inside a small studio 

atop a low hill of Aix-en-Provence, France.

in what would become unremarkable,

i wrote to her about the whippings

and the rants

and that much would come of my writing

if the sun continued to shine into my eyes

and the doors remained open to the wild winds

blowing across the ocean in many languages.

and the waves did keep stacking,

towering high, piercing my bow,

matting my hair and spraying my thin face:

and in a dream, i saw summer grasses beaten down by charging calvary

near the village of Waterloo,

where horses cried

for the bodies of

victors and the dead 

who forgot their own names

in or out of the saddle.

and i rowed my small boat

during a violent summer storm,

determined to find a safe harbor where none existed.

I was sure i could finish my letter before nightfall,

even as the atmosphere became more threatening,

and my breathing more imprecise.

there was a little bit of poetry in my impressions 

of the world,

and a lot of doubt.

so far, not a drop of hot coffee has been spilled on my neat trousers,

nor have I eaten a speeding bullet with my tongue.

that's partly what i wrote to her.

Auden, on a sailing ship

was it Auden who from his den

grabbed a vision and a pen

while on a sailing ship heading east?

who sat at table and ate the least

of all the guests?

he wrote often between rests,

most earnestly to Byron (Lord)

to pass the time he could afford!

with no dragons left to slay,

he soon forgot what he had to say!