the hawk was humming in the April wind
far from where i stood
high in the mountains
above the distant roaring river
heading north for the summer
riding the thermals
soaring with a sharp eye
and broad wings
among fellow raptors
following the stars or a memory of flight
searching for the breeding ground
screaming kee-eeeee-arr
loudly and repeatedly,
beautifully primal and raw,
cutting thru the air with a pointed purpose.
on a barstool
watching a game of hustler's pool
listening to Jimmy playing his guitar
smoking a hand-rolled Cuban cigar
with the lights turned down low
couples and some standing solo
drinks in hand
like a Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band
we're playing a part
tending to a broken heart
or being in love with a friend we know
whichever way the wild winds blow
a golden dawn following the night
a soft face welcoming the morning light
and with the brightest smile
stops and stays for a little while
all the world wants to cheer a winner
growing heavy or growing thinner
on the road to where the forest grows
there are no easy answers from beyond i suppose
to which we all reply
overhead is an endless blue sky
and it's easy to remember the world is full
of people sitting on a barstool
watching a game of hustler's pool
listening to Jimmy playing his guitar
smoking a hand-rolled Cuban cigar
with the lights turned down low
couples and some standing solo
drinks in hand
like a Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band.
looking for that thin scar
visible on my right forearm
several inches from my wrist
just there
two inches long and deep
it doesn't cause me to lose any sleep
but it's a reminder
that people can hurt those they love
and sometimes the pain persists
in and out of the fog
and on a clear day
the horizon is motionless.
Ode To Joy!
it's the Moonlight Sonata,
tripping up everyone who lent an ear,
hoping to become
someone great,
watching the spinning wheels of fate
tossing tarot cards
against a nondescript wall,
listening for the mystics' call;
but i don't really know
why everyone has come to the show:
some are sunning on the beach,
just out of reach
of the high tide,
listening to the muse
playing soft and low
with nowhere else to go;
or jumping inside a potato sack,
listening to the cheering crowd,
without looking back
at what might have been.
and i see
one reading Vonnegut,
sipping tea
with the parlor ladies,
asking for just one more
cup before the coming war
closes hearts and minds,
then shuts the door.
and an Indian near Bengal
heard the call
but stayed home
writing his book
about the exhausting toll it took
to wear a coat and tie.
he couldn't tell a lie.
and a lady near Hong Kong
kept repeating the same song
inside her head,
not out on the street
where it became too dangerous to meet
anyone with an individual thought.
she was afraid of being caught.
in Romania,
a brave soul screamed alone
when she found an old bone
that reminded her of herself.
she quickly returned it to the shelf.
on the gulf coast near Iran,
a disturbance roiled the waves
near the ending of the days,
yet no one cared,
while everyone seemed scared.
and in a domed house made of ice,
the frozen floor was lined with furs;
even caribou heard muffled talk
about what was his and what was hers.
in Peru,
where everyone already knew
there were Gods in the clouds,
babies were born wearing funeral shrouds
but their mothers' loved them just the same.
they knew it took more than two to play the game.
and the party was just getting started!
whatever it is,
it's not for the fainthearted.
the pages have already been torn
even as more people are being born.
I was running with
Midnight's Children
at a quarter till five
sipping Coca Cola
glad to be alive
after all we've been thru
reading cheap paper back novels
knowing what we already knew
turning pages
to see between the lines,
watching shooting stars
to see the ever-changing signs.
and at night when voices become low
opening my bedroom window
searching for a wider world of mystery,
filled with sleep walkers and passing tales of history
all the way to LA:
it's what the ticket takers used to say.
riding the greyhound bus with a girl and her long hair,
praying that life would be more than fair
among the heavy hearted or those walking on thin air.
there was laughter on my front lawn;
it was Midnight's Children waiting for another amazing dawn
turning heads' straight into the sun,
waiting for the starting gun
and a more perfect direction to run.
I heard about the war and my friend's who paid a price,
never having visited a casino or rolled the dice.
and at night when voices become low
opening my bedroom window
searching for a wider world of mystery,
filled with sleep walkers and passing tales of history
all the way to LA:
it's what the ticket takers used to say.
riding the greyhound bus with a girl and her long hair
praying that life would be more than fair
among the heavy hearted or those walking on thin air.
passing thru your house
there's only quiet air
a shadow and a ghost
'cause you're not there
you're nowhere
most anywhere
down the hall
there's a hardwood floor
and an open door
but i'm not looking anymore
for traces
of cheap shoelaces
and fading fingerprints
which offer hints
of what seems
like missing dreams
when the lights turn on
I always see you're gone
and the wall paint fades
playing charades
with the afternoon shade
as the doorbells ring
no one can hear you sing
'cause you're not there
you're nowhere
most anywhere
down the hall
there's a hardwood floor
and an open door
but i'm not looking anymore
for traces
of cheap shoelaces
and fading fingerprints
which offer hints
of what seems
like missing dreams
not to be bad
but you've been had
over and over again
my friend
you can't pretend
the lights have turned down low
there's no where else to go
inside your head
on a solitary bed
where you sleep
and you're in deep
playing memories on repeat
trying to breathe fire
on the highest wire
but look out below
there's no where else to go
pretending to have fun
with your loaded gun
looking around
for the sound
of a greeting
but it's your heart beating
ready for the fall
and that is all
inside your head
on a solitary bed
where you sleep
and you're in deep
playing memories on repeat
trying to breathe fire
on the highest wire
but look out below
there's no where else to go.
he imagined a blow job in a wind tunnel,
but it was too damn cold.
he saw fall leaves trip on good acid,
scattering beyond,
totally out of control.
his balloon burst.
heads turned to watch the small white dog
no longer breathe
for a young female singer
who is married to the band's drummer.
time passed like gas escaping the earth's gravity,
and nebula were formed.
colors coalesced.
black holes seemed beyond wholly.
school was in session.
the kids played at being Buddhist monks in the
back bedroom with lava lamps and incense,
sniffing silence for deeper wisdom.
the room filled with smoke.
they listened to the Beatles,
a group of Liverpool laddies
who played in the underground Cavern Club,
wanting to hold hands in the street.
heaven was a passing thought.
hell was like thick molasses underfoot,
which couldn't be avoided.
the devil played his sweet music all summer long.
he went down to Georgia and beyond,
his barbed tail striking everywhere.
one poor soul who was struck
remained on Front Street during an especially heavy rain;
he watched the devil overflowing the railroad tracks,
and the subsequent flooding reached the second floor
of a long row of inexpensive homes.
a few cars were swept away, and all the heating coal in open sheds
turned brown, like soft lumps of mud.
the surging water pushed rescue canoes in thru open windows,
past flowered wallpaper which began to wilt.
a squid swam upstream thinking
of joining the American navy,
wearing a lone tattoo about his Mother, whose name was Laura.
he imagined bar brawls and military police dressed
like Keystone Cops wearing helmets,
looking for heads to bash in.
one shot glasses of whiskey were cheap like red paper poppies.
he sailed sober from the west coast, looking for adventure
on the famous sloop John B,
close to a sandy beach where the surfer boys played.
around Sausalito, he boarded a hippie bus
painted like a houseboat in swirling psychedelic patterns.
he rambled, coughing
across the country with a driver who remained hatless.
his grin was filled with home-grown marijuana buds.
he never used a map for directions.
he stayed high on the low coastal plains,
while the surrounding hills beamed a welcoming invitation.
the edgy cities seemed shot full of heroin and a lively art scene,
but money was hard to find, like good luck.
the bus stopped briefly for an intersection, exercising caution
by looking both ways, present and future.
they found beat poets who published and read lines in a city lights book store,
where some manuscripts grew hundreds of feet long,
like a simple bouquet of white wild flowers beneath an alter.
when they found me, I was walking my old possum;
my face grew into a beatific smile,
imagining a blow job when the weather improved.
i smiled for more than 90 years, with lines on my cheeks
brushed in the shape of a Van Gogh sunflower.
all day and all of the night two calico cats sat by my juke box,
from where they studiously watched, smiling with jazzy feline teeth.
for 5 cents, i played Elvis,
sipping my warm cherry Cola, like champagne,
imagining a transexual named Lola squeezing me.
sometimes i played Tommy Dorsey or Marlene Dietrich,
and their music put needles on my spine, tingling my forearms.
the calico cats learned to sing the rock classics,
and play electric guitar,
but they never became international opera stars,
although they once had a Broadway show named for them,
said T.S. Eliot, a close friend of mine,
sitting at my table for a drink.
from the armchair to the sofa to the floor,
the bed to the balcony,
the kitchen and the shower
where we lathered gleefully for an hour,
with oil rubs and soft voices,
we gave ourselves multiple choices,
always reaching for the adventurous dream
behind the discreetly simple privacy screen.
in another room you appeared to me as a secret
in a bright orange wrap, no less,
while holding a volume of true desire.
I felt your fire!
I almost came last,
but you loved me
as though I were the summer breeze
and you the shore.
I took you again by the hallway door,
telling you I could love you even more.
it was true!
you stood naked and I was disrobed,
when a song like a disco theme
or was it a beautiful philodendron?
moved our feet together,
in spite of the humid weather.
and I knew the name of the band
when I kissed your hand.
you listened like a mountain in the morning
while I climbed to the summit
and kissed those lips which I so adore,
telling you I could love you even more.
