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.

big cherry soda

 

big cherry soda

where does it want to go from there?

a free spirit hunkering down

floating into thin air

isn't it great

being satisfied 

with nothing on your plate?

and it's finger-licking good

looking just the way i think i should

with my hair combed back

Missy Jill or Mister Jack

playing music while drinking wine

underneath the bus stop sign

where he smiling face in the mirror is mine

watching the hands of time melt

almost everything i've ever felt

on the head of a hat pin

where dreams really do come true

becoming anything i try to do

when the mountain is on fire and the sun explodes

running on empty but with heavy loads:

there's one for me and one for you

when dreams really do come true

becoming anything i try to do

big cherry soda

where does it want to go from there?

a free spirit hunkering down

floating into thin air

isn't it great

being satisfied 

with nothing on your plate?

if my name isn't Lukashenko

hey, it's my country

Belarus

I created it

I wrote it's history

I made it my own

it's mine

all mine!!!

totally,

I fraternize and socialize

and monopolize

and terrorize

hey, it's my country

Belarus

my family's, too, of course

and if I die while holding supreme

autocratic

dictatorial

tyrannical

unlimited power

hey, it's my country

Belarus

SO my son can automatically

take control

assume control

be in control

order and re-order

suggest and digest

and screw whomever

reward whomever

because that's the way it is

the way it will be

the way it's gonna be

the way I demand

it's my reality

my universe

my dancehall

my bedroom

my toilet paper

and the puppet tools I hand-picked will assent

without hesitation

without question

to my wishes

my dictates

my orders

my every hint and nuance

my winks and nods

and if my name isn't Lukashenko,

it is now.

I don't care IF anyone likes those apples.

rotten to the core?

hey, it's my country

Belarus.

when Navalny

when Navalny was grabbed and tossed into jail

(okay, no mixed drinks were available

and the bed was hard and small

to pee, there was a pail)

he stopped eating

the food was poor anyhow

and Putin is a massive dick

conniving and cheating

to help clear the deck

the main streets of Moscow are swept clean

by anonymous citizens

without a policeman's knee on their neck

it could be much much worse

the sun is often black but remains in the sky

the ballet is soaking wet but continues its' lovely dance

a Russian author's curse

is to run out of critical words

just when the steel doors grow most heavy,

but there's magic in each eye

of all the early birds,

including Kandinsky,

who saw what needed to be said

in colors especially red.

a stranger's knee

someone thought he wouldn't die

but i want to say

he was wrong

and the final song

was a mother's lullaby

and a prone man's muffled cry

he called for her a last time

said he didn't commit any crime

but on a busy American street

he was forced down to meet

a stranger's knee

heavy on his neck

ignoring any plea

for the gentle touching of human mercy

from one man to another

a bonding like from brother to brother

but whatever came it came to late

he suffered a fate

like too many men of color

who are unheard

even as they speak clearly every single word.

someone thought he wouldn't die

but i want to say

he was wrong

and the final song

was a mother's lullaby

and a prone man's muffled cry

he called for her a last time

said he didn't commit any crime

but on a busy American street

he was forced down to meet

a stranger's knee

heavy on his neck

ignoring any plea

for the gentle touching of human mercy.

the eyes can see

don't apologize

for another man's lies

burn him round and round and round

ashes make the softest sound

stuff his shirts

until it hurts

with fits of fancy and bulging eyes

don't apologize

for another man's lies

if he can't handle the truth

pile on even more

swinging open the heavy white door

smear his face

with all the vibrant colors

of the human race

don't apologize

for another man's lies

on the Underground Railroad

carry the heaviest load

sweating

and getting

confrontational

don't apologize for another man's lies

the eyes can see what's going on.

loving everything we've ever learned

sitting on the edge of a cliff

wondering what if

the sky came tumbling down,

my feet no longer touch the ground

and the sun goes dark

well, there's always a lingering question mark

when we kiss by an open fire

but i'm not for hire

and you're not bought or sold

yes, that's what I'm told

to have and to hold

we're aging while the days are raging

giving it everything we got

our flames remain hot

we manage our own plot

and we'll probably get burned

loving everything we've ever learned

standing up to the man

it's our freedom for life plan

when we kiss by an open fire

but i'm not for hire

and you're not bought or sold

yes, that's what I'm told

to have and to hold

we're aging while the days are raging

giving it everything we got

our flames remain hot

we manage our own plot

and we'll probably get burned

loving everything we've ever learned.

to new Havana

look at them while they pick your pocket

look at them while they pick your nose

but watch the island junta crumble

no one wonders where it goes.

the Bay of Pigs was the opening act

a few men landed on the beach

they tried to flip a man named Castro

but found he stayed beyond their reach.

and now he's dead and his brother old

their paradise has turned to rust

the labor force of Spanish people

is sick and tired of sweeping dust.

a tide comes in to new Havana

and leadership dares think anew

that dreams of living with ones' own thought

are monstrously overdue.

look at them while they pick your pocket

look at them while they pick your nose

but watch the island junta crumble

no one wonders where it goes.

holding out hope

sure I did

but didn't you, too?

always seeing what seems to be true

while looking for something new.

pushing aside the swinging doors,

walking into the saloon,

smelling spilled beers and lovers all in a swoon.

wondering if I missed happy hour

or am I simply here too soon?

there's trail dust on my hat

& my feet are sore;

not one to be keeping score

but around the nearest corner

there's little Jack Horner

hitching a ride,

his book of dreams about a man who died

like a noose hanging down by his side.

and I don't mean to be snide

but once in the village square,

down on my knees

I said a simple prayer

imagining a soft bed,

a safe place to rest my head

after a hard days week.

eight days and nights under the stars

hitching my horse

after being blown off course;

then playing a game of cards,

holding five aces,

placing my bets:

it's as easy as life gets.

but after reading my fate, 

wiping away the grime,

trying to act innocent

in a world awash with crime,

I washed my soul of sin

drinking a double shot of gin:

and the bartender knew my name,

but it always tastes the same,

drinking coke-a-cola or sipping dread.

sinking to the floor while keeping my head;

coming in last or first;

living a life while dying of thirst:

in my dreams 

she's always by my side,

open to adventures with nothing to hide:

never one to shy away

ready for labor and ready for play.

into my mind 

across the universe,

we're shifting gears

fast forward and into reverse

walking into the saloon,

smelling spilled beers and lovers all in a swoon.

wondering if I missed happy hour

or am I simply here too soon?

momentarily balanced in India

eye slicer and

hair oil

met coconut breath on a back

street of Bombay

under the baleful stare of Indira Gandhi,

before she went completely mad.

of course, she disliked everyone

who talked without an accent

such as hers,

even when her tongue was swollen

by the sensibilities of British royalty.

the taxi driver said her thoughts

were being read by a distant fortuneteller

who sat in an elevated clock tower,

which looked over the enormous sweep of history.

and his fare nose helped steer him thru

the busy streets after midnight,

avoiding brass monkeys and the many cripples

who begged while sitting in piles of dirt.

the ever-alert angels, hawking cheap merchandise,

narrated stories

about snakes luring the innocent away from lush lands,

and snake charmers who know how to dance

without missing a step

jumping between the borders of two countries.

mounting an idle bicycle, a loner,

momentarily balanced in India,

riding a childhood's dream,

began pedaling innocently toward a

woman holding a knife that

drips with blood.

stones and sticks

running on empty

when i thought i had my fill

assumed i could find my place

but it's always over the next hill.

just a soft kiss out of reach

yet never feeling close

when i thought i really knew myself,

just came face to face with a ghost:

he swirled his magic eyes

meant to hypnotize,

and a voice tempting all who heard

the honey-throated lies.

what I didn't realize

in the heat of the night,

feeling cold and alone,

mostly lost and rarely found

like a dog without his bone,

life's full of spells and mysteries,

slight of hands and tempting dreams;

plot twists and conclusions,

whispers and animal screams.

out on the dusty trail

or fishing through the waves,

it's never what a man loses sight of,

but what he saves.

so no reason to abandon what i see:

one plus one is never three

there's more than you and me.

let the figments fade away,

never to return some other day.

under the sun but in command,

helping someone take a stand,

needles and pins and stones and sticks,

no reason to be up to our old tricks.

hey, magic man with no remorse,

watch me stay my course.

the guitars keep picking

oh, give me a break

she's not so cute

arriving without her flute

but unpacking her harp

after flying in from LA

late the next day

harmonizing half-notes

in the aisle seat

with a man who stayed on his throne

much too long

polishing his slide trombone

while imagining John

sitting on the toilet

combing his hair

in the key of D.

but what could they see?

drinking a cup of green tea,

spending hours trying to tune,

plucking their first strings at high noon

which somebody changed

but somebody else rearranged

for the better.

and there's Blind Faith embroidered on a sweater,

much too loose

for a long-necked goose,

and a jazzy beat and a cold six pack,

imitating Stevie Winwood on the old eight track.

all those people out in radio land

are craving a down-home traveling band,

looking for a way home 

as the clocks keep ticking,

the songs keep a'coming,

the guitars keep picking,

and no one was wasting time

looking for a lost rhyme

that everybody thought must be mine.

we'd dance arm in arm

no, i haven't learned

once you went away

but never returned

there was still the dog to walk

thinking that some day

we would meet to talk:

i'd find you near the neighbor's fence

waiting for me on the wooden bench

full of your usual charm

and we'd dance arm and arm

down the street laughing all the way

never at a loss of something new to say.

but exquisitely all that's been spoken

finds me suddenly heartbroken;

when i offered you my hand

you refused to understand.

no, i haven't learned

once you went away

but never returned

there was still the dog to walk

thinking that some day

we would meet to talk:

i'd find you near the neighbor's fence

waiting for me on the wooden bench

full of your usual charm

and we'd dance arm and arm

down the street laughing all the way

never at a loss of something new to say.

water free of blood

on the Pagoda trail,

near a French-owned rubber plantation

deep inside an Asian mystery

where mood is breath

where one brief inhale can lead to death

or picture this

or notice that

peering into the stiff wind,

the thick sandals are walking point

sweating with resolve 

across the endless grass fields,

into knee-deep mud

into shadows where ghosts stand guard,

each horizon moving farther away,

and mountains prowl with quiet stealth,

hiding behind a solitary tree

disappearing into a shallow hole 

dug near the eastern coast 

where the tidal waves roar

sounding like feral dogs 

on alert atop an Emperor's highest step,

And The Monk, 

sifting the sand

waving away a swirling fog

sitting like a lotus flower

heading south in his blue Austin car to a busy Saigon road intersection,

went looking for a single piece of rice

and a sip of water free of blood.

on the bus

she called my name

on a random country road.

she flashed me signs;

they might have been morse code,

but it was her lips

and the way she moved her hips,

and her infatuating smile.

we stopped to talk for awhile.

what was there to lose?

she wore ruby slippers instead of high-heeled shoes

and tapped her toes,

pointing to which way the savage wind blows

and i stood there

in the brisk clear air

feeling her hand reaching for mine

on the firing line

dodging bullets aimed at my heart:

and perhaps the perfect time to start

life, which would prove to be my best friend;

of that i could depend,

and i cut the deck and drew my ace;

she said we should get out of this place

in her formal dress and my bow tie:

we hopped on the bus and never asked why.

what did I really know?

born in northern South Dakota

without a feather in my cap;

crying for my first drink before taking another nap,

saw my mother on the morning of my birth:

she said it would be hard to calculate my future net worth;

and i began using drugs at the age of five,

seeing Indians on their reservations barely staying alive

when i rode my favorite horse,

finding it impossible to stay on an acceptable course:

looking around for the high ground,

following footsteps

listening for any sound

to tell me a better way to go,

but, what did i really know?

wondering about all the ages long ago,

it was so hard to stay in school.

damn near broke every rule

and then hitting age nine,

crossing over the nearest county line

marrying the girl of my dreams;

she worried that I lied:

i told her i was nineteen 

and wanted her for my bride.

but without a job at the age of twenty,

in the world of good and plenty,

couldn't pay the rent:

sleeping in my ragged circus tent,

rolling smokes and telling jokes.

dreaming of living off the land,

but with no cash in hand,

it was impossible

for a white boy with no facial hair;

people laughed and stopped to stare.

i'd try the beach if it didn't seem out of reach

or the plains but there were too many hard rains,

and when the air got cold, i'd start to feel old.

but the girl, she stayed by my side

even though it was clear i lied:

all the stories 

of my past glories;

among all the people that i played

she stayed

in the long hours of night and the settled days of sun,

but we never made it to the starter's gun

for the dash 

to the fabled piles of un-marked cash.

born in northern South Dakota

without a feather in my cap;

crying for my first drink before taking another nap,

saw my mother on the morning of my birth:

she said it would be hard to calculate my future net worth;

and i began using drugs at the age of five,

seeing Indians on their reservations barely staying alive

when i rode my favorite horse,

finding it impossible to stay on an acceptable course:

looking around for the high ground,

following footsteps

listening for any sound

to tell me a better way to go,

but, what did i really know?

wondering about all the ages long ago,

it was so hard to stay in school.

damn near broke every rule

and then hitting age nine,

crossing over the nearest county line

marrying the girl of my dreams;

she worried that I lied:

i told her i was nineteen 

and wanted her for my bride.

Monkees on their back

Peter had a banana

so he kept Monkeying around

with the peel,

and everybody knew he had charisma,

but he wanted more pure sex appeal.

no body missed the daily news

as he muttered underneath his breath

about the day he was surprised

to read about his untimely death.

brother Davy once had a farm

near the Clarksville station,

and he'd time the train's arrival

down to the last minute without hesitation:

there were parallel tracks

and all the animals came to watch

with more Monkees on their backs.

and i'm a believer,

remembering all the television skits,

listening to famous classics

someone once described as hits;

but then i saw her face

and knew love was more than a stepping stone,

on my way to see Valleri so i wouldn't be alone.