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.