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.