Room 6 of the Hotel Drouot, 06/13/1921

so i punched the dealer in the head &
would have kicked him more than i did
but was abruptly pulled away, 

in a short-lived fit of loyalty,

by his hysterical brother! 

Leonce was shouting and screaming on the floor
when i kicked him some more

directly in the stomach:
he shrieked again, making me proud of my aim.
we were finally separated by Matisse, 

who said
i was right to beat the poor bastard.
and what a pig!

trying to cheapen cubism with an auction
much too painful to watch. 

"Filthy Pole!"
both Rosenbergs are bastards!!
one was ruining the market for cubism,
while brother Paul connived for a return of classicism,
which he knew he could sell for higher prices.

growing old living a rural life

drinking iced tea

wondering about you and me

watching the movie

about a dune in the middle of the desert

seeing masked people getting hurt

flashing knives

running for their lives

from a large worm heading south

opening wide a menacing mouth

swallowing sand and spice

and we thought it was pleasantly nice

when it seemed no one actually died

so we never cried

drinking iced tea

wondering about you and me

watching the movie

about a cowboy in a confederate hat

who mounted his horse where he sat

writing a short letter

hoping hard times soon get better

when the posse takes a wrong turn

hoping they never learn

he grabbed a hoe and bought a small farm

never intending to do anybody any more harm

raising crops along with a wife

growing old living a rural life

drinking iced tea

wondering about you and me

watching the movie.

lost on the forest floor

so i know i'm old

living where it always feels cold

remembering being bought and sold

thinking all that glitters is not gold

when it seems everything has already been sung

from years gone by 

when i was young

dodging bullets meant to hurt

my hair grown long

in a torn t-shirt

lost on the forest floor

unable to keep the score

of who's winning the latest war:

there was a beginning which i couldn't find

heading to the front while looking behind

not realizing that i was blind

and you could see 

reaching out for me

offering hope but there was no guarantee

that i would remain restless or agree

and those hours were long and now feel short

writing about love may be my final report

so close to living on life support

sitting alone by candle light

counting the days thru another night

when it seems everything has already been sung

from years gone by 

when i was young

dodging bullets meant to hurt

my hair grown long

in a torn t-shirt

lost on the forest floor

unable to keep the score

of who's winning the latest war,

so i know i'm old

living where it always feels cold

remembering being bought and sold

thinking all that glitters is not gold.

moments after the last call

it was about everything i saw

moments after the last call

there was a head with a halo

smiling at me with a soft glow

i thought it was all a tease

but heard myself whispering "please"

it was a lady with a torch

sitting by my side on my back porch

where she said i looked like her dad

which always made her feel glad

and we were alone

like being on top of a king's throne

and the banquet table was all prepared

for anything we might have dared

she told me she wanted something to eat

it wasn't cold but i could feel the heat

starting to rise

and then much to my surprise

she started to laugh

said it was time for her evening bath

it was well-past midnight

and i loved the sight

of nobody around

totally silent except for the sound

of her eating a stolen grape

as we quietly made our escape

all happening before the break of dawn

with all the heavy curtains drawn

in my room

where all the special flowers bloom:

it was about everything i saw

moments after the last call

there was a head with a halo

smiling at me with a soft glow

i thought it was all a tease

but heard myself whispering "please"

it was a lady with a torch

sitting by my side on my back porch.

reading between your lines

Zelda

what you got

it's what i want

reading between your lines

polishing a penny until it shines

on an empty dance floor

hearing the noise of a skeleton key

scampering into a widows' door

your smile leading me astray

every time you had your own way

i was dying embarrassed 

by the things that you said

while painting my body red

when it should have been blue

instead

what will you do

as the madness grows inside your head?

Zelda

what you got

it's what i want

reading between your lines

polishing a penny until it shines

never fake it

so was Al Jolson greater than Jesus

or just another pretender?

perhaps a crazy dead-ender

like a comic book character

with hair down to his knees?

oh, please

don't be insane:

if you find a way to win,

take it

never fake it

with a diamond pinned to one side of your nose

running 

when the wild wind blows.

there might be a call saying "It's for you!"

but how can it be

if you're not being true?

does Authority always win

or is that only in a Mellencamp song

where everything seems right 

but it's always wrong?

oh, no!

even Hemingway looked back in

'A Moveable Feast'

but eventually lost his way to a savage beast

hanging around,

listening for a well-timed shotgun sound

and then...

there it was!

so was Al Jolson greater than Jesus

or just another pretender?

perhaps a crazy dead-ender

like a comic book character

with hair down to his knees?

oh, please

don't be insane:

if you find a way to win,

take it

never fake it

with that gun in your hand

eyeing people across the land.

who can't see who you are:

they have no car

they have no shoes

they sing the southern blues

in the land of the free

the home of the brave

imagining life as a former slave

heroes and bums and lovers at night

eyeing almost everything in sight

and what do they see?

so was Al Jolson greater than Jesus

or just another pretender?

someone somewhere

someone

somewhere

stopped in at 27 rue de Fleurus

late in the afternoon

after a short walk

before a long talk

and a quiet laugh about Germans

or the gay part of the world,

just never the bad

or whatever seemed sad.

he was tired after a morning writing

and needed the fresh Paris air,

then went inside listening to her French

but never reading in that language

which seemed much too hard,

while sitting on an easy chair in her salon.

they both liked to read,

especially stuff by Scott Fitzgerald

and of course their own work,

and talked often about other people,

but never more than once 

did she speak about Joyce.

and if he did,

he wouldn't be invited back.

nothing was simple there.