Walden Pond redux

the stage is where you play

there's no curtain 

the audience is intense

you believe you know which way to go

but you're not making sense

the kingdoms old and gray

poetry sighs

the Surrealists barely alive

and parties of God hold the veto

and you might not survive

with fire on your fingertips

traffic in haze

Walden Pond on a heat wave

with fall leaves shimmering over grass

there's no one left to save

spinning around the sun

fishing for life

dinosaurs and human death

clinging to a piece of day-old bread

sipping a final breath.

when the cheering fades

when the cheering fades

she turned her back and walked into the quiet night

paying her final bill

telling me everything would be alright

but i found myself alone

in parts wild and unknown

with excuses which tasted like regret

don't think i will ever forget

spilling her memories on the floor

asking the bartender for just one more

and his drink felt especially tall

setting me up for a hard-earned fall

ready to take my final curtain call

which i paid in full

when on the hill i saw the fool

on bended knee

and he looked a lot like me

when the cheering fades.

Le Coeur a gaz, (1923, Tristan Tzara)

it was three short acts
& the last spectacle on the program
was a complete dada farce,
with a trumpet in front of the infuriated audience
playing the Marseillaise!
this time around, there were no professional
actors to storm out singing
about the utter pointlessness
of playing body parts while wearing cubist costumes
made of stiff tubing
which reduced their walking to a geriatric shuffle.
out front, the police heard the angry voices and stormed inside
where fist fights between the dadaists and the future
surrealists began in earnest, with several badly beaten
and in no mood to be mollified.
shouts for order bounced off walls, hitting no one,
but damage to the theater was considerable.
seats were smashed and faces bloodied.
Aragon tried to rescue Eluard while
the police arrested the entire audience,
but later concluded it was all a big misunderstanding.

my shiny new Cadillac

i drove my shiny new Cadillac

down the shiny new road

and parked at the shack

way out back

watching you cleaning dishes

counting down time

making your wishes

hanging them on the line

hoping for a more perfect design

and the sun was shining and the air was warm

i was wondering how i'd ever conform

to the dreams you have for me

still running wild and crazy

climbing my wall

acting big but possibly still too small

with my face unwashed and blue jeans torn

looking for love but i've been forewarned

the shiny new road is a two way street

i remember i'll need a better song to compete

sung with honesty and no lies

promising no unwelcome surprise

and there's a lot of traffic

some much too graphic

but i'm parked at the shack

way out back

watching you cleaning dishes

counting down time

making your wishes

hanging them on the line

hoping for a more perfect design

and the sun was shining and the air was warm

i was wondering how i'd ever conform

to the dreams you have for me

still running wild and crazy

climbing my wall

acting big but possibly still too small

with my face unwashed and blue jeans torn

looking for love but i've been forewarned.

leaves had fallen, mostly

the early November leaves had fallen,

mostly.

many were still life shades of orange and yellow and red,

mostly

dead,

as i rode my two-wheeled bicycle down

the long narrow rural trail.

the passing air felt fresh and warm like your breath

often was

when we were close.

a love song filtered into my head

just as the deer appeared on my path,

looking like you

with her large eyes full of wild life.

her sleek frame primed for a mad dash

looked angular and fit.

she stopped to watch me approach.

my song startled her and she quickly looked around

before dashing into the thinning forest,

and you left with her,

mostly,

taking the song,

unfinished,

like my ride.

in the black bayou

i found you

in the black bayou

swimming in a crocodile's arms

setting off fire alarms

in the black bayou

in the black bayou

dancing with a traveling band

under the wet marshland

in the thick of night

where there's no streetlight

i found you

in the black bayou

in the black bayou

list'ning to a repeating beat

sitting in the hot backseat

i found you

in the black bayou

swimming in a crocodile's arms

setting off fire alarms

in the black bayou

in the black bayou

of what was to come

and so 

many days have walked on by

from the heat of a wild west Texas desert

to a Rocky Mountain high,

remembering 

the noise of a baby's first cry

i'm occasionally wondering why

the silver was polished to a mighty sheen,

ashtrays were always kept clean,

and the finest print

never offered a helpful hint

of what was to come 

hidden under the heavy thumb

of a valley queen and her rich real estate king:

they wanted applause but never learned how to sing

and why should she care

with her perfect hair

each strand in place

exhibiting perfect taste

and a frown only when she didn't get her own way

yes, what could he say?

so he refused to care,

with his brightly colored hair

designed to hide imperfections with an exacting flair,

for anything that was pushed up against a border wall

assuming he was big and it was small

unworthy of attention like a poor church mouse

dying in a dark corner of a derelict house

and so 

many days have walked on by

from the heat of a wild west Texas desert

to a Rocky Mountain high,

remembering 

the noise of a baby's first cry

i'm occasionally wondering why

the silver was polished to a mighty sheen,

ashtrays were always kept clean,

and the finest print

never offered a helpful hint

of what was to come

hidden under the heavy thumb

of a valley queen and her rich real estate king:

they wanted applause but never learned how to sing.

it was the nose

it was the nose

much more than a simple rose

enlarged and bulb-like

and smelling sex

on a hot afternoon

when the teenager came home from school

curiously too soon

to pose in an erotically green chair

combing Picasso's thinning hair

with her friendly hips,

taking long satisfied sips

with an innocence beyond her years,

exhibiting minimal fears

if any

about the bouncing balls on a nearby beach

constantly in motion,

but never out of reach.

J. Pascin

i will see you again 

but not yet

my friend 

i whispered 

several years after we met 

and i was dead not he 

or they or all else who came to play 

the many artists and hangers-on drinking and eating and loving till the early dawn 

they might say it was madness in my blood, i wrote 

and merely slit my wrists & hung by throat 

threw a bloody testament on the nearby wall 

before the solo show about Cecile and my downfall 

i knew personal triumph & color 

& whores with fine lines and wit or maybe duller 

but if you slept i was alert at Montmartre always the flirt 

never the overly-serious painter as i wanted to be known

so i fade, 

become fainter & fainter 

and wonder between the many bottles of wine 

if i will ever see you again.

Gertrude Stein in Paris

her straight dark hair cut short & tight 

leaned close toward me,

asking for a light; 

she smoked my name,

exhaled at the start, 

tapped her ashes into my heart. 

we were sitting warm at the best cafe 

on a Paris terrace 

with clear words to say; 

we heard a Piaf song from the boulevard. 

i scribbled je t'aime on a French notecard 

by the Eiffel Tower with a small glass of chilled champagne 

underneath her watchful eyes and 

a soft afternoon rain.

i saw a fine Cezanne 

yet couldn't explain 

why it was hung in a fancy wooden frame? 

while on the Rue de Fleurus 

drinking white wine 

we saw approaching Gertrude Stein,

and she would certainly have the answer.