that old man son of a gun

when my daddy chased me

i used to run

and when he caught me

i used my gun

well, my aim was poor

but he's not living anymore

he joined the navy

and fought a second world war

but he's not living anymore

he's hauling ice

or digging coal

drinking two shots of whiskey

looking for a soul

living down near the tracks

inside an empty hole

while i went fishing for a bite

and it never felt right

tossing a line to wait

using childhood memories

for bait

when my daddy chased me

i used to run

and when he caught me

i used my gun

well, my aim was poor

but he's not living anymore

he joined the navy

and fought a second world war

but he's not living anymore

he's hauling ice

or digging coal

drinking two shots of whiskey

looking for a soul

and i hope he finds one,

that old man son of a gun.

brown eyes watching you

welcome back

to the family room with resting dog and cats

a warming fire

sitting in an easy chair

giving your lover a tender look

reading a book

reflecting on things

at how it all spins around

feet planted firmly on the ground

pine trees

swaying in an overnight breeze

turning the pages

to the old familiar faces

new personalities

vibrant traces

of childhood

the seconds ticking into hours

cooking aromas mixed with gentle laughs

one tablespoon or two

and a cup and a half

a hot bubbling bath

in a candled private room

lights are soft and glow

music and the nearby river flow

and changes come along

you write your own song

skipping a beat

skipping a stone

watching the ripples fade and the sun slowly setting

no hurry to be giving or getting

time enough to breathe

time enough to pause

to pet the just-fed dog

with her brown eyes watching you

giving your lover a tender look

reading a book

reflecting on things

at how it all spins around

feet planted firmly on the ground.

congratulations, your diet is over!

congratulations,

your diet is over!

the sun is rising in the east

and your eyesight is keen.

there are no shadows on the wall

and your dinner plate is clean.

your lover has your best interests at heart;

each new day promising a new start.

there's a whisper on the breeze

scented like a perfect rose.

your face is gently smiling

like in a perfect pose.

there's light shining throughout the day,

even in the darkest hole,

reaching the deepest depths

of your individual soul.

and the overhead stars show you the way

over land and the windy seas,

asking you with welcoming arms

to stay awhile, please.

congratulations,

your diet is over!

without bullshit or insults

there were village raids

but you can't kill all the niggers,

he said,

returning fire

running from the tunnel

into the next tunnel.

the white man with the mad mouth,

probing the coast

dispensing weaponry

squeezing the Mormon ghost,

dug up the golden tablets

and a teamster's ticket to the greater kingdom

where the saints shagged good guns

without serial numbers,

waiting in ambush for the settlers 

heading west

across a mountain meadow

where Indians prowled

to make their dope connections

hoping for a couple head of cattle or a horse

without bullshit or insults

holding history in their red hands

before the lynchings began in earnest.

Plath, keep your head out of that gas oven

Plath, keep your head out of that gas oven 

no matter the time of day!

it won't help you choose, 

Mrs. Hughes,

between Ted or yourself or the children

fitfully sleeping in an adjacent room 

while you fancy some sort of doom. 

your wet towels were a slap in their face 

although stuffed under the doors in no apparent haste,

as part of the scheming.

you became the turkey dreaming 

of her Sunday roast. 

whatever happened to the ghost 

last seen writing on her kitchen floor? 

shouldn't she have arisen and opened the door 

for the au pair at nine? 

the painters with a key on time 

might have been out of breath, 

but it was your death.

after the rapes

in thru the bedroom window

the knife cut screen hanging by a thread

the young blonde girl taken captive

straight from the safety of her bed

sliding quietly on the living room floor

and out the front door

under the banner of Heaven

whispering songs of religious war

a madman with conviction in his eyes

wearing a white robe at night

without any pretense or surprise

His God believed in everything precisely written

no possibility of Joseph Smith lies

and the captive to be held as a wife

at the age of 14,

to become the bearer of a new life

after the repeated rapes.

a post-it note before walking off an empty stage

sun is dumb or dumber

it keeps on shining regardless of the horse

kicking in a small barnyard;

chicken feces and cow dung scattered in the straw

with thick mud,

broken rows of corn.

footprints of the Anasazi point away from a remote cliff dwelling

pinching an inch,

but the inch searching for a destiny

or a worm hole 

and the worm 

tight inside a conical tunnel

surfing the net with a terabyte instead of an overbite.

i saw the rooster on his fence post sipping a glass of Irish whiskey

reading the Atlantic magazine,

a story about Christopher Hitchens reflecting in his eye,

a smudge of ruby lipstick on his cheek.

a gray squirrel was seen scratching hard dirt for a last bit of seed in an eastern

Pennsylvania late afternoon

in the cold air of a snowless winter.

a hungry Cooper's hawk using her GPS

wearing aviator glasses

looking for a hero for just one day;

and a dead rabbit on a well-traveled rural road.

a medium-sized herd of black Angus cattle

puzzled-looking black eyes 

wondering about their evening class in English literature.

across the wide open field

a yellow glow of a fast food restaurant and the smell of French fries cooked in hot oil.

green grass

and cars whizzing

looking for America

where the Cheshire Cat

with a jacket so casually tossed across her right shoulder

was holding nine lives and two aces up her sleeve

listening to The Bee Gees,

grinning,

while three chipmunks,

leaving a post-it note before walking off an empty stage,

waved to a singer sitting behind the theater curtain, sound asleep.

we all need a warm embrace

i've been thinking about a strong man

who has been feeling weak,

doing what he can to keep his three dogs occupied.

but his youngest son is struggling

with personal issues;

his aged mother is widowed and unsteady on her feet;

his wife is busy with her corporate work;

his mind is overwhelmed and

the bathroom mirror doesn't have all the answers.

like, who's the fairest of them all?

and clouds are piling up in the sky,

hiding the sun.

the air remains chilled, even as a backyard campfire

spits sparks into the night air.

what don't we know about ourselves?

is balance only found in the gym on a narrow beam?

if you're not who you are, then who?  or whom?

i heard that he cried this recent Monday night,

the first time since his sister died.

he said he feels he doesn't need any help,

but the window to his soul is open.

a breeze is coming down from the north,

and we all need a warm embrace.

far from Monmartre

so Picasso

didn't know

James Madison

but he knew quite well

Dora and her magic spell.

he often wore a dandy hat

going to a fancy Paris ball. 

Olga wrapped an ankle

because of her opera fall.

their marriage took a turn for the worse,

but there was no Spanish curse.

he simply decided he deserved what he wanted

and vows be damned,

and how the wind doth ramm!

like the unholy penis in his skillful hand,

he felt great and had the EYE:

short and spry,

full of himself while painting the female breast.

yes, who could have guessed?

he stroked and poked and painted,

grabbed Jacqueline by the neck until she fainted.

later-in-life ceramics on the shelf and red clay on the floor;

a favorite brush on a small table by his studio door,

far from Montmartre and his room with Fernande and being poor.

the young boy with a gift

on the world stage as an adult like an untethered skiff, 

adrift,

clutching his genius.

Springtime smells like honey

 

Springtime smells like honey

driving bees crazy

wasting away their money

inside a local five and dime

making up for lost time

shopping for genuine smiles

are a mom and her kid shuffling thru the aisles

wearing imitation ten dollar shoes 

looking for something important to choose

but they're walking blind

to how they've been defined

and it doesn't seem to matter any more

the sunlight in their eyes offers a natural surprise

and they blink;

they watch the evening sun sink

and the clouds hanging low

becoming a deep shadow:

there's a garden path and a bright primrose;

wandering footprints filled with wandering toes;

and there's a high hill to climb

inside a local five and dime

making up for lost time

shopping for genuine smiles

are a mom and her kid shuffling thru the aisles

wearing imitation ten dollar shoes 

looking for something important to choose

but they're walking blind

to how they've been defined

and it doesn't seem to matter any more.

south of Porto

she was with the invisible man on the sidewalk,

south of Porto, 

talking a lot of bull

about the rise in the cost of living

like an over-inflated zeppelin 

looking for lost lines and helium loves.

the much weathered fishermen of Aveiro

sat nonchalantly

on their salty chairs,

tongues clucking on and on

about foreign tourists asking about the latest catch.

nearby, a middle-aged woman tossed her bow rope but it missed

everything it was intended to hit,

and she lost her balance listening to the fishermen.

a loud splash was her body hitting the water between the floating dock

and the starboard side of her untethered sailboat.

as the woman was flailing in the brisk tidal current,

in danger of being injured or worse,

the fishermen kept talking about the old days, 

captains of their chairs,

pointing smoothly to the Portuguese sun, which was August hot.

they laughed softly about foreign tourists who kept asking about their catch,

but no one could find the invisible man on the sidewalk,

south of Porto.

and when the wet woman eventually climbed exhausted from the water,

she walked past the fishermen without taking notice of their smiles.