I heard Maria Callas singing

when she said it was evolution 

i was too damn small 

i heard Maria Callas singing in the Milano opera hall 

she was absolutely divine 

so i thought i'd take a chance 

i wore my evening jacket without my underpants.

i heard Keith Richards play when i was seventeen

he was absolutely wildly crazy touching the obscene. 

when she said it was evolution 

i was too damn dumb

i protested with long hair and my opposition thumb. 

i watched Ari Onassis wear his glasses in the shade 

he accumulated people and i knew he had it made.

i watched Mick Jagger wear his penis on his nose

he accumulated people in the evening without clothes.

when she said it was evolution

i was too damn blind

i wrote a note to Santa Claus

the one he could not find.

when she commented on gravity

i told her i could defy it,

but she said i couldn't deny it, 

so what did i really know

sucking my injured big toe?

i heard Maria Callas singing with a butterfly in her hair

her voice like angel flowers vocal passion everywhere!

when she said it was evolution

i was too damn naive

i heard Maria Callas singing 

it became impossible to leave!!

when i talked with Picasso

when i talked with Picasso, 

it was an early evening near central Paris

and he was flush with Spanish wine,

laughing with artistic friends already feeling fine,

splashing paints on the nearest cobbled street.

and he told me his life would never be complete

until he was known everywhere

for his prodigious talent and his famous penetrating stare!

well, he had an brilliant eye, that's for certain:

he said he painted more than one Russian ballet curtain,

and when he saw the many young ladies swoon

he'd immediately take them to his special room

where he'd teach them French or as much as he knew

while they kneeled before his greatness, admiring the local view.

and when i told him i was also fond of Gertrude Stein,

he said quite forcefully that she couldn't be a friend of mine;

she had her hands full of more important things to do,

and no time to waste screwing around with another old shrew!

i asked inquiringly about his relationship with Matisse

but he looked away and somehow seemed at peace.

when a gallery owner said his Opening sales were beyond belief

"like stealing money without being an actual thief!"

the drinks flowed and everyone partied the night away,

without pretensions or any interest in becoming a gourmet.

when i talked with Picasso,

he refused to let me go

until i promised to give him the best press,

and there's more, a lot more,

but i digress.

sitting on a bench

you are 

sitting on a bench

polishing your perfect nails.

it might be too hard for me to remember

my heads from my tails,

but i approach anyway,

wondering as i study your face

what i might have to do or say.

you smile and offer me a timid joke.

i take a deep breath and offer you a pleasant toke.

but i wasn't trying to score;

i didn't have time for that anymore:

too many days have fallen over my head

and i look like i've just tumbled out of an untidy bed.

i can't even remember what i'm doing here:

memories of childhood keep trying to reappear

and i know i've traveled with heavy loads on my back;

all the passing white clouds have turned into coal black.

behind me all the pain of failures and interesting lies!

but i keep sailing my ship when all it wants to do is capsize,

wondering if i can be the first mate,

standing my watch at the helm like i'm on a first date,

not ready to drop anchor and head into the nearest port.

maybe there's one more chance to be the gentleman and find a fine woman to court

while i am still standing and 

you are

sitting on a bench

polishing your perfect nails.

it might be too hard for me to remember

my heads from my tails,

but i approach anyway,

wondering as i study your face

what i might have to do or say.

what it is to be alive!

i'm not pulling any punches

rolling along 

carrying a bag full of morning hunches

and you're watching me from under cover

pausing

hoping to discover

what it is to be alive!

and we're out for a freeway drive

watching all the singers and dancers

holding hands 

while looking for questions and answers.

there's a lot to unfold

or so we're being told,

marching in a band or sitting on a side street,

always running lightly on our feet.

it's me on the radio

listening for directions for which way to go

maybe to Fifth Avenue 

or to stay home with you?

but another turn and more keep coming,

dancers dancing and singers humming,

there's music in our dreams and angels in our head,

so many words silently on the floor being unsaid:

it's always time to keep steering

there's a horizon and yet it keeps disappearing

and that's where we want to go.

i'm not pulling any punches

rolling along 

carrying a bag full of morning hunches

and you're watching me from under cover

pausing

hoping to discover

what it is to be alive!

and we're out for a freeway drive

watching all the singers and dancers

holding hands 

while looking for questions and answers.

there's a lot to unfold

or so we're being told,

marching in a band or sitting on a side street,

always running lightly on our feet.

kill them all, but

Poland,

said the German man,

should be mine!

Poland,

said the Soviet guy,

will be mine!

not exactly friendly,

but they decided to share.

tasty treats;

blood in the streets.

they didn't have to choose.

kill them all, but

especially the Jews.

expose a breast,

then line up the rest.

pa and ma;

steamrolling toward Warsaw.

don't ask & don't tell:

simply blitzkrieg them to hell.

swallowing pills over the eastern hills.

no time to shiver crossing the river!

3 days with no sleep;

rounding up the sheep.

wrong or right?

not considered in this fight.

two madmen on the move!

and who will disapprove?

two madmen on the loose!

and they'll escape the noose.

Poland,

said the German man,

should be mine!

Poland,

said the Soviet guy,

will be mine!

not exactly friendly,

but they decided to share.

tasty treats;

blood in the streets.

they didn't have to choose.

kill them all, but

especially the Jews.

Pascin will see you now

i will see you again,

but not yet, my friend,

i whispered several years after 

we had met,

but now i was dead:

not he or she or they or all else who came to play,

(the many artists and hangers-on),

drinking and eating and loving till the earliest dawn.

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

but i calmly slit my wrists and hung by throat,

tossing a bloody testament on the nearby gallery wall,

before my solo show about Cecile and my personal downfall:

oh, yes, i knew triumph and despair,

dabbled in color! 

and whores with fine lines and wit

or maybe duller;

but if you slept, i was alert

at Montparnasse,

always the flirt,

never considered the serious painter

as i wanted to be known.

so i fade,

become fainter,

and wonder between bottles of red and white wines,

will i see you again, my friend?

near San Barbara, California, USA

Ronald Reagan played with his radio,

spinning dials and whispering scores,

tuning in to happy hour

with an "Aw shucks" and a dime

bagging a governor gig in the process,

wooing Nancy with his swimming smile

out of the pool

onto the big screen

with a big hat 

and bigger friends

like a Director's cut

surfing onwards to the national spotlight

to the White House with a burning Bush

winning a Cold War

with patriotically hot breath 

to Infinity and Beyond

believing in great deeds,

then riding his favorite horse into the sunset

close to Hollywood Boulevard

but more northerly,

on his ranch 

under the big sky

near Santa Barbara, California, USA,

USA. USA. USA. USA!

standing hopeful

no where do i see

sitting on a park bench

you eagerly reading

while waiting to be with me.

but we'd be eating chocolates

thumbing our noses at the sky,

playing with our imaginations

using a little leg and an inviting thigh.

of course i'd be broke

and you'd still be attached,

fumbling with trembling hands

at my front door latch.

and there'd be children on the playground

watching for the man,

laughing at our antics

from behind a nearby garbage can.

and i'd be standing hopeful,

never growing tired,

waiting for you to settle down

but you're always wired.

speaking in tongues,

you never know who's on first,

showing off your batter's box

with an insatiable thirst.

and you'd give me a hard time

but i'd rather hear a song,

waiting on a park bench

and i'll sit here all day long,

tasting the air

if that's what it takes

to watch you go speeding past

without using your brakes.

well, there's never been a question

that i'm always up for a ride,

listening for an answer

that you're completely satisfied.

no where do i see

sitting on a park bench

you eagerly reading

while waiting to be with me.

but we'd be eating chocolates

thumbing our noses at the sky,

playing with our imaginations

using a little leg and an inviting thigh.

of course i'd be broke

and you'd still be attached,

fumbling with trembling hands

at my front door latch.

well, there's never been a question

that i'm always up for a ride,

listening for an answer

that you're completely satisfied.

my first big change

my change came in on soft footsteps,

surprising my classic Lancaster County blond hair

with a stirring blast of tropical wind. 

it was a warm Vietnamese war wind, but little did i know

how hot it would become,

or i might have worn several hats.

as it was, the hat i came in with was

white skinned and speaking plain English

with a working class accent.

and it was a fine hat and i used to feel comfortable

wearing it while riding my bike to a

little league ball game on a Saturday afternoon and

everyone i knew wore a similar hat,

even without playing ball.  they had their games, too.

and everyone i knew spoke alike and, yes, almost looked alike,

playing by acknowledged rules on our simple public streets,

or telling simple secrets on simple bedroom sheets.

the only changes i noticed among my friends and their

parents and local shopkeepers and the milk delivery man

were when a new puppy or kitten were shown off or when it was Sunday morning

and someone wore a fine new suit or a newer dress, with the hem line

customarily long even if the shoes were polished and short.

i remember it was easy to float from day to day; it was never difficult to

tell a tall tale or listen to a silly joke about a bathing suit that tore

at a certain seam during a summer co-ed swim.

the seasons changed-not much else, it seemed.

my change was not subtle, no, hammering at me harder and more

directly then a book about carpentry might have.

the change was abrupt, as though my caterpillar shell was torn apart

before i became a skittish butterfly.  

I had traveled from relatively sheltered living to distress and loss and

aloneness with the assistance of an overnight military flight.

to where, i wondered?  for what purpose, i wondered?

why me, i wondered?  who was i, i wondered?

i was naive.  i didn't know about wisdom.  i had not known real love.

i had not felt grief.  i had not experienced anguish or true loss; you know, the kind

of loss that digs deeply and refuses to unclamp your heart

from its' terrible grip.

the songs of the 60's didn't change me.

the books by Vonnegut, Asimov, Tolstoi, Dostoevsky and others,

didn't change me.  

i was drowning without a genuine self-respect but wondered dimly where would i find any in an ocean

of organized cruelty?

i looked around more closely, moving with all senses aware.

i was somewhere, that much was certain.  but where?  on the path of life, where?

i felt singular in an alien world of unfamiliar faces and unexpected

demands; believed i was unrecognized as a unique person; was ignored for

any characteristic other than the performance of a special skill which total strangers 

wanted me to perform for their benefit.  or for the benefit of someone else somewhere else!

i remember being unable to see the meaning of who i was.

i remember being unable to remember much of anything.

i remember touching a white flower to see if it was real.

i remember looking around at a torn countryside and seeing the pointlessness of life.

i remember feeling there was no point.

and then, suddenly, as though inside a spring rain, I remember I remembered what it is to be ME.

i was a flower, too!

and that is always the point:

remembering what it is to be ME.

and that was my first big change.

Sergei Diaghilev (died: August 19, 1929)

he died in Venice:

before the floods swept away the chairs,
but the perfume princess brought her broom
to sweep away his cares.
she was on a yacht
cruising the Adriatic with a friend
when his telegram arrived from across the sea
to suggest this was the end.
he had eaten too well,
with rich food and sugary dessert,
and diabetic pain exhausted him,
yet he claimed it didn't hurt!
on the Isola de San Michele,
his grave site sadly
had only four mourners by the muddy hole:
two were Misia Sert and Coco Chanel;
then Lifar the clown and Kochno the troll,
while Massine was hastily trying
to persuade Beaumont to keep the company afloat.
but he said no,
and Picasso refused to gloat.

his Johnny Cash smile

well, he don't sing too good

but he tried

as only he knew he could

siting in his easy chair

reciting a musical prayer

strumming tunes wide awake

holding his cards closely, increasing his stake

with his Johnny Cash smile

doing what he could in simple style

and he saw where he stopped and where he had to go

to find June Carter before her final show

in a burning ring of fire

with a love they would both admire

each other was all they'd ever require

well, he don't sing too good

but he tried

as only he knew he could.

Vietnam...then

In ’69 I went to war while Nixon was in charge

And Kissinger his famous brain was Ambassador-at-large

Vietnam seemed so far away but a flight across the sea

United us in strange embrace, both yearning to be free

Many men of different stripes with duffle bag in hand

Saw this Orient in great divide, a sacrificial land

The sun was hot, the soil was hard but our duty call was heard

The officers had our full respect, we took them at their word

Modern cavalry soon was marching, it mounted a high horse

Artillery guns were sounding, the war marched on its’ course

So off I went to guard my post of concrete, sand, and wire

At night the sky a show of bursting flares and fire

I had this Ranger background, ate snakes with my bare teeth

Bled red American Marlboro blood, Uncle Sam was my new chief

Overhead the choppers ripped the air, twin 60s at their doors

They searched the land for Viet Cong, rice paddy killer whores

The DMZ was really not all peacefulness and calm

The flowers there were buried by the smell of fresh napalm

Tet was a bitch for all involved, a bloody New Years truce

When General Giap knifed public Peace & hoped to cook that goose

We had marines in ol’Khe Sanh, six thousand in flat Hell

Unlike a real world title fight, no friendly-sounding bell

Then Abrams tried to save the day; he came in to help us out

But Charlie boy still had his guns and fought without a doubt

It started with a Friday rain and ran for months straight through

I hopped a jeep and left Saigon and drove mountains to Pleiku

The strawberry fields and rubber trees, red dust cloud in my head

I felt the weight of loyalty, machine gun in my bed

I heard Mike Leonard give his brief behind an army door

A peace sign hanging from his neck, he spoke about the war

What he had to say you had to hear, he said about midnight

The tanks would come down highway One and everyone’d take flight

The statues in this country, fighting soldiers under arms

Have weapons in poor peasant hands when all they want are farms

I left for home in a Freedom Bird from a world the French forgot

Knew a RED flag rose in victory and wondered, “Was it all for naught?”

I thought you had to love me, a steel warrior from your past

But when I walked your chilly roads those notions faded fast

Another war became another war, as conquest dreams were planned

While Nam guys keep a watchful eye, old battlements still manned

Come on America, give me Hell then give me precious bread

Tell me all I need to hear, pump love songs thru my head

Come on America, do it now while I am still near

Tell me all I need to know, softly whisper in my ear.

At the Arc de Triomphe

At the Arc de Triomphe:

the sun was streaming
early one morning
when Massine could be seen dancing under
the arch.
he was looking for Vera Savina, with whom
he had recently fallen in love.
Sergei Diaghilev was furious, and went racing down
a nearby flight of stairs determined to keep them from meeting.
Picasso kept quiet, as though he knew nothing of ballet.
And soon, Vera found and took Massine by his hand to her bedroom.
Again, Diaghilev was furious, and said "Hadn't [I] made him?
What had Massine...been?  Nothing but a good-looking face
and poor legs!"
But soon a young refugee from Moscow arrived in Paris and visited
unannounced in Diaghilev's suite at the Continental.  He was a
seventeen-year-old Russian known as Boris and
Diaghilev instantly became intrigued.
This all happened before his Ballets Russes traveled to Madrid, where the gypsies poured in to dance.

Bridge School fund raiser

she took me to the Bridge School fund raiser:

inside, a band played soft rock in the aisles.

i dug the music!

it nosed my mental shoreline above tree line and foamed

the entire auditorium with leafy autumn cheers,

and the kids loved it.

noise was everywhere.  rules were being broken as the children 

stood on their seats and

the parents danced to

a suspected Neil Young song and attempted to sing

A Horse with No Name, but that was simply America.

then, wearing his customary high-collared jacket,

the invited special guest was introduced to energetic applause.

David Bowie broadly smiled as he sat on a bare stage with his acoustic guitar,

Major Tom commencing countdown by his side;

they both said they really wanted to make the grade.

we were all waiting for the trip into outer space,

but stayed grounded for the entire performance.

we pledged to heal our sacred inner space

without wearing excessive makeup, except for Bowie.

he repeatedly assured us that 

above us were only skies

and we’d soon know which way to go.

he kept laying it down for the planet Earth,

which was blue.

we raised a good deal of money for the Bridge School that night.

later, i heard Bowie was invited to return and has already accepted.

It’s time to thank him.

Zelda overheard the question

Celebration beer in hand, 

the stranger sat next to Scott and asked about the Paris weather.

Zelda overheard the question and threw her drink

at the face of the questioner.

"How dare you?" she demanded,

"Who ever cares!"

as soon as she finished her last word, she went

to replace her drink.

the weather improved in her absence.

but just as soon as she left, she returned,

drink in hand.  

Scott had a drink in hand, too,  and one resting on 

an adjacent table.  

he liked having a simple choice. 

Scott saw Duncan walk in with a young man who

was half her age and decided to introduce himself.

when Zelda saw him knell before the aging dancer, she yelled,

"How dare you?"

"Who ever cares!"

and she ran from the room, drink in hand, and threw herself from

the nearest balcony.  

the weather improved in her absence.

instead of working nine to five

turn off the lights

and let them freeze,

and in the cold morning air

when they finally say please,

fly my drones into their dreams!

death to man brought by my machines!

it's only my way of feeling alive

instead of working nine to five,

i toss children in the fire

and there's so much more that i require:

polishing my shoes while i adjust my tie.

day or night there's millions more to pacify,

don't let them tell you otherwise!

i can rain death down from the skies,

sipping coffee with a notebook by my hand;

there's nothing i need to understand.

don't let them steal you blind.

i'm the genius mastermind

who paints the pale moon blue,

wrecks the house, attacks the avenue. 

i'm so good i'm bad!

i'm your mother i'm your dad!

don't let them tell you otherwise!

i can rain death down from the skies,

sipping coffee with a notebook by my hand;

there's nothing i need to understand.

i'm the man in total command!

you're the tool;

you're the complete fool

while i'm playing it cool.

it's only my way of feeling alive

instead of working nine to five,

i toss children in the fire

and there's so much more that I require:

polishing my shoes while i adjust my tie,

day or night there's millions more to pacify.

on the path of courage

it's not always the one

that the greater society flatters

that in the short or long run

matters

on the path of courage:

there's the city tax collector and the forest bridge troll

collecting a toll

in relative obscurity

but at a steady pace

sometimes dressed modestly or all crimson and lace;

and there's the unheralded stage hands

preparing a venue for various bands

watching an early audience file in and take their seats

in anticipation of musical beats

which might help them make it through another day,

and some self-question if they'll stay

as the going seems personally rough,

yet they rally, dig deeper, stay tough

like the musical King

or Queen

or Prince

partaking in our great moveable feast

that passes from the most important among us

to the mouths of the very least;

and into the hallway mirror we often gaze and wonder:

does it matter if the world is silent or howling like thunder?

can we stay simple and recognize the magic of an overhead sky?

can we listen with our hearts to hear the world's brave babies cry?

and we cry as well 

and we laugh and we succeed and we fail

looking into our palm and seeing the nail

but knowing it's not bent

and it won't be bent

and we're spending our lives together, 

but we're not spent

on the path of courage,

where the handmade mozzarella melts 

and we tighten our memory of leather belts

searching for that perfect hole to fasten and hold,

being curious in spite of it all

as we're growing old

on the path of courage.

save the baby!

save the baby!

that was a cry from the next room

and i had to assume

it was for me but it could have been for you

we went together looking for a clue

we saw rusted tanks and bombed out cribs

skinny men with exposed ribs

and old men with the saddest eyes

consumed by the constant lies

their tears flooded the street

we felt the dead heat

like an immense weight in our hands

everywhere we looked we saw badlands

everything was being taken

chewed up and forsaken...

in our heads we saw dark clouds and felt the stinging hail

in the palm of our hands we felt the nail

and the cold freezing our skin 

you looked without while i looked within

and it slowly dawned on me that the sky would remain blood red

all the babies had fled

into a story book where another ending would be penned

make-believe and the terrible world of pretend

and the fog soon to descend:

save the baby!

you took a temporary seat and sat

no where in the pouring rain

is there an answer for the way you look.

there's no happy ending inside your pocket book,

so when you turned out your cat,

you took a temporary seat and sat.

you saw the town square was full of sharks and clowns

who took advantage of summer weddings and bridal gowns,

and the game wasn't fair;

there was no innocent playground there!

no real news for the online shoppers' blues

when they drop their pants, 

imagining an hour of private romance.

when the lights are dimmed and the drinks seem free,

you walk into a busy room and immediately agree

with whatever you're told;

you're acting young but you're growing old

with hair in your nose and gray, colorless eyes,

spending all your money on the latest and the newest disguise.

you've seen it all;

up and down the temperance hall,

on the lowest level or up on the roof,

everybody you meet is drinking from a bottle of 100 percent proof

but you've never tried a sip

until someone offered you a piece of lip;

and you knew you were cursed

when you fell into the wishing well headfirst

and found it bone dry!

there was no need to apply

for a job on the unemployment line;

no new words for you to define.

you've come a long way to find yourself,

watching the late show from an empty library shelf

and nobody came to lend you a hand

'cause reading between the lines had been permanently banned,

and the game wasn't fair;

there was no innocent playground there!

Bowie, you're hiding under my bed

Bowie,

you're hiding under my bed

and yet someone told me you were thought dead

no longer playing with the ground controls and spinning knobs,

singing for the few available spaceman jobs;

you were quite the looker,

dressing like an expensive alien hooker

in the backseat of your car 

playing with Ziggy's guitar;

oh, yes, biting the dust because you must

holding hands with a young China Girl;

a handful of roses, a bright red wig and a pearl

like a Spiders from Mars frontal attack,

but i've heard you're never coming back

and the genie is so far out of the bottle,

tearing thru New York City streets at full throttle,

like an instant revelation,

heading Station to Station;

so hey man, wham bam and thank you ma'am.

if you're tired of this channel and think you're gonna switch,

come back tomorrow same time to see the traveling Queen Bitch!

so take your time; it's a special home delivery:

you can eat whatever you see!

and whenever you take a look inside,

it'll be a Rock n Roll Suicide.

everything written on the wall

and just to be clear

there's a lot of heartbreak!

for goodness sake

it's true,

everything written on the wall

with a sharp pen

writing down to the raw,

the expansive and the small.

and there are numerous stories of lost lovers

smothered under their personal covers,

still pointing to the stars,

dreaming of life on Mars;

but when you asked me for my hand

what i didn't understand

was that it was for all of me,

from the deepest roots to the highest part of the tree;

so i stayed wrapped in my bedroom bundle

blind to the promise of a galloping horse

picking and choosing his wildest course

unnamed and untamed

across the expansive prairie

feeling the deepest breath of free air

longing for a companion with which to share

everything written on the wall

with a sharp pen

writing down to the raw,

the expansive and the small.

the heat

the heat

on a Brittany beach

caught the tip of his penis

and turned it Code Red,

inflated it like a weather balloon

and off he went

into his desert-like tent like a Sheik

counting his conquests,

using his brushes and colors to paint the day

to camouflage his true intentions,

which were raw with hunger.

she was young and innocent,

and watched him grow while she shrank

meekly from the advances he made,

smiling with his magical Spanish eyes,

feeling the heat.

Life is a Journey

And we all belong

Somewhere

Everywhere

And it made me high

And it made me cry

traveling across Kansas
Where for just one moment
Everything was dust in the wind

Blowing in the wind

curling and swirling 
Within you and Without you

And when I pause 

you tie my shoe

and when you feel blue

I feel sad
And I never had doubt
We’d remember

to come together 
For U2
Are part of the people

As me
Free falling
Rock steady
Gratefully alive
And always,
I want to hold your hand
Look into your eyes while asking,
Can’t you hear my heart beat?
it’s beating for you,
Child in time,
Like smoke on the water
A wisp and a whisper
Like the Sounds of Silence
remaining close

like a friendly ghost 
Like a vision
And a visionary
And when you light up the candle
It will show you the way
To find the moment
You’ve been waiting for
All of your life

And we share

the butterflies flying in the air,

seeing gardens everywhere,

And we all belong.

between bites of flesh

Jack said there was a dog in the tree,

howling to the moon;

but when i looked it wasn't there,

although i saw a haiku

hanging from a hanging branch:

if it fades away,

how will i know what it meant?

i can't see the dark.

but Allen said he saw the dog,

who was acting like a hipster;

he said it was wearing a French-style beret,

reading a poem called Howl,

barking like a mad man:

what was it about?

there was a lot of applause.

i had much to learn.

and Burroughs said there should be

intoxicating drugs floating in the air,

so he traveled to Tangiers

with his net and a tourist guide book,

looking for an African ass to drive home his point:

he had sex at night,

and in the morning felt fine.

his breakfast was fish.

he tried to eat like a native, he said,

between bites of flesh.

being proud of your face

simply no disgrace

being proud of your face

facing the world of friends and lover

in the chill of night under weighted cover

touching a soul with your fingertips

on sleeping lips.

finding your path to sail the high seas

without over-reliance on the word "Please"

while being respectful and alert

with healing words to avoid the hurt.

yoga and meditation

no hesitation

sharing your love of food:

shopping, kitchen prep, always in the mood

for an amble into a recipe book

happily exclaiming "Ah, yes!  Look!

You'll love this!"

Pure Bliss.

exploring beyond the shore

and so much more,

with a lust for adventure and yet the slow

reading of a map wondering which new way to go

beyond the boring

like an eagle on the highest winds soaring.

a quiet voice

maintaining a choice

to be spirited or soft in a favorite chair

like a lioness in her lair

singing her song

short or long

asking others to sit and lounge and love

watching clouds drifting above:

a talk about the future or the past

stretching a moment to make it last

for another minute or afternoon or for weeks.

it's simple:  whatever curiosity seeks.

they played Listz at his funeral

the first time he heard Listz play La Campanella,

he assumed the piano piece was a tribute to

Roy Campanella, a famous American baseball player,

who, before he died,

was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame.

but no, that assumption was incorrect,

so he obviously wasn't concerned with the obvious.

he often sat all alone listening to his thoughts,

far out in the country,

where birds sang their own compositions

and rat snakes dreamed under the heat of a high summer sun.

he was not rich.

his choice of music was dictated by an FM radio

playing classical pieces,

hinting at news,

broadcasting political advertisements.

and he rode a bicycle for amusement,

employing trainer wheels to ensure his balance,

which was suspect.

he rode over little stones until his butt hurt,

then tried to explain the inexplicable using several rolls

of toilet paper which he draped over the low branches of

tall trees.

very funny, he thought, applying salve to his sore cheeks.

he closed his eyes and imagined a priest

smiling at him from inside a confessional booth.

the priest suggested a ride on a bicycle built for two.

the priest also said he knew Roy Campanella,

when he was still alive.

and they played Listz at his funeral,

not baseball.

try explaining that, he said, 

without using toilet paper.

before he was a poet

before he was a poet,

he was a judge

bearing a tiny cross on both sides of his face.

in front of a jury of peers,

his robes were black,

like his laughter

and his screams.

knives and guns and anger

were always in the courtroom,

presenting facts.

each case he tried

came to haunt him

when the moon was in the sky.

he heard the ticking of clocks,

and his heart racing for the next bus,

always arriving too late,

and he wore down his teeth with tension

before a dentist could make any adjustments.

so 

he left the law 

before the ground

completely disappeared beneath his feet,

before he was sentenced to life,

before his premature death.

and his poetry became all surface and angled innuendo:

he wrote in bare feet,

with headphones covering both ears,

pretending he was 

In the Hall of the Mountain King

with Grieg,

hugging himself between notes.

a garden growing in the distance

into a fenced pasture

she led me by the hand,

telling me in low whispers

i should do whatever she said,

whether in a rain storm or on her dried grass bed;

and when we got to the corral

she mounted a saddled horse.

i stood still

as her steed began kicking dirt on my face

& she handed me the reins and told me to pull hard,

and with all my strength i pulled

until dreams spilled out over my boots

and my eyes grew big.

i saw my youthful self throwing a ball

which a batter hit over the nearby fence

and she laughed as she ran down the third base line,

licking my face before she disappeared into the dugout!

she said i needed to release the reins but my hands hesitated,

so i sat on a stool next to the horse

from where i could hear her yelling at me.

what she was saying was no longer making much sense.

i thought she was poorly recalling poems by a Romanian writer

who once came to visit me, who reminded me of a saint for lost souls,

who wrote her poems by hand with clean sheets of paper,

all signed with her signature in blood,

and i liked the ones i remembered

while sitting next to the horse,

kicking dirt on my face.

when i let go and the horse bolted,

she jumped the fence.

i stood, grabbed the stool,

and walked toward a garden

growing in the distance.

the nightmare i tried to avoid

the quiet creature in my mirror

with shaven face and eyes aglow with narcissism

reaches for his blood pressure pill;

it's late at night and soon dreams will come,

so the heart needs to remain calm and steady 

if the FBI arrives with a search warrant and government agents

armed with automatic weapons 

open doors

crack windows

peer into toilet bowls

and they're wearing civilian clothes

having arrived in black SUVs 

locked and loaded

ready for civil war

ready to say that justice matters

looking for clues 

to my having been a bad man

and i'm sleeping nude under clean 100% cotton sheets

hearing the slow rumble of a wave crash onto my white sand beach

foaming until the last bit reaches my umbrella pole

stuck firmly beyond high tide line

holding the hot sun at bay

keeping my cooler cooler

and my face from showing shock

as my heavy safe is carted away on a wheeled platform,

my top secrets

highly classified documents

love letters from Kim and many other guys

and passports, too,

are unceremoniously measured and quartered

and swallowed up

into the nightmare i tried to avoid

but was unable

and i curl my left hand into a tiny fist and punch out meanly

into the vastness of empty space.

an Orc in my garden!

there was an Orc in my garden!

i heard it was an invasive pest,

so i grabbed it between my fingers and firmly squeezed

until it snapped, crackled, and popped, 

the final sound much more subdued than a bonfire roaring,

almost like a whimper from a newborn

after breast feeding,

the crib and pillow and soft blankets and toys

all comforting and offering security,

a full belly with gurgles of affection,

so hush my baby don't you cry:

the Orcs will eventually die!

i heard the mother natures' song,

& it was naturally voiced with common tears

that filled her deep sorrow

watching an Orc, heedless, who fell into a communal pond

and drowned when his dangling feet reached for the bottom,

reached and reached,

as uncomprehending eyes grew cold and blank,

unseeing the surface many miles above,

where the noon day sun brightened the surrounding wheat fields

and a harvest began anew,

farmers on their trusty tractors, diesel fueled and chugging

into their new day,

bellies filled with gurgles of affection.

Moldova was her name

Moldova

was her name and she

was a castle of a woman,

towering over my green valley with a presence

filled with ancient trees and soaring wild birds-of-prey,

solid in her rocky steadfastness

with bright historical eyes,

inquisitive and penetrating,

and i felt deep gratitude in her presence,

inhaling a rich Slavic note reminiscent of Codru,

where large cellars hold brilliant wines.

Mother Russia is nearby, and she watches our exchange

with what i hope is no more than curiosity.

Ukraine is listening, too.

looking out for my co-star

i once had a lot of long hair,

but it fell on a busy street

and when i looked it wasn't there,

don't let me feel sad

the broadway lights were bright

so i can't be mad,

that's the way it goes

sometimes it too damn hot

and sometimes it snows

but i'm dancing around the pole

looking out for my soul,

had a slip and a fall

now i'm behind the eight ball

in a corner pocket in a biker's bar

looking out for my co-star

but she's not anywhere,

maybe she took my hair,

jumping from the stage in a panic

i saw her swimming across the Atlantic

drinking and smoking while she wiped her eyes,

in disbelief she's winning the top prize

but i wasn't looking anymore

walking out the back door,

had a slip and a fall

now i'm behind the eight ball

in a corner pocket in a biker's bar

looking out for my co-star

but she's not anywhere,

maybe she took my hair.

to intoxicate your soul

nowhere near the point of return,

i wonder if you'll ever learn

the night is long and the day exhausts,

you'll struggle adding up all the costs,

glancing as the clouds gathering near

approach like the point of a sharpened spear,

aging in an age of unreason,

season after season,

the drums beat 

on a lonely stretch of street,

and when you reach the trees

will you allow a breeze

to intoxicate your soul?

go and cast your net,

check out what you'll get

pushing stones up the nearest hill

until you get your fill,

down where the animals are in bed

wishing they were satisfied and fed,

and their clamor keeps feeding your head

with visions of merchandise

as clear and cold as ice

and wouldn't it be nice

to have all the jewels in paradise?

Blessing!

and it was Mary Oliver

again speaking directly to me!

her voice full of blessings

and insight

about life and love and light

and darkness, too, like a bowl of the blackest chocolate fudge

being eaten by a starving man inside his lonely prison cell.

oh, do tell;

so, yes,  I was drawn gently in a certain direction.

Blessing?  

Blessing!

I have time to linger, wondering about my little finger

and how it attaches perfectly with my full hand

when I pet my dog or comb my hair.

everything is simultaneously here and over there!

Blessing!

the simple fact of focus upon the speeding moment:

that's sufficient

for the infant 

and the old fellow filling his bird feeder with sunflower seeds

while the noisy chickadee watches.

and my love sips her wine slowly while her eyes smile, pools of promise beside

a lake of ever-expanding iridescent infinity.

I hear a Pink Floyd song and imagine kissing her lips in rhythm to the moon circling

around the Earth, remembering the constant push and pull of a tender embrace,

remembering a country of fragrant gardens and fertile fields of joy,

and the laughter of a child swinging from a handy rope 

overtop the safety of a deep hole of a neighborhood creek, 

the splash and the bubbles and the delicious feel of cool water on skin.

it's a very important day, right here and right now.

Blessing!

because it's only a short walk to the end of the boardwalk,

and I'm not ready to dismount my bike, whose tires are spinning like a distant galaxy 

and comfortably filled with air.  the chain cleaned and well-lubricated.

the road ahead is endless.

a train whistles.

a baby cries for her seat, and we all make room, moving and watching protectively.

we all have sufficient time.

we all feel.

we all need love.

Blessing!

who was there?

the hill was close

touching my face, kissing my hand

i took several deep inhales

not to grandstand

but to understand

how hard would be the climb

and could i navigate all the way blind?

when confusion and despair

filled the air

in the pitch black dark

who was there?

what was unjust and what was fair?

the music played loud

rattled my senses;

there were scattered villages

separated by indecently high fences

and a monster calling for death

watching people running, 

taking their last breath

indifferently

remorselessly

and the desert has no water

the horse has no name

who's to blame?

who's to praise?

for all those days

when

the drums shake and roll the terrain where i walk,

silently mouthing words but unable to talk.

Alexander Lukashenko

for the love of God

or V Putin

 or whatever the clever superstition of the moment,

Alexander Lukashenko 

is crafting his own uniquely Belarusian

WAY

to emulate the fate of Benito Mussolini

to be hung upside down

by the feet

from a steel I-beam

below which tens of thousands of his happy

citizens 

will be seen

CHEERING

wildly!

in the dead of the day

in the dead of the day,

pregnant women

fade away

into a back alley and into memory

where nothing is free

nothing is as it seems

remembering childhood dreams

and playgrounds and school books

gathering dust 

and second looks

down to the final seconds

intention and free will

perched on a lonely window sill

waiting for a reprieve, 

watching the scene

as the courts convene

and laws are changed

remarked upon, suddenly rearranged

like a fashionable hair style

and a magazine models' noon-day smile

moving month to month 

from behind the nearest door,

or the ballroom dance floor

where music can be heard

with every breath and every single word.

there's tragedy at the core

of what 

is never asked for

or planned

when individual choices

are criticized and banned.

in the dead of the day,

pregnant women

fade away

into a back alley and into memory

where nothing is free

nothing is as it seems

remembering childhood dreams

and playgrounds and school books

gathering dust 

and second looks.

a gypsy slyly distracting a tourist

tender chicken

soaked with lemon juice and a special blend

of spices

on a pre-heated grill

is the prelude to an evening meal

with a glass of decent red wine and Simon & Garfunkel's

The Sounds of Silence playing

as the sun begins

to slowly settle on the western horizon;

the table is set with cloth napkins

and porcelain plates,

and silver ware; 

and a screen wall is

enclosing the private space with welcoming arms.

wonderfully, there are no bugs.

the early evening birds are filling the soft, still air with

a natural song.

local flowers sweetly scent the air.

John Lee Hooker is soon to sing,

and his boom boom will be bluesy and enchanting.

he was very popular in Europe,

where modern tastes acknowledged genius without hesitation.

the poets of Europe, especially, are also brilliant chroniclers

of the heart beating in rhythm to the seconds of the day,

while astutely noticing any illusions 

fancied by the cafe crowd.

a gypsy slyly distracting a passing tourist

is a clever poet without a pen,

dreaming of a 

tender chicken

soaked with lemon juice and a special blend

of spices

on a pre-heated grill,

with a glass of decent red wine.

she started talking in circles

can't say i wasn't warned

turned down the light

she started talking in circles

in the middle of the night.

gave me more than she should

shut bedroom door

she started talking in circles

in the middle of the floor.

said her name was Martha

from the Deep South

she started talking in circles

in the middle of her mouth.

i asked for an answer

what was her wish?

she started talking in circles

in the middle of her kiss.

i wasn't a young man

lost all my steam

she started talking in circles

in the middle of my dream.

when outside the window

a new day broke

she started talking in circles

in the middle of her joke.

can't say i wasn't warned

turned down the light

she started talking in circles

in the middle of the night.

polishing the master's shoe

it's always five o'clock somewhere

and a belly somewhere is always running out of gas

in my way of understanding,

it's less than a half-filled glass

when some children smile with tears washing each eye

and there's no great outcry

well, my oh my oh my

no deep sadness from within

no institutional anger or chagrin

well, go west, young man! go west was sung

but that doorbell has already been rung

there's no answer or welcoming mat

no hopeful hill when all the surroundings are flat

the clock was left with dust on its' face

unwound and out of place

and when the chains were being rattled on the early ships' deck

i wasn't allowed to hear about the ruins of the wreck

the high winds rolling over the hot southern air

watching cotton being picked from the comfort of a plantation chair

it was a most exciting thing to do

polishing the master's shoe

and the silver made so bright it was hard to see

more fresh-baked biscuits and sweet tea

down on the ground with bended knee

listening for a faint promise about being free

it's always five o'clock somewhere

and a belly somewhere is always running out of gas

in my way of understanding,

it's less than a half-filled glass

when some children smile with tears washing each eye

and there's no great outcry

well, my oh my oh my

no deep sadness from within

no institutional anger or chagrin

well, go west, young man! go west was sung

but that doorbell has already been rung.

he liked his handsome face

Ted Hughes

walked away with a half-filled glass

of warm beer,

slowing to offer a sip to the young lady writing

her life story while standing

with sharpened pencil

at a corner of the neighborhood pub.

she initially wanted her own glass,

but intuitively knew that wouldn't be allowed;

she finished her final sentence by taking

a lonely, deep breath.

when word got out that Ted left the bar

without reading her entire story,

local people were initially disappointed in him.

with his handsome face mimicking honesty,

he soon explained that he wasn't

really interested in her writing.

too many references, he said,

to her dad and unresolved issues that were

beyond him.

he liked nature without the scars.

he liked his warm beer.

he liked his handsome face.

he most of all liked his own writing.

about heaven or hell

sitting on a hard bench

buster brown shoes on my feet

unwilling to smile for the photographer

or anyone else i meet

wearing a silly shirt and bowtie

inside a hot studio room

i'm asked to behave nicely

but i feel an approaching doom

not a mushroom cloud exactly

just a sense i don't belong

i haven't yet accepted

the notion that i could be wrong

the world was still a small place

not even a marker on my hand

there were philosophical discussions

which i couldn't understand:

a basement party without a band?

an Easter chicken that couldn't fly?

looking in the bathroom mirror

and seeing a forehead bull's-eye

with the ever-present blonde hair

atop a child's smile with a wry grin

but already a questioning stare:

what is out there?

no, i don't want your damn tomato soup

or to belong to any mindless group

don't talk to me about slavery

or about the bomb to end all life

i'm out back in the blacksmith shop

tempering my own knife

it's just that i'm in a time zone

where i'm happiest being alone

where music sounds like the expanding universe

i'm old now 

writing and reading verse

wearing sandals with no shirt or bowtie

and if i appear to cry

it's only when i glimpse a nightmare becoming true

and don't know what to do

to save you

as we sink inside an inkwell

without premonitions

about heaven or hell.

remembering Picasso

how can a life be better

if there's no change in your pocket

or in your intention

not to mention

a desire to improve

as the trench keeps getting deeper

the enemy is approaching with a bucket full

of malice

while inside your palace

a temporary safe haven

that ultimately doesn't challenge 

or provoke

when you awoke

your saw the same face as before

the same smug sensations

the same desires

the emotional fires

tamped

down

the crowd milling around 

is the status quo

you really know

most everything is in peril

the hole is being filled with toxic dust

sex is good but ultimately unfulfilling

chilling

my beautiful Annabel Lee

as the sea meets the shore

plead

beg and implore

the level of anxiety

is getting higher

and the piano man

plays it again

his name is Sam,

of course,

the Paris lights remain romantic

eulogizing the sailing ship Titanic

filling it with regret and historical ice

don't think twice!

it's not Casablanca...

the Orcs are coming

into your dreams

full of schemes

with hatred and steely indifference

and the flower sellers along the shores of the Rhine

when the church bells chime

watch your barge from a distance

a bicycle built for two

is looking for you

you're on a park bench, resting

with a giant balloon in your hand,

remembering Picasso.

so this is a song

so this is a song 

i wrote

when i was confident

that you loved me

and i could pay the rent

once a month 

on a Friday afternoon

when i was often late

but would rather be too soon

as we first walked together

under a giant harvest moon

and you gave me a bright smile

before we had walked another mile

and a laugh when i spoke

what i hoped was a joke

and you were serious about things

peeling thru layers of thought

and it was readily apparent

you didn't care what i bought

but what i could bring

in a voice that could sing

and so here's to what you said

and how you kept the score

you always seemed satisfied

never wanting more

than i could give or we could share

your love wasn't simply in a place

but seemed everywhere

and the moon remained beautiful all night long

so this is a song 

i wrote

when i was confident

that you loved me

and i could pay the rent

once a month 

on a Friday afternoon

when i was often late

but would rather be too soon

in a plaza in Dallas

remember what they said about Oswald?

how he planned it all and was such a

good Marine 

sharp-shooter

with his rifle

with nerves of steel 

with unlimited patience

being a convenient dupe of the mob

but it was all bullshit

meant to deceive and deflect

while driving the Irish Catholic crowd crazy

or crazier, if that was even possible.

the Batista boys were furious, of course,

about the loss of their property

and the fast women

and the slow cars

and how they hated the cigar smoke from Castro

who blew it furiously up their asses

but never giving away his hand.

the cops did their best playing the field

sniffing the air for smells that didn't belong

conning the cons

wearing their suits into Broadway clubs

waiting for snitches and bitches

to order tall drinks

from a short bartender

who was a closet friend of J. Edgar Hoover,

famous top dog at the FBI.

of course it was Oswald, the pinko

solo player

a mastermind

a maestro

a genius,

simply another day in a plaza in Dallas.

so darling, don't ask

but it was lost

and couldn't be found

i went listening for it

but there was no sound

there was dark

when there should have been light

i was sitting alone

in the center of your bombsight

counting grains of sand

slipping thru my hand

and there's a long day ahead

i'm short more than a buck

up for any adventure

but down on my luck

shuffling on a back street

dropping hints

while picking up my feet

there's a trail of tears

and they're mostly mine

so darling, don't ask:

i know i'll be fine

but it was lost

and couldn't be found

i went listening for it

but there was no sound

there was dark

when there should have been light

i was sitting alone

in the center of your bombsight

counting grains of sand

slipping thru my hand

and there's a long day ahead

i'm short more than a buck

up for any adventure

but down on my luck

that Uvalde, Texas Tuesday

well, i didn't know the exact way to hell

so followed a guy in his black pick-up truck

who kept ringing his own alarm bell

heard he was headed to Texas for a double shot of whiskey

something not to be missed

said he was gonna do a week of heavy drinking

'cause he was mighty pissed

yeah, his grandmother was gonna take away his guns

and he wouldn't be ruled

so he was headed to Robb elementary

down along the border

'cause he wanted to be re-schooled

and let me tell you it was a hell of a ride

all the way to madness with a double shot of whiskey by my side

speed limits were posted and the best beer was ice cold

but his rampage was just beginning and he wouldn't be controlled

there was no knock on the door when he led himself inside

and on that Uvalde, Texas Tuesday 

children came in from play

just before they died:

well, i didn't know the exact way to hell

so followed a guy in his black pick-up truck

who kept ringing his own alarm bell

heard he was headed to Texas for a double shot of whiskey

something not to be missed

said he was gonna do a week of heavy drinking

'cause he was mighty pissed

yeah, his grandmother was gonna take away his guns

and he wouldn't be ruled

so he was headed to Robb elementary

down along the border

'cause he wanted to be re-schooled.

pretending to be Voltaire

at least

i have this feeling

and it's not in my underwear!

the important paper was eaten by my dog

when she was pretending to be Voltaire.

running into a golden French sunset

looking for a dime,

out of sorts but within the limits of her time,

she was advocating for free speech

while trying not to preach.

she kept writing about separation;

i stayed busy with preparation

in my old fashioned way,

listening to critics but wanting to have my own say.

the weight i tried to lift seemed hard.

i asked the dealer for another card

like i knew what i was doing,

but i failed.

my dog tried to save me but she was jailed

for criticizing the king

and his entire royal court,

including his Queen

and his favorite consort.

they all happened to be Catholic but it didn't matter:

the church and state were the same,

and neither felt any shame

for jailing a dog and burying her favorite bone

which everyone knew

she liked to chew.

the successful attempt to free my dog

was made one night in dense fog

when the two guards were asleep at their post:

i crept past them both like an earthly ghost.

finally, we were united again and out the prison door,

to look for the Pantheon cemetery in Paris,

somewhere in the Latin Quarter, we heard.

and when we arrived,

we learned someone else had the final word.

at least

i have this feeling

and it's not in my underwear!

the important paper was eaten by my dog

when she was pretending to be Voltaire.

inside Gorky Park

150 calories

are not sufficient for a day of war

and a single stein of beer

has me asking for more

i'm calling London on my phone

hoping someone British is home

"cause Moscow went dark

the lights simply went out 

inside Gorky Park

a wild bear hands out abuse

chasing its' tail

cooking the goose

the ghost of Beria is secretly loose

and no one is answering 

8 days a week

i'm afraid to take a look

but have a quick peek!

it's about what I expected:

a tangle of lies

ordinary working comrades

within a deception of spies

everything coming up roses

so nothing to criticize 

the extreme lows and infrequent highs

no rocking the boat

watching it capsize

150 calories

are not sufficient for a day of war

and a single stein of beer

has me asking for more

i'm calling London on my phone

hoping someone British is home

"cause Moscow went dark

the lights simply went out 

inside Gorky Park.

V. Putin is one very sick puppy

i'm on a sunny deck

wondering how my dog will recover

from being bitten on her tongue by an angry groundhog

which she cornered in the woods

on our Mother's Day walk.

it was a young hog, probably having a first encounter

with a dog, but amazingly adept at defending itself.

my dog, Osa, bled quite a lot. 

even after i managed to separate the gladiators,

she was reluctant to break off the fight.

but i've thoroughly washed her in warm, soapy water,

removing most of the bright blood that had covered her muzzle and

front legs.

but now drinking my second full glass of Port wine is making me

mellow, and i might offer some to her,

as she watches the gold fish in my small pond.

she needs to become more philosophical about her life,

is my conjecture.

the wine, you ask?

yes, it's a quite good Portuguese wine, from the vineyards

in the Douro Valley.

i've opened the bottle and there's no one else to share

it with;

right now i'm alone in my growing older years.

it's okay; i'm fine with this

state of affairs.

see, there's time for cooking and reading, although i've been neglecting

the house cleaning part lately.

mostly it's the Ukraine disaster that's keeping me awake at night,

so maybe another bottle of wine will help me sleep.

i'll consider that thought, while lingering under this early summer afternoon sun.

nearby, i have three large baskets of beautiful flowers hanging from tall poles,

and lots of red and violet dahlias, and a fantastic yellow yarrow,

which is a perennial and it happily survived the cold winter months.

i have an expansive view over a river and easily see the far hills,

but i am disturbed by crazy psychopathic people, and it's

obvious to me that V. Putin is one very sick puppy,

and hopefully his tongue is bleeding, too.

he might need a soapy shower

and a very long nap,

while my dog simply needs a short nap.

he is the major protagonist responsible for the Ukraine disaster.

i hope he has difficulty sleeping at night.

may he never be offered a glass of good Port wine.

cursing Stalin

the Twentieth

or was it the Twenty-second Party Congress

changed course

almost in mid-stream

like in a Goya dream

and it finally occurred to many

life could still offer plenty,

beyond cursing Stalin,

who ate his own people 

without a fork,

enjoying his soup with heaps of steaming pork

while shivering mothers' froze

innocent of any crime

but getting ten years' time

imprisonment

in a punishment cell

(a deep dark basement hell)

or off to a labor camp

to die today or tomorrow

simply heartbreaking pain and sorrow

where nothing is right

daylight becomes night

almost dead

dreaming of being plump, rested, and well fed.

Catherine the Great

a rumble of Cossacks rising,

sweeping the ancient prison floor

with howls of laughter,

could be heard by

Catherine the Great,

who didn't smile at their joke.

she knew death

and what it was,

and hoped to teach them a lesson.

her ambition was to be a highway woman,

paving a cruel road for these travelers.

smashing illusions with glee,

she knew perfectly well there was nothing

to hope for outside of the party,

or inside the party,

when she set the rules.

on the Black Sea beaches there were no tennis players

lobbing wishes into the air,

and no leather-goods factories spinning yarns

for the proletarian to wear.

and on an island in the White Sea,

there was no one else alive.

listening to Diana Ross

Brazilian fish stew

so who knew

crossing the bridge could be so hard

a glass shard

cutting the grass

and shooting stars

dodging speeding taxis and unlicensed cars

up town 

blinding white

white walls

making all the important calls

arranging an interview

so who knew

pop art

pop tart

straight or narrow

hiding in the attic after 5 o'clock

walking the neon block

swimming in Central Park 

only when it's completely dark

wearing designer glasses

attending high society classes

sipping tea

with the ladies in their finest finery

playing the fool

in a massive public pool

black as more than simply a color

more than any other

a tough go

head to toe

so who knew

standing solo,

dressing in perfect Polo

wearing a white wig

eating a Spanish olive and a tasty fig

listening to Diana Ross

in a rain-lashed lightening storm

feeling wet and wild

elevated like a giddy God-child

on the easy side of the bridge.

waiting in line

tears on the house wall

and i'm afraid to walk

while standing tall

watching the dawn

before the fall

and there's so much i don't know

remembering the old dime store

and the 25 cent picture show

from long ago 

so which way to go

waiting in line for the current sideshow?

and when the sun starts to fade

there's nothing good that i made

but you're telling me to try my hand

at something that i don't understand?

how can anyone run on the track

when they have marks on their back?

how can she touch me?

she knows that i'm not free

dreaming on a passing cloud

but i'm talking much too loud

the words aren't making sense

i'm striking out in self-defense

no open arms or fancy charms

i'm selling you the farm

as i pass this way and that

not a bum and not an aristocrat

so i'll see all the stuff you advertise

wondering how to win the first prize

stooping low and reaching for new highs

and it has to have an end

but maybe only when i overspend

tears on the house wall

and i'm afraid to walk

while standing tall

watching the dawn

before the fall

and there's so much i don't know

remembering the old dime store

and the 25 cent picture show

from long ago 

so which way to go

waiting in line for the current sideshow?

what the Indian said

the American Indian stole my heart

she carried it to her sacred land

buried it deeply at wounded knee

she never asked me what i wanted to be

if i were to grow in size

foolishly fooling around while acting wise

crying on the open prairie 

over top of all the unmarked graves

the noise of galloping wild horses

war cries of the charging braves

smoke curling low on the land

drumming up the mountain top

amplified music piercing my soul

but there's not enough money to pay my toll

tribal lands with ghost riders of the lost

carrying their burden whatever the cost

laments wailing at the dying of a rose

in whatever direction the heated air blows,

i simply sit reading by candlelight

looking out my western-facing window;

and when it was finally time for bed

I still hadn't learned the lesson of what the Indian said.

cracked glass on the kitchen table

naked children crying on the dirt road

smoke curling around their falling tears

no joke

to make them laugh

the barbed wire strung like nervous energy

Martin Luther dead on the cement landing at the Lorraine Motel

blood stains

candy canes

armored tank tracks plowing a farmer's field,

looking for a target

looking for you

holding a white bag staring at the driver

drum beats like leather batons smacking a palm

war slogans repeating like staccato bolts of madness

Putin wearing his war criminal mask,

dancing on the graves of elderly people,

following the footprints of bastardly old Joe.

a friend said he was from Bedford-Stuyvesant,

New York City,

holding an automatic rifle at birth.

full metal jacket

wrapped against the cold steel

without gloves

black wrist bands screaming revolution

lovers looking up at the night sky

Orion

James Webb space telescope designed to make sense

of the mysterious

Age of Aquarius

the stage in the summer of '69

in Harlem's Mount Morris Park

and all for black not negro

proudly raised fists!    

a Javelin launched and a dead helicopter with crew members

dismembered

cell phone calls to mom answered

she is heard to say "Dear son!"

skin peeling from the heat

refugees listening to Led Zeppelin,

singing their immigrant songs,

waiting for decent food and a safer place to sleep

underground

bunkers and sandbags

Vietnam

Ukraine

how many more?

a police radio

confusing static

Mussolini

Nicolae Ceausescu

cracked glass on the kitchen table

bomb debris

the Pope, apologizing frequently

without wearing handcuffs

on the Vatican square,

knows there's not enough stones

to cast out the devil.

the ruins of Mariupol

from the mountains near Hiroshima

where gentle faces now bloom,

memories of a silent night

slip from a silent room

on the softest of slippers, 

as innocent as snow,

into purified air 

while the Japanese winds blow

to the far ruins of Mariupol

where innocent citizens died!

when a tyrant said he was peaceful

but mothers knew that he lied;

the children are hungry;

the old folks cried:

their shadows have fallen

and remain by their side.

with a note from mother

after all,

there were voices

from far down the hall

listening for a coded call

out on the rural road

where winter wheat were already mowed

but the mud is deep

and the escape routes steep,

sudden death taking a last breath;

Russian noses in senseless poses

looking for a safe place to sip their cold beer 

wondering why the beautiful women won't come near

and they can't remember their names:

the wild animals are all looking the same;

some with crowns and some with short hair,

coming undone from god knows where,

roaming the countryside with a gun in hand,

causing mayhem but why for the life of me i simply can't understand,

while hiding in my deep hole with a note from mother.

children, stay on the bus

the threatening red horizon 

of another early dawn,

with no birds singing

in winter weary trees,

and house doors swinging noisily,

opening

to frigid air,

was prophetic from where i stood.

everything seemed strange,

with loud thunder claps exploding,

but no rain.

in the maternity room,

pregnant women cried in pain,

waiting for a birth that might never arrive.

the trains hadn't been on time for several days.

someone on the station platform imagined an end to the day 

which had begun

with a strong smell of danger in the air.

on the only straight road leading west out of town,

an old woman struggled to carry her life's memories inside a small, torn bag.

there were hollowed-eyed people digging

communal burial trenches,

under the threat of their own sudden death.

a farmer's field remained unplowed,

and soldier's boots filled a property line ditch.

mother, a voice calls, where are your sons?

an answer arrives:

father, is your gun clean and ready to fire?

yes! children, stay on the bus heading to paradise.

with love to Russia

from Ukraine,

with love to Russia:

"Momma, your son will not be

coming home!"

the dictator with his pet baboon

while i'm reading by lamp light

about our futuristic tools

a dictator is having his lunch

but he's angry at those he rules

for mixing fresh lettuce with day old bread

and now he wants the kitchen staff dead.

they know the way out the back door

but it's blocked by an alligator

who tells them to come back later

when all should be well.

they grow impatient because they recognize the smell

of their own fear:

nothing is as it seems to appear.

so out a side window they jump

hoping to ditch the dreary dump

before their lives completely diminish and erode,

using a moral compass to find the higher road,

leaving the dictator alone with his pet baboon,

hungry and howling at the waning moon.

he's still angry at those he rules

but momentarily content 

as he strokes his family jewels.

sleeping in an old Soviet kitchen sink

i know well:

you're in a prison cell

shuffling down the halls

bouncing off the walls

romancing like a thief

while shuddering like a wind-blown leaf

trying to think for yourself

without falling from the shelf

but it's a trap where you breathe

and you're forbidden to leave

i know well

your life is hell:

unable to speak your mind

unable to acknowledge whatever you find

when adding 2 plus two

three open-toed sandals and a blue suede shoe

it's five but someone has been telling you

and you've been told what to think

as you're sleeping in an old Soviet kitchen sink

shuffling down the halls

bouncing off the walls

romancing like a thief

while shuddering like a wind-blown leaf.

June 1st, 1962

On June 1st, 1962,

The Communist Party press

in Novocherkassk

reported that the price of butter and meat

would rise by 25%

and workers' wages would decrease by 30%.

On June 2nd, seven thousand workers from the

Electric Locomotive Works stormed to the police station

and the Communist Party headquarters

in an effort to protest.

Soviet Army General Matvey Shaposhnikov, 

put in charge of the armed detachments 

stationed nearby, 

refused orders to shoot at the workers,

but many soldiers simply couldn't resist the impulse.

the dead were loaded into trucks and disappeared.

later, 

Shaposhnikov wrote:

"The Party has turned into a car which is steered by a reckless,

drunken driver who is always breaking traffic rules.

It's high time to take away the driver's license and prevent

a catastrophe...

Today it is extremely important that the working people

and the intellectuals should see clearly the essence of the political

regime under which we live.  

They must realize that we are under the rule of the worst form of autocracy

which rests on an enormous bureaucracy and an armed force...

It is necessary that people learn to think.

Our blind faith is turning us into mere living machines.

Our people have been deprived of all political

and international rights."

The KGB were not amused.

He was quickly stripped of his army rank

and his membership in the Communist Party.

Subsequently, he lived in modest retirement until his death in 1994,

always convinced he made the right decision.

In 1920, Stalin said

In 1920,

as a young revolutionary,

Stalin said,

"May the god of history help me."

perhaps he knows that the god did not

help him,

but still demands to be thought of highly.

And on the world stage we have one of his successors

making demands,

thinking highly of himself.

what a waste to appeal to the god of history:

his fate is sealed.

Bloodlands

Bloodlands,

sucking quicksands

expensive drinks spilled onto the Kremlin floor

like memories of a great heroic war

near a private bathroom door

left ajar

look! 

a spying

 

sitting Tsar

taking a needed break

holding his pet snake

reading history books and fairy tales

polishing his scales

hissing orders over the phone

while sleeping alone

with himself as his best friend

waiting for the enigmatic end

missing a loving heart

pointing to an ancient wall chart

watching the tiny grains of sand 

slipping thru his Russian hand

like dreams of former empire

strung on the other side 

of  distant barbed wire.

Russian warship

Russian warship.

Go fuck yourself.

this bear has sharp teeth

Romania,

and Sweden,

Finland,

the Baltics

along with Poland,

and other neighbors

who have spotted a cunning bear roaming

near their cultivated gardens,

a peace train is coming.

meanwhile,

Be Safe, brothers and sisters.

this particular bear has sharp teeth 

and fresh blood

is on his claws;

his appetite is voracious.

there is only a small margin of safety.

Putin’s grave

Andrei Dmitriyevich Sakharov 

died 

and the thousands of mourners listened to

Chopin’s “Funeral March” and

Schumann’s dirge “Traumerai”,

a lament for the dead.

At the cemetery,

lingering by his coffin,

his widow kissed him once more.

Soon the grave was covered over with flowers,

red carnations and yellow roses.

But the people will piss on Putin’s grave.

eating salt peanuts

i'm frustrated, honey

eating salt peanuts

on the dance floor

spending my money

while you're keeping score.

i'm hearing things

every time my phone rings

shuffling to the beat

from in the back seat.

i don't have the view

of what's coming over you

but i'm going broke

laughing at your joke:

like a busted inside straight,

i'm always one card late

feeling out of time

at the scene of the crime;

and when the music stops

the final curtain drops.

i'm frustrated, honey

eating salt peanuts

on the dance floor

spending my money

while you're keeping score.

i'm hearing things

every time my phone rings

shuffling to the beat

from in the back seat.

ignoring what you just said

growing numb

living under your thumb

hiding my face

on each lap of the race

eating black bread

ignoring what you just said

not knowing

which way the prevailing wind is blowing

but trying to remain glad

with what i once had

and you're looking at me

knowing i want to be free

giving me a frown

while you're chasing me down

so how can i make sense

if i'm always jumping a fence

as other folk are simply grinning

their winter tires spinning

blowing up in smoke

is this some kind of joke?

well, i've had more than my fill

balanced on the edge of a window sill

looking down

looking around

afraid to fall

afraid of the prison wall

growing numb

living under your thumb

hiding my face

on each lap of the race

eating black bread

ignoring what you just said.

Sakharov

"Andrei Sakharov,"

said Tatyana Zaslavskaya,

"was the only one among us who made

no compromises.  For us,

he was a figure of the inner spirit.

Just the bare facts of his life, the way he suffered for all of us,

gave him authority that no one else had.

Without him, we could not begin to rebuild our society

or our selves.

Gorbachev may not have understood it quite that way when

he let Sakharov come home,

but he would understand it eventually."

In his Nobel Prize lecture,

Sakharov said

"Other civilizations, perhaps more successful ones,

may exist an infinite number of times on the preceding

and following pages of the Book of the Universe.

Yet, we should not minimize our sacred endeavors in the world,

where,

like faint gliders in the dark, 

we have emerged for a moment from the nothingness of

unconsciousness 

into material existence.

We must make good the demands of reason

and create a life 

worthy of ourselves

and of the goals we only dimly perceive."

the more you sang

you leaned in close

grabbed the microphone

you knew you could sing and had the tone

but the more you sang

the more i felt alone

lots of tables and chairs

but all i saw were vacant stares

and a hardwood floor

and i kept wanting more

someone like you

when i'm feeling blue

but if you don't want me

i'll need to bury my fondest memory

on the bar room floor with broken dreams

nothing is ever what it seems

i took a last drag on my cigarette

felt the smoke burn in my eyes

i was wearing a disguise

you leaned in close

grabbed the microphone

you knew you could sing and had the tone

but the more you sang

the more i felt alone.

near Katyn, April 1940

in the forest of Goat Hill near Katyn, 

during the month of April, 1940,

no prayer was answered.

The Mountain Eagle ordered it so.

he was doing his Pole dance,

hiding behind a black mustache

trimmed beneath black eyes,

proximate to a black heart.

he had come a long distance

from Tbilisi Spiritual Seminary

and the seamstress mother

whom he rarely visited.

his game was blood,

from others.

and fear,

from others.

and then he died.

during the Mikhail Gorbachev

realizations, 

old graves,

rotting boots,

smashed skulls,

skulls with bullet holes,

lost youth,

destroyed dreams,

all were found in amazing abundance.

history was to be rewritten,

again,

and again.

memory lived.

was the gulag archipelago dismantled

or momentarily lost from sight?

today,

swimming in oil profits and total corruption,

Russia has a new Tsar who is writing

a new chapter.

his millions of peasants watch,

but their windows

are framed inside a mausoleum.

a KGB caterpillar

Romanov

and the House of cards

assembled together

with the white rabbit and a judo man

to look for a full head of hair

near a nuclear waste dump

in northern Ukraine.

a physicist and an expert on arms control

hypothesized

that weather conditions 

and Soviet incompetence

caused a jet of debris to bomb

the citizens of Donbass

as they were hanging a famous movie poster

on a bullet-riddled wall.

strands of hair 

like thin sheets of confetti

swooned like soft winter snow 

onto the Moskva River

which was dimly lit by street lamps 

near the southern towers of the Kremlin.

inside the former Tsar's Moscow residence,

the emphasis was on greatness

rather than impending baldness,

and where a KGB caterpillar was sucking

on his hookah,

wearing a tailor-made suit designed in Italy,

threatening the world with destruction

if he lost the remainder of his hair.