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.