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.