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.