how much i've missed you

baby, how much i've missed you

and i've never even kissed you

never had the chance to spend the night

satisfying my lover's appetite

no, i never had the sense

to climb down from my lonely fence

i never had the heart

to imagine a brand new start:

would you see me in the morning?

take me without any warning?

would you be the gentle to my breeze?

would you become the welcome to my please

the smile i'd walk a mile to see?

the arms my charms would love to have wrapped around me?

baby, how much i've missed you

and i've never even kissed you

never felt the smoothness of your fingertips

moving with desire across my hungry lips

no, i've never had the sense

to climb down from my lonely fence.

safe at night

the bird was dead

folded wings and closed black eyes

lifeless on the ground

but still imagining flight

safe at night

belly filled with seeds

in a nest made with straw and spit

her short time

as busy as a professional chef

darting 

over the clover

quiet now

in spite of the winds

blowing her soft feathers

the pause is probably permanent

as i hold the tiny body

in my warm hands

feeling her chill

his Russian wife

the grim, gray face

with her great dark eyes
stood waiting for the second World War
from a safe balcony in Paris,
near where an island forms a church.

she was without her Spanish stranger,
who was holding a young blonde girl
in bondage and was unable to break away,
as soft ropes pulled tightly around his waist.

and his Russian wife was too skinny to know, and not
well enough to understand that her own misfortunes
had driven him far away and it would not be gentle.

he now lived inside a hot beach cabana, peeking outside
only when he needed more money.

the young blonde girl quickly became both his obsession and his sister,
as she curled her pubic hairs inside their bathing hut on a
sandy Dinard beach and gave him plenty of pause.

his wife, meanwhile, kept her own hair
cut short, to resemble a current fashion.

and the gray lady in Paris, leaving the balcony,

put her hand to photography,
instead of a bust, 

but it wouldn't make any difference!
the Spaniard would seek her out, eventually.

my faith

she handed me a peach!

it was late in the afternoon and i was hungry,

so extremely hungry.

no food for three days

wearing soiled clothes and my unwashed body for weeks;

a prisoner inside my own mind

trapped by forces beyond my control.

her peach was the best thing i've  even eaten

and before i could offer my thanks,

she quickly disappeared into a crowd of strangers.

but i've never forgotten.

thank you, young girl, you've restored my faith in humankind.

her colors were nearly perfect

a juicy little number
which one i can not tell
her colors were nearly perfect
inside her oyster shell

behind the door to Heaven
a full red glass of wine
her colors were nearly perfect
revealed in her design

we tripped into a concert
sound poured into my eyes
her colors were nearly perfect
they painted her in sighs

the bright cloud full of rainbows
each one a lovely sight
her colors were nearly perfect
i watched by candlelight

with morning soon approaching
i saw when i awoke
her colors were nearly perfect

delightful as she spoke 

Chester

the man made people laugh
when he put himself into sharp focus,
cracking open his head for all to see
the eerie serenity of which he's so proud.

but he much preferred to cook,
visiting the Tuesday Farmer's Market
where the local Amish came in their horse-drawn
buggies and plain clothing with their produce:
shoo-fly pies, fruit pies, candied yams, fresh hams,
donuts, popcorn, chicken, cheese, steak, vegetables,and so much more.

and with a little money and a smiling please,
all the ingredients for a great meal could easily be carried
to his car in just one bag, or two.  No one would wave as he drove away,
but he always drove off, urging his own secret horses to run.

and he liked the road to Golgotha, where a campfire was always ready
for his evening meal, and the plates were always clean.

There, the black dog he bought from a farmer in Brownstown recently died
of old age and even stranger tumors and he was cradling the dog when Doctor
Delaney injected that thirsty liquid which stopped the beating heart, relieving any
suffering for the dog, for Chester the dog.
Chester didn't like Amish food, that much was certain,
and he couldn't speak a word of Dutch, but he might have had a vision of the Virgin.

There is a market tomorrow and the man will go to shop, putting himself
into sharp focus, with his head cracked open,
looking for another dog.

shark

there is blood only for a little while
a small stain on my shirt
i watch the dampness spreading

but it doesn't really hurt

it doesn't really know your name
or where you've been before

this feeling hasn't knocked me down
in fact i'll ask for more

and when you bite me once again
while hiding in the dark
i'll bring my little fish along

to chase away your shark.

spend the night together

okay,

if that's what you say

i'll be on my way

running until the middle of next week

looking for permission to speak

what's really on my mind.

and when i finally find

the proper verb and that elusive noun

i hope i'm already uptown

where all the factory girls are waiting

ice skating

while sipping cherry cokes

just like common folks

and if it's not a hoax

the writing will still be on the wall:

everything happening now is just before the final fall.

my escape was a close call;

no one is answering the phone.

i'm wore down to the bone,

almost arrested for speeding,

dazed by the lights and bleeding

near the warehouse where Andy Warhol painted.

and i finally fainted,

unfortunately,

before we had a chance to spend the night together.

I found myself with a smile

to save my life

i bought a ticket

and tossed my knife

watched it spinning into the air

seven times for good luck

but i didn't have a prayer;

boarded the train.

looked out the window

saw the rain

and heard the tracks;

tried to get some shuteye

but fell through all the cracks.

the night was long;

the train whistle blew;

i recognized the song:

the only one i knew.

it started black;

i hummed the tune.

stayed in my sack;

the stars came out!

when i found myself with a morning smile,

i lost all doubt

about something.

we can not live without our land

"you speak the absolute truth,"

said Mr. Hamas,

leading his group of tourists to a refugee camp.

"there is a bias, he said, "and we blame the other side

for having one."

"As you can see", he said, "there is no tunnel here

and no command center;

we have simple tents and donated foodstuffs

along with enough water to last several weeks.

I tell you, that's what your eyes should see!

our hospitals are understaffed, with few medicines."

"I want to emphasis", he said,

"we are a peaceful people who have had our

ancestral homeland taken from us by the United Nations.

they made an historical mistake on November 29, 1947,

with Resolution 181,

for which the consequences

will forever be grave.

and there will be graves, thousands of graves!

we will go on killing our oppressors for centuries to come.

and they will kill us, too."

"Yasser Arafat once said it well, when he said

we can not live without our dignity.

we also can not live without our land.

And this has nothing to do with our religions!"

in a while, they all sat down for a short lunch break,

hearing the afternoon call to prayer

recited in Arabic.

there was distance gun fire, too.

hands like ice

just like Mao

when somehow

he chased Peanut across the strait

to the island

and thus began a purge

(a Long March of conquest)

which today has consolidated all power

every Chinese hour

into the hands

of a small band

of controllers,

the bombs again fall and the tanks rumble

over fallen buildings, the crumble

of bones,

near the river and to the sea.

a distant land

in Mediterranean history

with the same result:

loss of innocent life and tumult!

what is the point?

to own the joint?

kissing the land 

with cold lips and hands like ice;

black eyes without sparkle

pay the price,

using other people's dreams

as currency.

Where was Einstein?

When Daniel Ellsberg
went looking for his bus,
he saw the war,
felt the sun turn cold 

and ugly 

with political lies
falling from a deceitful sky
like incendiary bombs over North Vietnam,
spilling onto the streets in front of the White House.

near central Saigon on Tu Do street,
a flow of blood dripped constantly from the sharp teeth
of slippery men wearing their helicopter smiles,
trafficking dope 

from a railroad town in Laos
down the trail 

under a heart of darkness:
their American machine guns shooting up
the hard thin arms of Oriental hunger.

On a plutonium pathway the buffalo grass turned shit brown
with the CIA and Agent Orange
locked in a fatal embrace 

from the Plain of Jars
to the Central Highlands,

to the DMZ,
picking pure white daisy petals
while counting down from twelve 

to four and finally closer to zero:
under a cloudy mushroom afternoon,
Nixon was inaugurated to deliver
PEACE 

while fighting for his golden Crown
in the slaughter hallways of Pennsylvania Avenue.

Where was Einstein?
when Daniel Ellsberg
said there were no winnable options
for a WAR 

in jungle thick with sudden death
and monsoon confusion?

A thousand western schemes floated beguilingly,
mingled with autumn flower petals 

on the Perfume River,
past the starving bones of an angry Imperial ghost,
to their lonely grave 

in the South China Sea.

overlooking the park

there's a simple fact

you'll need to know

i once played guitar

with my little left toe

i thought i was perfect

i thought i could strum

i thought i was singing

but barely could hum

like a fashion designer

perfecting my art

there's nothing authentic

if not from the heart

i shifted my body

adjusted my mind

looking for answers

i couldn't quite find

a new age kept coming

and tastes rearranged

i sat on my sofa

and nothing was changed

the curtains were hung

the music was played

the times were a'changing

but i simply stayed

in my flat with a window

overlooking the park

looking for flowers

while everything's dark.

but there's no answer

Spain

inflicted some pain

and Portugal, too,

but what could they do?

somebody told them

England and France

were both at the dance

to colonize.

it would be an amazing prize!

new lands from sea to shore;

everything to gain and so much more.

and there was abundant silver and gold;

everybody was told

it was for free.

natives could be forced into captivity.

Belgium wanted in on the game

and the Dutch, too, sought fame.

it was how they thought:

everything could be bought

for the least amount of grief.

sail in like a thief

and take and steal and rob and burn

the natives will learn

or they'll die

or remain uncivilized and die

their Gods or Great Spirits might ask why

but there's no answer.

handful of dirt

with a simple handful of dirt

i'm tossing it into my bag

hoping to avoid the hurt

of your loss;

and i thought

at what cost?

i'm already suffering the blues

remembering all i can lose

when you depart.

the pain in my heart

takes me to bed

turns out my light

whispers sweet words

but nothing feels right.

am i in Paris

or buried in Berlin,

with a handful of poppies

and a bottle of gin?

a killer takes aim,

but my driver knows the score,

running all the red lights

to the next World War

with a simple handful of dirt

i'm tossing it into my bag

hoping to avoid the hurt

of your loss;

and i thought

at what cost?

i'm already suffering the blues

remembering all i can lose

when you depart.

the pain in my heart

takes me to bed

turns out my light

whispers sweet words

but nothing feels right.

crossing the muddy waters

crossing the muddy waters

in a hail storm in the night,

filled with foolishness

and filled with fright;

a lady tried to teach me

while my back was turned;

i tried to escape,

using all the tricks i learned.

she was a hungry woman;

excitement was in those eyes.

i asked for forgiveness!

i confessed all of my lies!

but she said it was simple:

i lost my way on the track.

beware or i'd find myself

kicked out of the sack;

and i'd be sad and lonesome

with no way to find my path!

there'd be no special woman

to heat water for my bath!

crossing the muddy waters

in a hail storm in the night,

filled with foolishness

and filled with fright;

a lady tried to teach me

while my back was turned;

i tried to escape

using all the tricks i learned.

Erich Priebke

Priebke died in his ripe old age 

but

as a younger man, 

he was a captain wearing a fancy SS uniform

with God on his side, 

a holster with Lugar inside,
and a fierce Nazi salute in the streets of Rome.

years after the 1936 Olympics,

where a black man in Berlin
silenced the adoring crowds of
blond smiles and white teeth
with his flashes of muscular brilliance,

Priebke participated in his own ceremony:

the 1944 massacre
of Italian civilians in the Ardeatine caves
near Rome.

it might have been the highlight of Priebke's career!

but he never shied away
from his enjoyment of
hating minorities and other gypsies,
who sang and danced and drank pure German beer

with the pretty flower vendors in the streets of Munich,
in halls far from Der Marienplatz.

he took a big bite

there hopped the rabbit

with a carrot in his hand;

he took a big bite

before finding it hard to stand.

on the street corner

with his eyes open wide,

he watched the passing traffic

looking for a ride.

the traffic was fast,

spinning way out of control;

he looked for a safe spot

to dig himself a new hole.

it took a long time!

he kept digging all alone;

he was looking for love,

but he only found a bone.

and the bone was old;

it smiled and sang him a song:

it was about a rabbit

that was always wrong.

he stopped his digging!

found and lit a cigarette.

thought about destiny

and broke out in a cold sweat.

there hopped the rabbit

with a carrot in his hand;

he took a big bite

before finding it hard to stand.

underneath a railroad coal car

in the backcountry 

thinking backwards

to the devastating Marietta flood 

all the way to the 20's

the 1920's

with Susquehanna river water crossing over the railroad tracks

so people were rescued from their

second floor windows,

boats in the swift brown flow

and residents with no where to go;

and later my grandfather and my dad

carrying heavy coal sacks

back home,

a different home

near Front street

to provide a little heat

because wood was scarce

and the freight train stopped

without a watchman or a guard

nothing easy! 

mostly resignation for anything toohard

acceptance

improvisation 

without a moments hesitation

acting soberly

wearing blacks and white

every day and every night

working dawn to dusk

in the summer months 

delivering ice

when the roads were dry

and the air was hot

laboring for everything they ever got

the outhouse sagging in the back yard

one seat for every butt

hinges that didn't operate

so the old door couldn't shut

pages torn from newspapers

most old and torn

sitting happily or forlorn

eating a simple small town diet

no tv but a contented overnight quiet

with kerosene lamps, conversations and playing cards

three to a room or sometimes four

two sons going off to the Second World War

then, after and later 

sunning on the Jersey shore

with a shovel and small pail

no one sentenced to jail

i heard them say

that that's not the American Way:

no, climb the ladder from the shack

there's no glory in continuously looking back

prepare an adequate garden for your food

no time for being in a sour mood

stay in your own sweet lane

connected to each other

with an unbroken family chain

and with every sentence that one might write

make it short and tight

remembering how to crawl underneath a railroad coal car

where the spillage doesn't have to travel very far

to find it's way into your bag,

even if there's no money to be found

on the ground,

there's always love in the heart.

thousand of years ago

the pine and the downy birch

also the larch tree

all marching 

across the land

up hills and across the tundra

over the mountains

into the softening soils

toward the North Star

where reindeer herds look for solid ice

in the ever warming night.

blue and orange and with shades of green,

the forest expands

where trees once grew

thousands of year ago

before the fires and the wolves 

who walk on two legs.

two wolves then six

a black river

and a small herd

of blue sheep

crossing mountains

in the depth of winter

miles from cities

miles from a warm bath

sitting in a cloud tent

sitting in the wind

sitting with a Lama

perched like a moment

on a thin rock shelf

at 17,000 feet

with prayer flags by my shoulder

watching the air

breathe

watching time

watching myself disappear

smiling in the shadows

laughing in the sunshine

then two wolves

then six

black tails

with specks of white

like snow flakes

and deep drifts

that close the high alpine passes.

i thought i'd take a sip

inside France

she sipped her wine;

she asked me to dance

while picking ripe grapes

from an overhead vine.

on her daddy's land,

the sun was shining;

her body was sleek and tanned.

i thought i'd take a sip

before that drink was banned:

we'd grab a bottle and laugh;

sing a Stone's song & take a bath.

we'd go crazy with the blues.

oh, we'd never need to choose!

she'd read the news

when the highlights were bold,

saying, all that glitters isn't gold!

my fortune was in the cards!

her private estate surrounded by armed guards

and i'd be a fool to try an escape,

inside where it hurts or out of shape

inside France

she sipped her wine;

she asked me to dance

while picking ripe grapes

from the overhead vine.

on her daddy's land,

the sun was shining;

her body was sleek and tanned.

i thought i'd take a sip

before that drink was banned!

to peel an organic orange

running across America without any shoes

hearing the darkest news

shedding my coat

but still wearing the blues

wondering where it has all gone wrong

humming a sad song

about indifference

then jumping a border fence

and a wall

rivers wide and ten miles tall.

all my pants are torn

wondering why the richest people born

without a picking thing to do

wander around without a clue

in retreat or full charge

aiming at the world at large

are hitting the bull's eye

with mother's milk and warm apple pie!?

well, their crumbs don't fall far

it's too bizarre

to be a comedian's joke

staying asleep while acting woke.

thousands of workers looking for work

an auto mechanic or a retail clerk

with beautiful land underfoot

on shifting sands or staying put.

i think it's strange

my home on the range

just passing gas or looking for a buck

thinking bad company or wishing good luck.

i know i love you

but often what you do

needs further review.

it's half-time or quarter-time

out of prison or committing a crime,

i'm risking my life

sharpening my knife

to peel an organic orange.

you took a ride

well, you thought i was free

but it was simply your twisted memory

because you see, i've been walking

to escape all your talking

and that road is long

without my favorite song

since you don't know the score

so i'm trying to ignore

what you said

when you jumped me in bed

oh, it was long ago

just before the winter's snow

and that spring was hard

you caught me off guard

i wasn't your little boy

i didn't want to be your toy

but the stars in the sky

heard me cry

when you took me for a ride

thought you were a bride

wore white

every night

wore white

held me tight

took your bite

thought it was your right

to satisfy an appetite

well, you thought i was free

but it was simply your twisted memory

because you see, i was walking

to escape all your talking

and that road is long

without my favorite song

since you don't know the score

so i'm trying to ignore

what you said

when you jumped me in bed

as WE soak in the baths of infinity

I try to welcome myself,

and I seek for him:

maybe in Singapore?

or Lahore?

by the seashore?

perhaps on a mountain top?

between the moments of a ticking clock?

or within the lines of a haiku?

all the while,

while noticing the essence of YOU.

I am aware, though,

that within it ALL 

balance or stumble

I sometimes feel unwelcome,

and am greedy,

and unwise.

but it's no surprise.

I am standing on my hind legs,

sniffing the air

feeling the wind in my hair 

while I fly

among the stars in the sky

temporarily here

and there

recovering my health

from the corruption of wealth

hoping for a choice

listening to an inner voice

welcoming me

after all

loving me

before the inevitable fall.

so I stand

holding out my hand

and my heart

asking YOU

always 

for a continual restart

each and every moment

as WE soak in the baths of infinity.

with my tiny wings

i cried at night

and in the daylight

standing on unsteady feet

knowing i should eat,

there was no appetite

in spite 

of losing weight.

and when i tried to draw a deep breath

it came out small,

matching my size

as if to sympathize

with my growing concerns.

a friendly doctor said i could be dead

or perhaps not

but it all depended on what it is i've got,

and i had something

in my lung,

and being no longer young,

there was a good chance

i had attended my last dance.

Cancer?

but I'm a Virgo!!!

and i didn't want to leave,

YOU!!

my memories are not as important

as the here and NOW:

we sit 

sipping a dry wine and

our eyes shine.

you ask and I reply:

i want to wash dirty dishes in hot soapy water 

and thereby clean

my fingernails,

and ride the open highways and rails,

singing songs remembering Johnny Cash,

and then set a world record in the 100 yard dash,

while remaining humble,

writing a four line poem

which explains how the Rocky Mountains

became rocky,

and how our scars can be healed by a kiss.

let me be healthy,

to see the tiny hummingbird spin its' 

even tinier wings

all the way to the sea of Paradise and return

with a flower in its' mouth.

i want to hand you a flower, too,

with my tiny wings.

the bones of dead animals

the hyenas

with a swift run, yelping,

and a blazing red skull illuminated

on my waiting room wall,

both broke my concentration

and coughing,  i fled,

into an dreamworld

as majestic as the distant Mountain of God

and as cold as the snows of Kilimanjaro:

my left lung was filled with glass shards

as a Maasai warrior watched me from a high rock,

standing on one leg, impassive,

and i could see the sun dancing on his spear point.

i was being sedated in a hospital operating room,

watching the wild dogs chase a young zebra foal.

a heavy dark cloud enveloped me, and sheets of rain

nearly drowned me, but i awoke, foggy-brained,

covered with a buffalo skin shield for safety.

my right lung was  protected by my emperor's guard

dog and seemed healthy;

my left lung was not doing so well, but might be saved,

as a local witch doctor explained.

the bones of dead animals covered the floor.

i went home to sleep some more,

high in the safe branches of a Baobob tree.

Alabama's Africa Town

in Florida

the shore line is now a front line

while the phone line to the Governor's office is constantly busy

looking over to the Keys

hearing the shouted words "So help me, please!"

the old man and the sea

remembering stories of a shark attack

are calling: there's no turning back

dying or already dead 

the high rises 

proudly

finding surprises

where the sun also rises

when high tide is spotted running across Lincoln Road

and maybe the onslaught can no longer be slowed.

in Florida

the shore line is now a front line

while near Alabama's Africa Town

the sunken slave ship was finally found

buried in mud near Twelve Mile island where it was burned and sunk

treated by the enslavers like a useless piece of junk!

a boastful white man acting like a heartless drunk

hiding his crime thinking that if it's out of sight

there's no evidence to point to in the dark of night

but now the history books

can give this story many more serious looks

finding surprises

where the sun also rises

when high tide is spotted running across Lincoln Road

but maybe the onslaught can now be slowed.

careless words

in the night

maybe the middle of it

i awoke and felt like shit

knowing how i misspoke

with an ill-advised joke

about me and a tree,

a bum hip

and two wounded knees,

and please

know that life can be a bitch

being a snitch

or even while on the up and up

wearing a catcher's cup

to protect the balls.

no more falls

might be the best

on the romantic test

with a score above zero on a sliding scale

between serious woman and inept male

timing my shot

hoping for more than what i got

without being greedy

or, in the worst case, being needy

and alone

with no way to atone

for careless words perhaps like above,

less frivolous and more infused with love.

hiding in the trees

live at Pompeii

what more should i say

living my life from day to day

where everything goes from hand to hand

managing to walk upright across the land

when even though i can't understand

the echos stirring in the breeze

bringing me to my knees

i can see you're hiding in the trees

with a saucer in hand and a cup for drink

on the edge and near the brink

imagining what it is to think

and one foot stands above the crowd

looking for love as you cry out loud,

"I no longer want to feel so proud."

but the hush of night 

conceals from sight

the doing wrong and the hoping right

and you begin to drift and feel the sway

telling yourself that you're okay

"It's easier to feel this way!"

the trees are high and the fall will be fast

and everybody wants to be the last

it's easier to embrace the past

where all secrets are concealed

hearts open but never healed

holding high the human shield.

live at Pompeii

what more should i say

living my life from day to day

where everything goes from hand to hand

managing to walk across the land

when even though i can't understand

the echos stirring in the breeze

bringing me to my knees

i can see you're hiding in the trees.

delight

delight

all thru de night

and de following afternoon

you and i 

noticing the clouds and the sun

when they're in the sky,

and the far horizon of an imaginary sea,

as deep as our memories will allow.

and oh! we can be loud 

and bellow and sing

with all the air our expanding lungs can bring

forth

so we, too, can fly

like the breezes on our face

leaving a sweet taste 

maybe like frozen pistachio ice cream

or whatever it is we dream

if wishes really do come true

for everyone but especially for you

digging into the depths of a golden castle high on the hill

and finding bones

and a temporary chill

which captures a moment

just before hearing the delighted laughter of children playing on a sliding board or swinging

from a low-branched tree

and when looking closer you notice it's both you and me

but i'm wearing my linen shirt

while walking slowly in the soft dirt 

of my old age

enjoying the feeling of being very light

like 

delight

all thru de night

and de following  afternoon.

freedom of choice

when i rode on a crazy black horse

across the vast Pacific 

there was a hot wind in my face

and a letter in my hand

a mission to fulfill which i didn't understand

but i heard it from the President firsthand

everything was meticulously planned

War was in great demand!

and the home of the brave

told me there were friendly strangers to save

but thousands of dead were found buried in a grave

while the home of the brave

felt the sun on its' face 

winning every contest

winning every race

singing songs with an adolescent voice

healthy living with freedom of choice:

nothing to do but simply rejoice!

but sometime long ago when i rode in a jeep

hours from family and days without sleep

there were explosions and confusion with Vietnamese tears

everyone homeless and wrapped with their fears

and i flew in my chopper with a terrible noise in my head

the landscape seemed empty and everyone dead

and the home of the brave

told me there were friendly strangers to save

but thousands of dead were found buried in a grave

while the home of the brave

felt the sun on its' face

winning every contest

winning every race

singing songs with an adolescent voice

healthy living with freedom of choice:

nothing to do but simply rejoice!

when i rode on a crazy black horse

across the vast Pacific

there was a hot wind in my face

and a letter in my hand:

a mission to fulfill which i didn't understand

but i heard it from the President firsthand

everything was meticulously planned 

War was in great demand!

there was a letter in my hand.

pecking for crumbs

Charles,

in a deep black back alley,

resumes spitting at the few birds pecking for crumbs,

perfectly shirtless and unconsciously proud of his few chest hairs,

he quizzically looks

at the sun,

confident he will never run

from imagined or actual fears.

he eats alone in his unassuming flat,

where an empty bird cage hangs,

resembling a southern cross.

Charles,

in a practiced stupor of his own design,

and with a pen he grabs too well,

screams often in an elemental voice harsh with scornful intent

about his social security check which wasn't sent

on time

and that he'll never attempt to write academic rhyme

and feels proud of it,

unaware of what it means.

Charles,

always gruff and all that stuff,

tries to beat and beat and beat,

lifting both feet

to praise convention and to make a mark or a smear

of some sort or the other within the boundaries of the social frontier,

where a few birds are pecking for crumbs. 

the birds resemble Charles,

who spreads his wings for no reason

and becomes his own bird.

in a bed of tall grass

far

and further away

passing hours

into the early evening of every precious day

chasing fireflies and dreams and a wayward dog

off the fallen log

where Turkey Tail and snail

seem to be in no hurry

throwing off the deepening shadows!

there's no need to hurry

from the thin deer trail hidden from view;

i'm thinking of you

as i'm rock hopping across a shallow creek

and up an embankment almost too steep

climbing imaginary summits into a low cloud

which spoke to me in voices profound:

the vernal sound

putting me to sleep in a nearby bed of soft grass.

Lynden Gallery

so i went to an art opening
at the Lynden Gallery
in etown & many people came out
including Luke and Mallory
whom i hadn't seen in about
two years or so plus Lisa
the owner was there
with her beautiful raven dark hair.

Ned Wert was the artist on display
(i met his sister & her fiancee)
and his works are now largely abstract
hanging with deep red as the predominant shade:
i was gasping at the numbers as fact
then noticed several full prices were paid
but it was simple since the mood was so good
to be friendly and feel that you should
in this fire hall converted to art 
just mingle and fondle a heart,
drink wine, eat crackers, and cheesy
to imagine that living is easy.

here is original stuff as it should be
poking holes in the idea of normality

a space which is happy and free,

so visit.

Louise Gluck

sad and strange

off the range

beyond the boundary fence

where you rest with barely a lick of sense

Louise Gluck

sad and slick in your metered brain

teaching poetry under the driving rain

of New England

where you stand with sharp words and fate

heavy on a wounded heart, the cemetery gate

opens as you wander by,

closes when you shut one eye:

a skeleton with bones raw white

rises to kiss your lips tonight.

there is always the moon: a memoir

there is always the moon
dropping light
like bright pebbles
or like an extravagant  annual ball
racing above the Earth in regular lunar phases
blurring the gap like opium blurs the brain
perhaps of a famous schoolboy poet
who wrote a memoir about a voluptuous woman
with a skill giving French lessons
to the poor
instead of using her beautiful voice to teach diction
and how
without a penny
and only a single friend,
she became a successful actress on stage
and the early screen,
who spoke with her golden voice on the radio
from where it was heard
by Gertrude Stein
who immediately wanted to visit for a book idea,
but the hour was late,
and the suggestion less than honest,
and the moon had already fallen from the sky

on a cloudless night.

all poets should be so lucky.

Van Gogh found his toe

Van Gogh
found his toe
beneath an olive tree
near the town of Saint Rémy
but he lost an ear
when the sky was crystal clear
during a strange sword fight
on a rumored starry night.

Pablo Picasso
knew where to go
on the Dinard beach
where he liked to teach
while playing with his ripe banana
inside a locked cabana.

The smaller towns were red,
the French man said,
while drinking local wine.

and a friend of mine
agreed,
as she peed
behind a Rhône valley tree
near a busy winery
where empty bottles grew.

the famous mistral winds blew,
Paul Cézanne so well knew,
all the way to the shimmering Med
the famous colors bled
into the air and, oh my, the sight:

such amazing quality of light!

he painted throughout the night.

passing shacks

the color of the train

rolling north along the old main line

made me think of a hurricane

drinking another bottle of cowboy wine

followed by a third and a steady long hard pull

up the nearest steepest hill

bouncing along without a spill

looking out of my window

hoping for a big time show

rounding the curve and down the tracks

passing shacks

there's memories on the wide front porch

of battle cries and a fading torch

and i hear bluegrass and see a lively dance

feet stomping like in a sacred trance 

and a village square and an cheap saloon

i started thinking like a loud typhoon

howling like a lonely man under a harvest moon

rolling north along the old main line

i continued drinking more cowboy wine

followed by a third and a steady long hard pull

up the nearest steepest hill

bouncing along without a spill

looking out of my window

hoping for a big time show

round the curve and down the tracks

passing shacks

"merde, merde, merde..."

with her earrings and her cat eyes,
Marie Laurencin smiled with an Oriental purr.
she watched his collar stud
tickling her soft fur.
she leaned by his well-dressed bed
where he rested while moving fitfully,
very much in love,
his poetry filling the air.
his name was Guillaume Apollinaire:
he would die of a broken heart and a war wound.
she had all his letters to her buried
along with her in her tomb:

"merde, merde, merde..." 

Henry James or Dostoevsky

we shall never love anyone 
but each other
like a little sister or little brother
this lovely afternoon and evening

i'm very hungry now 

somehow

what's for lunch? i have a hunch
an endive salad and apple tart
where should we start?
a foie de veau with mashed potato

and a book by Henry James
or Dostoevsky 

perhaps two or three?

then we'll walk alongside the slow river
to some new old cafe
we know 

along the way

we'll have two drinks and
no one will know 

when it's our time to go
to the galleries and a shop window
opposite of where we walk
quiet and gay our private talk

down a stairway to the park
where fishermen work in the early dark

we were never lonely before a bed
always making love inside our head.

but my hands are on fire

i'd dance with you, Maria,

but my hands are on fire

and if i wanted to die

i'd find myself a lover to hire.

she'd be a blues baby

shuffling along a lazy dirt road

fingering her necklace and pearls

in a way making it difficult to decode

what she had in mind

even though she hadn't designed

her shuffle or her smile

and it makes it easy for her to beguile

my wondering and my inquisitive soul

i'd be listening to her chanting as she danced

and i'd quickly lose control

dreaming of mermaids and my former captain's life at sea

sailing among giant waves where there was never any guarantee

and i'd see her pause for the blossoming of a flower

waiting and watching for more than an hour

and i'd whisper into her ear but she wouldn't seem to hear!

she was on her steady road and it never showed

if she was waiting for me to reappear

or to simply disappear:

it's all in my dream 

so there's nothing here for me to redeem

i could be her castle and she could be my queen.

i'd dance with you, Maria,

but my hands are on fire

and if i wanted to die

i'd find myself a lover to hire.

but hey Donnie!

but hey Donnie!

not Casper the Ghost or loser Lonnie

not Hey Jude

'cause you were always so uncommonly rude

a mean and miserable dude

pretending to be polished but always so naturally crude

hey Donnie!

don't brood

you dug a pretty big hole
& it might have been a war hole
or a hot piece of heavenly button hole

who can know which way you tried to go?

walking thru a crowd of admirers with a pigeon-toe

and you thought you were a big time dime

but others thought you were a complete waste of time

the beauty Pageant girls thought you were weird
they didn't want to be speared

and you thought they were young and nice 

but they said your hands were like ice

but hey Donnie!

not Casper the Ghost or loser Lonnie

not Hey Jude

'cause you were always so uncommonly rude

a mean and miserable dude

pretending to be polished but always so naturally crude

hey Donnie!

don't brood

when they saw you in black leather pants
you said you wanted a cheap hourly romance

but they only wanted to dance

and you liked riding in a big stretch limousine
bigger than the biggest block of New Orleans

on any Sunday morning
screeching your tires without warning

posing for pictures without any valid point

 
running hustles in every corner of every joint

parties with hardly a decent pause

skirting all the established laws 

whatever the age

it was always a comedy stage

but hey Donnie!

not Casper the Ghost or loser Lonnie

not Hey Jude

'cause you were always so uncommonly rude

a mean and miserable dude

pretending to be polished but always so naturally crude

hey Donnie!

don't brood

to justify fortune and fame

you've relied on daddy's name

you swindle and waddle and wade,

your lasting reputation temporarily made

you are a master at this game

of momentary tinsel and lasting shame

a crooked smile upon your head
in love with whatever it is you said

hey Donnie!

not Casper the Ghost or loser Lonnie

not Hey Jude

'cause you were always so uncommonly rude

a mean and miserable dude

pretending to be polished but always so naturally crude

hey Donnie!

don't brood

you dug a pretty big hole
& it might have been a war hole
or a hot piece of heavenly button hole

but hey Donnie! 

hey Donnie!

pretending to be polished but always so naturally crude

don't brood.

Patti Smith

i'm hot and down in old Mexico
my body naked from head to toe
escaping from a Pacific storm.

later, your arms keep me warm.

i'm sipping wine with friends of mine
drinking beer while you're still here

listening to the Beatles twist and shout:
wondering what it's all about!

i saw Patti Smith in a border bar.
she asked me if i'd like a cigar.

she said she likes to be called the poetess of punk.

she didn't seem to be too drunk.

she sang about lovers in the warm southern night.

she threw me a kiss in the broad daylight.

she had male friends who liked to nude pose.

they applied lipstick to their toes.

i'm sipping wine with friends of mine
drinking beer while you're still here

listening to the Beatles twist and shout
wondering what it's all about!

i saw refugees from a small Honduran town
crying men not making a sound
leaving for Paradise on their midnight ride
looking for anything to maintain their pride.

their children had wide eyes with tears

mouthing words flavored with their fears.

i saw Paris on a big screen TV
dressed as usual tres provocatively:
i heard her when she finally said
"If I were poor, I'd rather be dead!"

i'm sipping wine with friends of mine
drinking beer while you're still here

i'm sitting on my cloud of dreams
unsure of what this temporary existence means.

each moment quickly becomes the past
until my breath can barely last.

i'm sipping wine with friends of mine
drinking beer while you're still here

listening to the Beatles twist and shout:
wondering what it's all about!

it's all the rage

becoming nobody

i left a winning hand 

when my words were banned

from the bar stool where i lazily sat

contemplating warfare and urban combat

in a world where dust settled uncomfortably on the thin air.

so, i took a second look and it was no longer there

but no one could answer why

no need to get a job or to re-apply

the position is already taken

and if i'm not mistaken

there's a lot of drinking going on late into the night

and despite

a growing alarm at the insanity employed to tell the truth,

two couples necking in an adjacent booth

sat laughing at the music telling lies to the adjacent wall

but that's all i can recall

between quick sips of a memory and a news flash about a shooting

at the local armory where military men where seen recruiting

innocence ladies and their temporary lovers,

hiding under conservative covers

where their cover was blown.

the latest laws were quickly overthrown

by noon the following day

when the King and his Queen came out to play;

they were heard to say

there was permanent tooth decay

found in every peasant mouth

north east west and south.

while here i stand trying to get a grip

afraid of an inappropriate word that might falsely slip

but let the single chip

fall where it may

i'll soon run out of words to say

sometime tomorrow or maybe even today

when the sheriff and his deputy jump out and shout

"What the hell is this all about?"

but there's no taking account

of all the money i left on the poker table

when i was unwell and feeling unstable

and the lights went unexpectedly dim.

all that's remaining is the singing of my personal hymn

and a tap dance discreetly off stage,

i've heard it's all the rage

sitting on a flat tire,

offering myself out for hire.

lastly, i hear i've been rejected for the principal role in an important church choir

and that's something to crow about.

HILDA HILST

"With my dog-eyes I stop before the sea,"

said HILDA HILST,

lapping at her bowl of laughing water.

she stood hallucinating driftwood!

said she heard a kitten roar

with a mighty menace,

and her body began shaking,

her fur covered in burrs and bloated ticks,

the putrid smell of dead fish sweating from her pores.

i asked her if she were a dog

and she said she didn't know.

she tried to bark but mere words

came out of her canine mouth!

she told me she was living in a foreign country

where dogs were nameless,

and she slept in an abandoned shack.

each night, she assured me, she saw ghosts

smearing blood on the naked walls,

wailing and full of spite, 

hateful and red-eyed.

but here, by the sea, the waves were free and

she felt temporarily at peace.

as she slept on the damp sand, i watched

as she scratched an itch.

the tide was wet and the night was black,

like her eyes.

in the morning, as she dug for a buried bone,

 the sun rose heavily in the air.

Gertrude Stein

her straight dark hair cut short & tight 

leaned closer toward me,

asking for a light. 

she smoked my name,

exhaling from the promising start.

she tapped her ashes directly into my heart. 

we were sitting warm at the best cafe 

on a Paris terrace.

 

we had clear words to say.

we heard a Piaf song flying slowly from the nearby boulevard. 

i scribbled je t'aime on a French notecard!

by the Eiffel Tower,

i sipped a small glass of chilled champagne 

underneath her watchful eyes and 

a soft afternoon rain.

i remembered a fine Cezanne 

yet couldn't explain 

why it was hung inside a fancy modern frame.

and on the Rue de Fleurus 

drinking white wine, 

we saw approaching Gertrude Stein,

and she would certainly provide the answer.

Picasso never wished Braque away

i heard her voice,
but Gertrude wasn't talking to me.
she didn't even know i was in 
an adjacent room, waiting by her front door.
she was saying that Picasso never wished
Braque away, but their rivalry was strong,
reeked of adolescence, and to survive
as great artists, they had to be apart.

i left before she was aware of my presence
and met up with my friend Tom, still wearing
his trademark white suit from the night before.

i complimented him on his recent writing.

he agreed with me that he was a special man who
considered his contemporaries to be literary pretenders.
He was completely vain, and i liked him for that honesty.

in his mind, there was never a doubt about his
writing skills, and any negative critic must be consumed
with jealousy or probably was a registered communist.

i felt comfortable on our walk, and listened to
him ramble on about Whitman and other champions of
a bygone era, when suddenly he told me i was the
wrong person for his confidences, mocking me
for my simple bohemian leanings. 

 he knew I worked in a cold flat, but accused me of not having
The Right Stuff, even though i labored as a reporter.

my feelings were hurt as he abruptly left me on the sidewalk
to go looking for America's future,
hoping to arrive there first, he shouted backwards.

i was about to find a cafe for a drink when i saw Pascin
with two young Parisian girls approaching, and he asked me to join
them for a meal, at his expense, before he fell into a depression.

the two women tried to help him up, swearing in rapid French,
but he must have been at the end of his rope.

he told one,
Hermine, 

to go home and wait for him in bed,
but he never arrived.

i think Tom would have liked him, had they ever met. 

to kiss you again

and

i lied when i said i didn't want to kiss you again 

even Scotty Fitzgerald knew Zelda was in bed with a pilot 

not the airplane he flew 

before she was grounded

in a different sort of bed

yet he loved her far beyond his written world 

of Gatsby and a strange friendship with Hemingway

in France

and the dancing herd of the jazz age 

it had seemed all the rage 

to sail and sun and drink well before three 

yet he loved her when he no longer could write from memory

and 

i lied when i said i didn't want to kiss you again.

Zelda was insane!

Zelda was insane!

she saved the last waltz for me
on her Turkish rug

while dreaming by
the Mediterranean sea
of a life beyond the doldrums,

which pinch & heat & chill;

they can torment a sailors' Spirit
and break the strongest will.

but her finest point, 

still spinning,

surrounds my beating heart.

and her secret jazz age dances

tear my stage apart.

Zelda was beautiful!

the hawkeye shine was in her eye:

it could capture moments swiftly
as sharp talons from the sky!

it held tight & flew forever
over solid and imagery,

and i heard her bravest whisper

when she saved that waltz for me. 

for whom does it toll? he asked

point the pistol at a head
paint it bulls-eye red

watch the pool of contrived thinking spread
over the slippery floor
always but nevermore

said the Raven once before

please tell me what ALL this is for
even if you're not sure
sitting virtually at the wheel of a speeding fully-leather car
passing everything

whoever it is you are

behind the blindfold

closer today to home, but really really far
away in the desert of your dreams
finding it's not always what it seems

there are ladies in the nearby parlor

sipping tea

talking of philodendron-colored pee

and how it made them feel

when the backyard pigs would squeal

the bed where we find ourselves 

asleep
is thick and deliciously deep

and we feast

our hours & hours & hours are steep

but we don't mind

someone else is climbing towards the sun

reaching with a smoking gun
body armor now undone

smelling the opium

and feeling so damn intelligent

it's not too late for our morning shower
whatever the song being sung

whatever the hour,

the King or Queen is ready

there's a bell being rung

but for whom does it toll? 

he asked.

Portrait of Andre Derain (1919)

was it le gros
or was it le petit
who each night fell in love
with a new English girl,
forgetting momentarily about the war in France?
ah, it was Derain.

he did resent Picasso for having it
easy, for avoiding the trenches that Braque
and he had been stuck in.

but that was then and this was now, walking
to the National Gallery with Pablo but without Olga.
and Pablo was generous, sketching a black pencil on paper
portrait of him which was of exceptional strength.

soon, Derain would marry Alice, who had formerly been 
a Picasso mistress.
but that was then and this was now.

Le petit was the Spaniard, who had no studio in London.

Derain was the wild beast who painted in Collioure

with the colorful Matisse,

long before Still-life with Dead Game

was awarded the Carnegie Prize.

Le Bal des jeux (1922)

Man Ray snapped the shot
of Picasso's comedic eye
and there was indeed a wry smile
captured on film
which ultimately Gertrude Stein saw 
at a Beaumont party.
Picasso was dressed as a torero
and seemed happy for it, carefully
savoring extra caviar and sweet pastries
with his dainty cup of tea.
Olga made him do it, of course.
Were it his choice: hot beans,
cold sausage, and a few Bohemian friends
from the old days.
But, in this Paris spring and summer he was famous.
In winter, he traveled south, escaping
the fancy balls, masquerades, and the silly
Fitzgeralds.
He did not want to be an international
bird of paradise, as much as he admired birds.
He wanted to be Picasso, without upstaging
the invited guests.
His real eye watched the women, while
the real eye of Count Étienne de Beaumont watched the men,
and not very discreetly.
But he and Pablo remained friends,

even as they traveled to different body parts.

After the May 15, 1920 opening of Pulcinella

they had a ball 
in an extravagant dance hall.
Stravinsky got drunk
and threw out a trunk
full of pillows and hats,
and a great many cats.
the Prince, a celebrated dandy
sucking on Persian candy,
paid the full bill
for all the expensive swill,
mostly champagne.
The post-Pulcinella game
was a big hit.
all the beau monde came to it
in a procession of cars,
most directly from local bars.
Picasso, of course, and Massine,
among the first to be seen,
were at the front door.
dancers already on the floor
included Olga, the Serts,
and several infamous flirts.
the opera was an excuse
for their consumption of aged juice.
many shared a laugh and an epiphany.
the party went on until 3!

reading Hemingway

the campfire burned a bright flame on top of my hunger 

i hope everyone knows by now:

we're not getting any younger.

thus, cold time reclining in the freezer calls my name! 

it sounds like old geezer 

while the cod on the cape has lots of wealth 

& ladies stroll the beach for health 

but i can't go there 

with my heavy head of thinning hair 

and share 

their dream of paradise... 

no, it's a lump of coal a chunk of emotional ice 

an alley with a deep dead end 

and one is dumped there without any friend 

without a lively book, no color on a questioning face 

that one didn't paint or trace. 

but this appetite on my tongue isn't a hangover from when i was young 

it's tasty surface, like a passion, 

persists beyond any passing fashion 

as sun brightens the fire and burns the kiln-dried wood 

it lingers in the bones and makes them feel so damn good 

running full face inhaling fresh air swallowing embers while playing dare 

reading Hemingway; reading Crane 

thinking youthful shit with an active brain 

dancing to a temptress's song 

and trampolining naked which is never wrong:

it simply feels where i belong.

Luisa Casati

Venice never closes!!

And Casati never stops her flamboyant dance,
while Rome has monuments and artists in
narrow alleyways full of hope.

My broken camera captured her movements
of orange hair with twisted curls in front
of the ruins of antiquity, where her dark eyes
sat on the marbled shoulder of Hercules.

This gay Italian city watched her
in Medusa dress strolling with jeweled leash
leading two borzois, one black, one white,
to an audience with the Pope,
but he was busy playing bridge.

Upon watching her pass, I went straight to my house,
hoping for an invitation to her dinner party, but it arrived
sixty years too late.

Posing on her polar-bearskin rug,
as others took siestas during the Renaissance,
she heard The Volga Boat Song and on the first playing,
she noticed a bold red circle with an empty center
smeared on the title page.

It was Picasso pimping for the Bolshevik
uprising against the Tsar, dabbling in paint,
while his friend Stravinsky scored the tune for
the Ballets Russes, where Olga played a part.

Later in Paris, the largest cloud in the world
sat on the waterfront near Montmartre,
where tourists spent their day with wine
and local cheeses, learning rudimentary French.

Nearby, Casati's Palais Rose was built of red marble
and was naked except for images of herself,
many tall and skinny.

If she were insane, as was rumored, she would have had more than
two arms smelling of incense and a necklace
of love bites underneath her river of pearls.

She died in London on June 1, 1957, many years
after Shakespeare, and is buried at Brompton Cemetery
with a taxidermed Pekinese dog
resting at her feet.

The dog loved her.

Campari

immigrant hair alive on the side of her ear 

thick with an accent 

her blue eyes shine a northern light upon her pleasant voice 

food or drink? 

offered a choice i chose both 

we talk long of people and places 

wine and song 

i find it very pleasant 

she is brilliant i am anxious 

she is resilient 

well-mannered 

with a bottle of Campari 

we behave perfectly with books on our laps 

opinions a few 

about Picasso and Pound or whatever we knew

it is all so perfectly fine

so whatever happened to the time? 

in Juarez

 Pancho Villa spreading fear raided north from Mexico he crossed the Rio Grande river near the Texas border town of sleepy old El Paso Bob Dylan meanwhile fingering his early morning mug of hot cocoa and nursing a just born baby slo gin fizz thought Pancho was loco watching from his desolate square in Juarez dodging bullets & writing songs because too few people were visiting there attending church or righting wrongs he heard the horses with sweat on their brow speaking Spanish with envy in their voice they wanted to be unhitched and they wanted to be given freedom of choice and then it was Easter time too the dust of one thousand assassins settled in to chasing children and hunting for sharing a sin and grinning a grin it seemed they were from another world instead they didn't believe in Jesus Christ or the game of baseball and they hit young Robert Allen Zimmerman in his head just as he was about to call Pancho Villa on the phone and say there shouldn't be any more crazy killings today but the Women's Temperance Union heard the ringing of the march starting from their headquarters in town they began to sing: "the Cadillac bar is no place for a beer it's the devil's plaything we've come to fear put down your glass and begin to think if it gets too heavy we'll start to sink." well, everybody heard the protest and began to swoon as their parade route was full of fallen people and unbelieving spectators and a Catholic saint hanging with his parachute from the nearest steeple but no one was looking for a happy hour answer Pancho Villa was riding into the state & on his knee was a pretty Dallas cowboy dancer and the crowd didn't seem to mind that he was running late the band began to play a famous Sodi Miranda song about Cassanova and how he came to know that romance never stays around for very long it always thinks it's time to go and then they saw Robert Allen Zimmerman fall just as he was about to call Pancho Villa on the phone and say there shouldn't be any more crazy killings today and someone said he was going back to New York City 'cause he'd had enough.

Coco, that sewing woman

the blue train was boarded by Coco Chanel
and her friend Misia Sert, 

with or without tickets it's impossible to know.
but what is certain is that, frequently,
they dreamed of attending the last great
Ballet in Paris and were in a hurry.

they invited old friends to join them,
men and women of course, who enjoyed
rumors and gala premieres,
especially when the music was provided by a lover,
like Stravinsky, who was not on the train.

no, he was at that very moment nicely ensconced
in Chanel's apartment, working on a score for four
pianos and some voices, one of which was silent.

but on the train, a florist who wanted to hold a party
walked the narrow aisle selling beautifully decorated
arrangements and Coco bought several to share
with her friends;  they all smiled just as the train
began to move.  

they knew a beautiful blonde Russian princess was the chief engineer
and it was she who blew the whistle to startle the passengers,
who were looking out the windows to see several prominent
surrealists following the tracks, laughing their heads off.

Coco and Misia saw them and began to laugh, too.

soon, everyone laughed!

the princess, perched on her forward seat, steered the train
away from the station.

she laughed.

it was a one-way track, but proved easy to get lost.

and no one cared.

Port Antibes with the Murphys

By the summer of twenty six
Many hotel guests ran out of tricks.
By October  of '28
Those remaining realized dinner was being served late;
Even their dessert put out to sea
Where it sank ignominiously
Like the crumbs of a banquet from the prior week.
Few looked back or cared to speak
When they saw pictures of Mussolini on every wall.
Some memories the Murphy's cared not to recall,
Like the sale of their Weatherbird boat,
Which faded with time and seemed fairly remote
When viewed from the depths of Fifth Avenue in 1942.
The Spanish civil war was over and Picasso spoke
From his studio as the levee broke
for Gerald and Sara, Scott and Zelda, and Hemingway.
In America they would all have their final say
After leaving the twentieth century of Paris in flames.
Picasso remained to continue his games!
First one wife, then two:
Countless ladies but what could a modern master do?
Meanwhile, Sara kept a rose in a tall vase in her New York entrance hall;
it was what Fernand Léger pointed to when he saw
the simplicity and exclaimed "The value of that!"
Everyone agreed and tipped a collective hat
for Gerald, who wanted to go outside to play.
He put down his brushes with nothing more to say.
He painted when he was younger, but not often or much.
He always felt he had a second-rate touch.

A regular guy

Steven was a regular teacher 

just a regular guy 

with no thought of moon walking into moving traffic 

his contract schedule obliged him to cover for my break.

he came into my classroom with his quiet shuffle 

(damn, wasn't he the band director?) 

and sat his thin ass on the thin chair spinning it to an exact spot 

a spot he wanted

his spot 

and faced the wall of windows without looking outside 

without seeing the dancing cars 

or the blue sky 

or the perfectly unfolding flowers 

and cumulus clouds tapping their happy feet northeasterly 

to party the night away on the Lower East Side 

with Patsy and the Nighthawks. 

he placed his grey laptop on his lap 

his hair was thin and short and dark 

his eyes dark 

his mood dark dark, too, his shoes tied with dark laces 

his suit dark his skeleton dark 

inside crawling across the dark mental desert searching for some holy waters. 

he told me he would babysit my kids for 45 minutes. 

fine. okay. I won't be too long. 

who wouldn't want a chance to play? 

but before I walked away toward the noise of the cafeteria, 

Trent said goodbye Angie said goodbye Nick said see ya 

Trent said alternative ed sucks 

Trent also said it's a good thing Mr. Hollman isn't teaching again this year 

Trent said shit 

Trent said when he was no longer on probation, 

he'd be drinking beer on the weekend, 

licking foam from the lips of girls he'd like to fuck, 

and being a good student of animal behavior Trent liked to smoke pot, he said 

and he bragged he could roll his own with one hand, 

his fingers being limber and full of fun. 

so after I walked out, Steven wrote a message 

on yellow lined paper-notes to himself-which he later used to compile an incident report: 

he slid it into the high school Principal's inbox 

his report complained about Trent and his casual display of disrespect, 

Trent's use of profanity was highlighted.

Steven was sending his paper missle strike at Trent's walled compound, 

using a joy stick to bring pain. 

later, I was called into the Principal's office. 

what the hell was going on? 

I told the Principal that Steven was exaggerating!

that everything he said was more than what he heard 

So screw yourself Steven 

You're just a regular guy, 

A regular guy

still squeaking from that cold morning shower, 

with your shaved American smile, 

no perfect tooth misaligned 

I want to puke on your shoes, 

remove the fancy laces, 

& shine a light on the darkness in your eyes.

I'll use profanity

and maybe blow smoke up your ass, just for fun.

Stella's chocolate cake

old grandmother made a killer chocolate cake 

with cocoa powder for Christ's sake! 

cocoa powder? 

she used vinegar for the baking soda that came all the way from South Dakota 

and flour and white sugar to mix with one cup of salad oil and vanilla for taste 

hand whipped without haste 

2 cups of cold water into the dry mix 

then fold gently into the pan use the spoon for discreet licks 

while cooking at 350 for 30-35 

then top with peanut butter icing but not too thickly applied 

totally yummy in your tummy! 

Papa in Paris

everybody knows that Hemingway 

was in Paris 

just the other day, 

with the lost generation and Ezra Pound, 

marveling over all they had lost 

but suddenly found. 

Gertrude Stein and James Joyce and Scott, the significant others, 

some married, 

often with lovers 

losing their innocence 

like Papa! 

who should have known better but lied:

he went to go get her instead of the train 

so, surrendered his own wife

long years before his took his own life.

and long before The Old Man and the Sea won the Pulitzer 

and he the Award of Merit, 

and he didn't even need to share it.

in the trenches (with Apollinaire)

my wounded head was loosely wrapped with a military black bandage.

no bloody leakage was noticeable.

as i made my way to the front of the assembled crowd.

ahead of me was a noted celebrity, and i thought i
knew his name.

but no, it wasn't who i guessed.

it was Matisse!

he certainly wasn't my best friend or even, in
such circumstances, an intimate acquaintance.

and i saw Cocteau with a green face who
seemed eclipsed 

by the expressive music of tonights' show:

i could always
count on his envy, so clear and simple, like a sustained whole note
held for an indefinite length of time.

eternity!

he was upset and tried
to grab my attention.  

when he spoke,
i noticed even his tongue and teeth were green.

he invited me to contribute a poem for his next play which
was due to open a month later.

so, i wrote a piece about androgyny.  

he loved it and promised
to dress the part of a liberated woman.

later, when he gave birth,
he unbuttoned his blouse and released two helium-filled balloons.

the balloons were green.

the widower on the roof

the widower on the roof

was what the bitchy boys called him:
it was fun to hear their laughs.

he was terrified of typhoid, it was true,
and kept his distance from a lover
alone on a death bed, who would
soon die with no one by his side.

but Cocteau held no illusions about being brave
and fled!

by being in Monte Carlo, he missed the funeral
which was talked about later as being
a service en blanc: white eyes seeing everything
in white, including the white horses hired to pull the hearse.

the young man who died was a poet, poetically speaking.

his sorrowing fans followed the horses in a freezing rain.

wet and cold behind the black band they moved

to their lively music,

all the way to the white cemetery
where white flowers
were piled neatly upon a white coffin
placed carefully next to a freshly-dug white hole.

he'd be the breeze

sitting with the things

i came in with,

putting all my eggs in a basket

and hunkering down,

there are chickadees in the tree

i call home.

one bird grabbed a sunflower seed.

a squirrel sat enviously,

devouring sunlight.

there was a mud puddle where

snow should have been.

the chimes sang with the breeze.

i remembered the song from my youth.

my only brother called,

but i didn't hear him:

he has no voice.

if he were a chickadee,

he'd be sounding off all the time,

especially when he was hungry.

if he were a chime,

he'd be the breeze.

Edgar Allan Poe

of course a horse with no name

came into view:

I was reading the morning paper

after eating breakfast and tying my reluctant shoe.

in the background played a Johnny Cash song

about a Folsom Prison Blue

and the ring of fire burning red.

see, I remember climbing out of bed

and hearing my golden-haired dog cough

and the table top alarm going off.

well, what's it all about?

I heard a voice like Janis Joplin shout!!

she was wearing a string of pearly beads,

complaining of her urgent needs,

but no stick up artist was waiting nearby.

no overhead blue bird sky.

no shooting star,

but a Sunday night TV and a Mercedes car

both went speeding past.

I wondered if my coffee would last

longer than these damn memories flooding in from my past?

what time will the holding company begin holding me

in its' arms with a cup of hot organic green tea?

in my mind, there's a burning cigarette filled with nicotine and memories of smoke,

laughing at a stupid comment which I took to be a joke

but Edgar Allan Poe didn't know which way to go,

either; so like a rolling stone,

we both hoped to be alone

gazing at eternity.

but there's never nothing new to say

I am getting older

but feeling much bolder

than I ever did before

keeping time with one finger

knowing I can't afford to linger

stepping down on the hardwood floor

dreaming of all my lovers

buried underneath their sweet covers

with the stars overhead shining bright

while I'm sliding into tomorrow

with no attachment to sorrow

letting go with all of my might

and the few stories I still recite

keep me up throughout the night

but there's never nothing new to say

I've been home and strayed afar

drove a beat up blue Chevrolet car

that needed some work but just liked to play

illusion was my favorite highway

lit a lonely candle for my latest birthday

but there's never nothing new to say

wishing I held more aces of spades

before everything I can clearly see fades

extinguishing the light of my solitary day

I am getting older

but feeling much bolder

than I ever felt before

keeping time with one finger

knowing I can't afford to linger

stepping down on the hardwood floor

dreaming of all my lovers

buried underneath their sweet covers

with the stars overhead shining bright

while I'm sliding into tomorrow

with no attachment to sorrow

letting go with all of my might

and the few stories I still recite

keep me up throughout the night

but there's never nothing new to say

I've been home and strayed afar

drove a beat up blue Chevrolet car

that needed some work but just liked to play

illusion was my favorite highway

lit a lonely candle for my latest birthday

but there's never nothing new to say.

Apollinaire's death

the Seated Man might have been concealed,
yet his presence was felt
in the rough texture of a simple paradox:

Picasso's self-portrait, another deep enigma, or both.

but the simple seat had barely a leg or two, 
and a hat or none at all.

his flat presence like a carpenter's square
was full of angles and the sharp thin lines of construction.

many faces or none?

working at Montrouge just before 1919,
the chair master tossed his cubes onto the icy white.

He,  the ultimate magician
with a proud brow and curving smile,
spoke to his friend before the coughing
death in a Paris apartment where poets came to pray.

It was 202, boulevard Saint-Germain-des-Pres at 5PM
when the final silence descended, pulling the unfinished copy
over Apollinaire's head.

He was 38 when he died.

Breton was already at his door, defending the avant-garde.

Cocteau was already on his way out, although he didn't know it.

and upon feeling the sad news when a widow's black veil
touched his cheek, Picasso went to his bathroom mirror and
began to draw.

he drew a lonely man.

nothing was as synthetic as it seemed.

Pictures At An Exhibition

I heard Pictures at an Exhibition: 

no price was charged 

or admission ticket required

no stub 

or membership rules posted. 

i felt the moving mystery!

it gathered all the straining ears

along a horned path 

with vibrating strings 

playing the famous Mussorgsky song in four parts 

of ethereal lighter-than-air 

loudness 

and diminishing softly,

the tidal wave moodily sweeping water spray sound

around

& then a quick flair for the flamboyant:

the kettle drum and French horn; 

keys with flutes attached, 

and a sustained trombone blast and some elfish piccolos; 

a large section of bass, deeply humming in tune. 

incessant rock knock and pound surround,

The Kingdom

of finest woven lace 

weaving notes of orchestral tempest. 

and those brilliant escaping images, 

fleeing from practiced instruments,

kept moodily circling 

with fingers of humankind grandly being toyed about.

Salvadore and Gala Dali

a razor sliced into an eyeball
and

blood came rushing out:
his boyfriend was the target
& several neighbors' heard him shout!

into his celebrated strangeness,
a unique woman appeared:
her pleasure, a Spanish nightmare,
much crazier than he feared.

while painting on a canvas,
hands melting over time,
they wrapped their arms in questions,
answering sublime.

dancing with Surrealists,
caution spinning in the air,
they climbed upward toward delirium
and found a future there.

the kiss of Tosca!

this is the kiss of Tosca!

they were all dead by 3 o'clock on a fine afternoon 

no one expected so many to be gone so soon 

in the early dawn children at breakfast a mother busy with her knife in hand: 

silent Enola Gay high above in her silver chariot drunk on hot jazz 

heavenly wine stored deep inside her belly 

her horses pulling onward into the great wide open 

Morta listened for a cry from the singing diva 

wailing above the home of 100,000 deaths like Roosevelt

fatherly in his easy chair

rationalizing

behind a somber podium 

the great white hall silent behind his back 

his skinny hard tires black 

and rolling 

towards the Manhattan Project not in New York City anymore

then Truman with his hand on the pen 

writing the white lie which would open the box of hell 

and offer howling ghosts 

screaming in full throat 

in mushroom cloudy smoke

the balled fist reaching ever upwards

hot exhaust on the crisp desert air 

Trinity 

like a horrible nightmare 

burning every migrating butterfly into a dream shadow

blooming cactus flowers falling to desert sand

the barbs remaining sharp

and ashes like dusty tears  

and the experimental little boy of all big bombs falling indiscriminate 

targeting and tumbling and preparing to explode over a huddled mass

soft people awake or asleep, restless or comforted

their suddenly revealed skeletons boiled and basted and bombed 

the troubled disbelief 

a sudden cry

thinking the unthinkable 

and to Gods or spirits they called and begged in anguished Japanese, 

moaned on the currents of flaming air

staggering beyond the city limits

past the graves of dead gardens,

what? 

why did we have to die? great Earth were we not great, too? 

will there be a second chance? any chance? 

what do i do? 

am i the butterfly or the flower? 

or a passing memory or a missing hour?

Roosevelt, Churchill, Stalin

Roosevelt, Churchill, Stalin,

Potsdam, Yalta, Tokyo and Berlin 

South Korea and Mao and for the other guys somehow 

this is important 

with the atomic bomb & with the Marshall Plan 

and the German wall

before the fall 

Seoul overrun by Kim with a quick plan for victory to Pusan 

foiled

& the Great March forward somehow spoiled 

by stiff US resistance and blood and guts and honor

and then Truman, McArthur and the Yalu 

long after Hiroshima & Nagasaki but who really knew 

what Eisenhower was about to reveal?

yes, the military industrial complex was designed to steal 

what even the CIA didn't understand 

or the KGB as they used to say 

back in the Cold War day 

alongside Fidel Castro (but now he's dead, too) as is the Shah

and Ayatollah Khomeini,

who didn't understand containment so said let the revolution begin 

with Iran 

and Venezuela and Hezbollah 

the oil flows spelled Mister Moolah in a brave new world 

with Huxley golf courses with Lucy in the sky and 

the fervent Taliban who hate women, 

who want control more than sex. 

Man is the new T-Rex!

not the ladies in flames or whatever else remains 

beyond Marines in central Baghdad or the Chinese in Senegal 

they're unlucky enough to want it all: 

prayer flags flutter in a Himalayan wind;

the soul of Tibet, the Dalai Lama, without a safe bed

in his native-born country said, 

Peace on Earth (at the very least) 

save us from this killing beast!