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.