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.