Hiroshima and Nagasaki

in Hiroshima,
it's a quiet evening
with a fiery red sun,
sitting stoically above the tall mountains
far to the east.

there are Japanese ghosts nearby
who quietly move in the deepening shadows.

a few years from now,
from my front porch,
looking up,
there will be fewer stars visible
in the night sky
because of persistent light pollution.

populations are expanding globally,

bringing cares and concerns and cities.

i'd rather see numerous stars than
sudden fear in any child's eyes.

there was certainly fear in the eyes of Japanese children

from Hiroshima and Nagasaki,

once.

do the adults they have become see the stars in the night sky?

these two cities have been re-born.

the children?  there are stories.

i must acknowledge Edison, perhaps,
or Tesla,
because there's darkness
beyond the nearest strip mall,
some welcome and some not so much,

but the shopping centers are fully alive with

artificial light.

it's still possible to find an absence of light,

but outside of the cities.

how far?

in parts of the Mekong delta,
for instance,
water buffalo still roam
without headlamps or streetlights,
stepping into fertile mud,
raising rice,
raising their heads with huge horns.

the Viet Minh have buried their dead
in that land,
along with their black sandals
and black shirts and black teeth.

they claimed a victory
over US Marines who came ashore at Da Nang,
splashing onto China beach like confident predators,
while keeping a watchful eye at dragon clouds
swirling atop Monkey Mountain.

the American troops were to protect innocent
civilians and corrupt Vietnamese generals
by force of arms and
with accurate shooting,
if possible with an unreliable M16.

but a Marine sharpshooter, living in the World,
sat high atop a campus clock tower
in Austin, Texas
shooting at people
far below who were
not Viet Cong
but were waiting for the Texas Oklahoma game to begin
or going about their morning business.

he might have been in Da Nang,
where killing was expected.

Iwo Jima, in the Pacific,
also had a pretend Marine,
John Wayne, a hollywood actor,
who got his feet wet in the black volcanic sand.

but he
didn't climb a clock tower to kill friends
or strangers,

even though he was said to grow a flower from a seed.

the Duke faded away, holding a stiff deck of cards,
a stiff drink,
and a smoking cigarette,
anxious to begin his shuffle toward a new beginning,
where he could act without killing,
without pretending to be someone he wasn't.

and the war to end all wars might have come and gone,
but it failed to end the madness.

the predators often eat their assigned prey,

sometimes wearing a type of uniform.

and sometimes they eat each other,
naked ambition dripping off chins like cooking grease.

i don't remember if there were any predators
at my high school back in the 1960's,
but once, at a post-prom party,
i wanted to read
The Stranger by Camus.

i was told
by a blond cheerleader i was kissing
to quit acting absurd,
and i thought that was funny!

when i met Picasso, a Spanish painter,
he told me at that exact moment,
blond was his favorite color.

the conclusion of our conversation
was a discussion about war:

we both agreed it was a sexual thing.

he liked hiding in French beach cabanas but i'd go anywhere.

the following summer i returned,
anxious to look for him.

i found that he was busy growing the nail on his little finger
while avoiding the subject of the German invasion of France,
though he did mention an earlier bombing of Guernica.

it was only after Salvador Dali
died that i took a renewed vow of sobriety,
excepting for, of course,
the better French wines which i couldn't afford.

i had seen too many ticking clocks melt into distorted shapes
like the faces of small children who
were once seen at play in the narrow streets
of Nagasaki, Japan one surprising morning
while a silver predator flew silently far, far overhead.

i read about Dresden, Germany
and that ugly fire bombing
and got sick, really sick,
as i had many times in the past

while reading about wars.

i've now been in bed writing for over a month,
give or take,
and will soon go outside for an evening walk,
hoping to find at least one
hungry stray cat,

which might once have been a tiger,
or a dog
which once upon a time was a wolf,
a type of predator,
and yet wants to be by my side
under a conspicuously starry sky.

we'll both start howling to the moon

it's what he did (and we, too)

you (Bush #43) were caught in the deeper shadows held between two lines
blinded by the crowd applause and couldn't read the signs

with arrows to infinity and a moon rise outside your door
you told a waiting nation that you'd lead them straight to war

decrying fresh aluminum tubes and biologic threats
with yellow cake uranium as secret as it gets

in Poland and Iran or was it Brussels and Milan?
smirking as the words emerged al la Cosa Nostra con

the bastards at the Pentagon had hoped you knew the score
with little donny rumsfeld sucking madly as your whore
he whittled down the numbers and sent US Marines ahead
in a lightening strike surprise attack to minimize their dead

it was cheney and mr chalibi who lied about the scope
of opposition in Iraq to give reluctant liberals hope:

yet no crowds of people were throwing flowers onto the road
as M1A1 tanks and troops in Baghdad finally showed

it's good to declare victory on an aircraft carrier deck
& then retire to Texas with a lone star on your neck:

but what's the carnage and what's the cost

when nations die and people cry for everything they've lost?

the Red Block of Saydnaya Prison

the Red Block

known also as Death Chambers,

a huge slaughterhouse for us humans,

sport no safe spots,

no friendly playgrounds,

no smiling children gossiping,

no lovers softly eyeing each other,

no fresh air,

no clean water,

and no football pitch for wildly cheering fans:

here,

underground with minimal light,

minimal sanitation,

minimal hope,

maximal cruelty.

here,

words unspoken,

blood soaked the dirt

after years of torment,

thousands of bodies crushed,

souls discarded,

where fathers sigh their final farewell

for a wife never to be held again,

for a cup of strong Arak never to be sipped

once more by the lips of a free man,

where hope is shackled

and tortured 

until the final moments of darkness.

Assad is now in Moscow drinking

nothing here about GOD
or evangelicals or even a Mormon polygamist
in southern Utah with a child bride

no,
nothing to hide
behind or conceal

as i age while attempting to heal

Assad is now in Moscow drinking:

what is he thinking?

as he looks constantly over his back

for the assassin who's job is to track

this criminal tyrant to his grave

this is not meant to be a blog
where i'm preaching about myself
or nature or Earth
it may in fact have no worth
& i'm okay with that having already fought one war
in South Vietnam a long day ago
which now feels like a distant shadow

before the twin towers fell and ground zero cast a spell
deep into the mountains of eastern Afghanistan
when i didn't understand
the CIA 

or wall street executive pay

no, this isn't about food or being intentionally rude
& not about global warming
or locusts swarming
or how mankind has finally found
freely & unbound
his soul and his Redeemer

i am not the schemer

nor will i use sleight of hand
to lead a lonely hearts club band
into my small white town

Damascus has fallen down

and the most venerated Mosque tower is now calling

the faithful to prayer

is there a horn of plenty for all the Middle Eastern people to share?

but there is nothing intentionally here about GOD

OR maybe there is?

and it's everywhere,

which in retrospect only seems fair

after the many many years of terror and bloodshed

from mainland China!

once upon a time the apes drank clean water from a wildly flowing river,

a small mountain lake, a pond, or a meadow stream;
no predatory tenderness or self-indulgent dream.

or maybe from a leaf collecting its' early morning moisture,
but never from the turning on of a kitchen tap
like a modern feckless business sap
who receives the two thousand mile Caesar's salad
and shirt made in Bangladesh
which are daily flown-in and freshly pressed
like a ripe avocado shipped all the way from mainland China!

once upon a time the apes did everything by hand:
love and communication they could easily understand.

once upon a time the apes joined up around evening campfires
without using FaceTime or the Internet:
at slower tribal speeds there simply was no disconnect;
there was nothing illusory or remote or overly complex;
no derivatives or obsession with balances and checks.

once upon a time there was thriving life on the fertile plains of Africa,
before the modern revolutions in agriculture and industry
made it ever more difficult to explain the expanse of human history.

and once upon a time the planet Earth was spinning freely
without an urban landscape of portfolios and fears.

before the flinging of the supersonic spears,
there were no technicians or aristocrats

for millions and millions of years.

to trouble the world

a loyal friend said,
"The world i knew is now dead
and it won't be coming back!
Black bread
is what remains!"

i decided he was not thinking normally,
wearing his lucky charm while acting too formally,
in spite of the civil war re-igniting in Syria.

tears were flooding his eyes!

maybe he understood the terrible lies?

he kept swatting at a persistent ghost
who was offering him a toast
of the finest Iranian wine:

he knew it was made lousy by design.

of course the news could be better,

reading more like a passionate love letter,

but he had a point!  too many factions and leaders to anoint

and each armed group has a consuming anger and a dream,

keeping them awake at night as they scheme

to trouble the world.

an unconventional art lover

he lived in a large house
in a large garden
with flowers,
where a great many hours
were spent with spring time showers
and a lazy dog
with psychic powers,
licking a friendly kitty

not far from the nearest city

where in the end,
there was little
other than another cat fight,

although plenty nearby people were uptight!

a fading social light,
despite bouts of manic drinking
and attempted thinking,
he was a busted
but trusted
college grad,
at times both happy and sad;
who cleaned the litter box;
washed socks;
searched the sky for Venus;
played with Mister Penis;
confessed too much in autobiographical writings,
his entire face covered in stainless steel,
exactly how he wanted to feel
many an early morning
without warning
when he had to get back down to earth,
hoping to find out precisely what he was worth:

dancing to ragtime;
Louis Armstrong!
what more could go wrong?
he had the lucky number seven;
thought he'd try to live in heaven
with black tiled floors;
minimal chores;
cafe chairs;
an abundance of greying hairs;
phone calls not returned;
piles of seasoned wood unburned
until an alfresco dinner one winter eve
with nothing hidden up his sleeve,
he became a passing rumor
of black humor
and was found sitting comfortably by the fire,

a woman on his lap,
considering a nap
after giving him a French kiss,

which he didn't want to miss.

one he especially liked to taste;
her lips wrapped around his waist.

he could hear her sighs,
those soothing vaginal eyes,
sparkling like a unconventional art lover.

remember your manners

 oh,

it's only a simple song
that came along
well before
the once upon a time
i fought in an ancient Asian war
wearing a proud hat and a big brown bag
over my head
that might not have been the proper size
but i was already too young to realize
what the news frequently said
that, yes, i was already quite dead

and the man
sitting in his big white house
joked that i was just another little white mouse
serving at his discretion serving my time
looking for my street seller
selling a dime
like a poor broke little Jackie Horner
hustling on a busy American corner
his long beard asking me "What's up?"

and I 

taking an unsteady drink from the communal cup
was seen rushing for home
which was no longer there
just like my childhood Sampson hair
falling from the small town barbershop chair
where
for twenty five cents
we smoked our cheap cigarettes inside army tents
cleaning our christian souls
of all the loose women and immoral black holes

I'm Waiting for the Man and memories of childhood

Bobby Darin and Sandra Dee
being swept out to a raging sea
on a raft of bamboo spikes and the salty 8 track
never to be found again and never coming back
like Frank Lloyd Wright and his famous prairie cans

the truth in the American desert is the unrelentingly dry sands
and the perpetual thirst:
i still don't know the answer to the question,
"Who's on first?"
but might eventually know
which television game show
i need to see
before being spanked on the Catholic Bishop's horny knee
as i sit and smile and laugh and shower

i count my days in cotton bales each passing hour
and there's a decision to be made about Columbus and his sailing crew:
did they do what they were supposed to do?

on the islands sinking
what were they thinking

wearing Spanish leather boots while walking on the steamy shore?

those native huts of Hispaniola never needed a door
but the vaults at Fort Knox are built of bones and blood
and southern shacks of sharpened sticks and mud
saw tall men in their plantation suits carry away the keys

so,
remember your manners and always say please.

brave protesters in Hong Kong

The Yellow River

with its' mighty brown flood,

and the Yangtze

with potent dragon's blood:

millions of buried ghosts,

tears dead and alive!

brave protesters in Hong Kong

finding it hard to thrive

inside Mao's little Red Book,

raising their heads for a gambler's quick look.

See!  there's the Great Wall:

a Terracotta army of the first Emperor

holding swords and shields, standing tall.

Dynasties leading deeply into the historical past,

with echos of great tragedies

which last and last.

fields of plenty and loss

almost too far to walk across;

sprawling cities on the expansive coastal plains;

thunder over the mountains followed by torrential rains,

arriving early or leaving too late,

keen eyes sipping pearl milk tea from a special China dinner plate,

too proud to kneel

for another expensive Western meal! 

Federico Garcia Lorca (Generation of '27)

i decided to attend a movie preview
and it was a total flop:
the film,
not my being there.
it was simply beyond lackluster!
later, i heard the producer would henceforth
abandon cinema and
that's a good thing.
the money backers fell into a panic
when they saw actual stones being thrown
from the audience.
yes, it was that bad!
the opening scene might have been of a razor
slicing into an eyeball,
but no,
not even as memorable
and thus history was deprived
of possibly another surprising moment.
the most interesting person in the audience
was Federico Garcia Lorca and not only because
he had once been an erotic friend of Dali,
who was now living with Gala.
Lorca was the highly esteemed Spanish poet who imagined
himself a literary critic, 

but who knew little of imaginative painting,
which was Dali's great strength.
Gala was good for Dali, too, or so he said.
And Dali knew he needed to distance himself
from his ex-lover, so he refused to attend the preview.
Picasso also kept out of sight.
He was busy elsewhere with his private auditions of a young blonde.
she would get the part.
Picasso's wife would get the dog.

Lorca would eventually eat a Nationalist militia bullet.

he's still being looked for. 

on top

the winds stir the chimes regardless of the times it's the evening breeze blowing thru the fall trees while i'm in my bed remembering words left unsaid but the soft musical notes like a dream that floats soothe my restless heart i wish we could make a new start and become lovers underneath these covers or on top and never stop.

I'm sipping my tea

five nights and i'm cooking stew resting by the fireside thinking of you i'm sipping my tea reading a book remembering all the days to here it took then finding a pillow before eleven getting out of bed sometime around seven watching the oil gushing from a hole feeling the silence empty my soul five nights and i'm beyond seventy-two still riding the train thinking of you and out the window beyond the steel track my life as pages with no turning back five nights and i'm riding away but no one is asking for me to stay bright city lights the countryside i can't find a place to hide using my hammer or welding torch i'll make myself a new back porch under the stars by the small pond like a fairy with her tiny wand i'll sip paradise with a chocolate milk and a ruby slipper and a robe of silk under the sky if it doesn't rain i could be reading Roughing It by Twain five nights and i'm tying my shoe ready for hiking thinking of you

stuck between the social cracks

Jim and Tammy Faye
wetting their ministry bed
living in an abandoned bale of hay
moved to a sleek houseboat
with a rich Christian goat
which they milked for millions of dollars;
they drove a 1953 Rolls-Royce
and enjoyed a large choice
of the best cuts of steak
Jim went on the Evangelical take
and eventually went to jail
Tammy Faye took her tanned tail
and married their best friend
yet the Bakker affair
didn't quietly end there
no, more frosted blonde tresses
loud, colorful dresses
and a reality TV show
born-again kept on the go-go
night and day dressing like pimps
anything for money:  you want limps?
tears on the thick make-up
passing around the collection cup
to poor whites with meager social security and welfare checks
more train wrecks
coming to a big tent near you
Jim and Tammy Faye
practicing their special blend of voodoo
it's what they practiced and were trained to do
stuck between the social cracks
found on the harder-edged side of the tracks.

Man Ray

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 parts.

Dora Maar

Dora had the body

but
with heated breath on her camera lens,
her smile like an enigma
faded

when Pablo found Francois
visiting his studio
wearing a youthful dress.

on his scenic Paris rooftop
he saw her swelling chest
with his artistic eyes and began
to paint a dream.

she noticed his hungry face redden
but did not blush
nor squirm

nor sympathize
nor encourage his grasp.

they soon became lovers.

eventually, she wrote a book about
life with the great master
detailing his clever approach
to color,
to his love of the classic bull fight,
and himself.

but Dora had the body

and with dark eyes,

abundant mystery in depth,
her French accent on the Rue de Savoie
framed lonely pictures
which only she
could see.

Indira Gandhi

eye slicer and

hair oil

met coconut breath on a back

street of Bombay

under the baleful stare of Indira Gandhi,

before she went completely mad.

of course, she disliked everyone

who talked without an accent

such as hers,

even when her tongue was swollen

by the sensibilities of British royalty.

the taxi driver said her thoughts

were being read by a distant fortuneteller

who sat in an elevated clock tower,

which looked over the enormous sweep of history.

and his fare nose helped steer him thru

the busy streets after midnight,

avoiding brass monkeys and the many cripples

who begged while sitting in piles of dirt.

the ever-alert angels, hawking cheap merchandise,

narrated stories

about snakes luring the innocent away from lush lands,

and snake charmers who know how to dance

without missing a step

jumping between the borders of two countries.

mounting an idle bicycle, a loner,

momentarily balanced in India,

riding a childhood's dream,

began pedaling innocently toward a

woman holding a knife that

drips with blood.

listening deeply

My listening deeply is a poem, an ode to attention and silence, an active movement into space, where i might be sitting atop a 14,000 foot mountain peak deep in the Colorado Rockies, west of the Continental Divide, immersed in the feeling of untamed winds blowing through my hair, and feeling, too, the heartbeat of the rocks, heated by the sun, smoothed by the rains, and then, as if by magic, i might be in a room with people, those i know and those i want to know more about, listening to stories about lives lived and steps yet to be taken, and i hear the breathing and see the faces speaking with lips and active tongues as words soften the air, reaching out, and it's as though we are all together on shifting ground, sitting firmly, seeing the world for a first time, reaching one another across the short divide, across the space until there is no longer space, only the mountain top on a clear blue sky day, and we are all sitting together, as indioviduals and yet a group, a community, enthralled by the immensity we witness, the stunning simpleness of a touch, the power of a kiss, a thought expressed that we hear while humbled by the closeness that listening deeply gifts us with.

Whitman (May 31, 1819 - March 26, 1892)

Whitman would tug manfully
at a favorite hat
upon his head or
without it on the ground.
He wrote promiscuous poetry
under an eternally erect sun;
in the darkness his night stars
like little captions of literary light
showed him what he expected,
not what others doubted.
In Song of Myself, he was
both the in and the out,
extravagantly
making a tune of considerable importance
for himself.
And sing he did, even boasting of
standing amused when he wasn't being very funny.
But he learned to carve a path to values
which he shared in his work.
And while he waits, with no misery on his beard
his eyes still burn.

looking into my private life

if you could see me surfing
myself across the endless mountains
washing my sins in uptown English fountains
hitting the highway at a hundred miles an hour
passing French ladies each holding a single flower
border guards uniformly check out my business
looking into my private life
ask about my finances and my second wife
i'm sitting in the middle of an ocean bridge
west of Montreal on an island in the sand
falling suspended from another person's hand
it's not impossible or even fairly certain
since i'm hiding behind an anticipated curtain
all my lovers are hiding in the audience
i'm sitting in the middle of this crazy intense
bending at the shifting in the wildly blowing time
shouting so you'll tell me what is yours and what is mine?
i'm breaking out while you're apparently breaking in
soaking in the sunset while you're soaking in the gin
there are too many people pointing fingers in this town
holding themselves upright while still holding me down
and always in the new night i'm feeling packaged and sold
you're trying to convince me that i've always been cold
i've come to you drenched in my silly regret
and wonder if this is as good as i'll get
and yet and yet and additionally yet
i never wanted to disappoint
i didn't feel any special need to anoint
i just wanted to get my head out of this joint
watching you watching me
washing out to an endless sea

Berner Oberland

There were no answers in Murren
even though the Eiger Monch and Jungfrau sat
watching me in my solitary descent
from the Schilthorn across our narrow valley,
where wild rhododendron kept kissing my face.
in the midst of this temporary affair with flowers and
with high meadow cows ringing my bell with each step i took,
i could still hear the whisper of the Swiss maid who
poured my beer at night, urging me to fill my blue-eyed well;
in the mornings, she buttered my croissant with her patient knife,
packed my lunch with a promise, and left her message in the way
she folded my bag.
But there were no answers in Murren
even though the rain fell during the morning i made my deepest penetration
into the back country, so far away i jumped over swift moving streams which would
take years to find the ocean.
and when i finally opened my bag for lunch, i heard the Moonlight Sonata bouncing
from the valley walls, each piercing piano note like a stab of recollection, in no
small measure, measuring me as i did the apple in my hand.

from Singapore to Rome: Plutonium

The boys in school they think it’s cool
there’s no one to impress
but the empty bellied African
wants nothing but has less

The little girls wrapped in their curls
their fathers hunt for pay
inside a steamer sunk at night
whos' ghosts have gone away

The TV mother full of mirth
her phone calls far from home
sits hearing oceans rise and fall
from Singapore to Rome

The Cinderella shopping cart
with Barbie dolls and death
rolls down an aisle at midnight speed
without a thoughtful breath

The sidewalks of a city street
where souls play without socks
reflected in a gloomy hue
are wrapped inside a box

The lion and the jungle frog
Before their winter day
Gave their voice to loneliness
With nothing more to say

The philosophers stayed funny
up staged while in their bed
and when they pointed with an eye
Earth's flowers all looked dead

Three cheers for number 94
a long, long time ago
it’s elemental my old friend
The Bomb was meant for show.

Teaching US history

Teaching US history to a group
of students in 10th grade
and in spite of my best efforts
more than one began to fade
while I talked about Uncle HO
his famous trail and the Viet Cong
I wanted to chastise some kids
because it just felt wrong
to not give me the attention
I felt the war needed
so went on about Kennedy and Diem
until it was completed
the war, you know, without Japanese
or French mostly American boys
who would have rather been in the World
experiencing more pleasant joys
than pounding the bush and soaking monsoon rain
in an Asian jungle or strange ville
where Westmoreland saw his tunnel light
from a star-studded hill
while napalm burned flesh & scorched
jungle trees creating an American scar
which could be seen from C130s
dropping Agent Orange from afar
Yes it is an old war as wars tend to go
and lasted too long with many brave deaths
but i looked at my audience and heard
the many exasperated breaths
of bored distracted teenagers
this Vietnam War isn't a story
that they can appreciate for
the sacrifice and simple glory
once shown by a grandfather
an uncle or aunt
i mentioned the campus protests
but tried not to rant
about the Government or
the Tonkin Gulf Resolution or lying
my message was mostly that fine young
American youth were fighting and dying
in a strange world far away
and should be remembered and honored by high schoolers
even today.

it's time to read the Torah

duck
here comes the Donald
he's on a hover board flying at high noon
the new sheriff badge pinned to his inflated chest
duck

he came way too soon
The Doomsday Clock was nervously twitching by the door
Princess Grace kept fondling a loaded gun
duck

she ran for the shore
with two deputies and a member of Delta Force
they loaded the ship of state for the Battle of Midway Island
duck

it's heading off course
where the water is ocean blue and the Pacific sun bright
towards the South China Sea and the coral airfields
duck

it's almost midnight
the Parties of God are partying in downtown Tel Aviv
millions of migrants are hiding beneath flimsy canvas tents
duck

there's no chance to leave
there are slippery piss puddles on the barracks' floor
where the Donald is puzzled by the size of his tiny hands

duck

it's time for Lebanon bologna
it's time for a great war

it's time for bunker busting bombs

it's time for Allah to return

it's time to read the Torah

duck

duck

Donald

duck 

Warhol

Andy Warhol

albino white with his heroin smile

stood mildly happy far from the Steel City

listening to the Velvet Underground

but he still didn't know where he was going

airbrushing modern paints in a rainbow arc flowing

across the pouting lips of Marilyn Monroe

while he faced a kneeling Little Joe

his art opening into a screeching guitar

hearing the downtown dealer fleeing in a mobster's tinted-window car

the Factory party continuing 24 hours long

with sharp needles and hashish smoke blowing

but he still didn't know where he was going.

drinking from your well

Hello Mademoiselle.
i came to buy some butter
but left drinking from your well.

strange things flew in the air!
i grabbed my hat and found a coat
hanging by an empty chair.

i went out and slammed the door,
ran down to a whispering beach,
sat listening on the shore.

an echo exactly at midnight
cried softly in moonlit boots;
it paused at dawn in white.

i saw a top hat riding shotgun
in a Rolls chauffeured by fate
when an immense sun,

rising on the high tide line,
stuck a feather in my cap;
it was not at all by design.

i was left feeling naked and hot
but it's a part i play, wondering
if that's everything lifes' got.

very solemn, straining every nerve
i stood up straight to leave
but fell frantic into a curve

where i peeked across the room
and saw rushing directly at me
the grasping hand of doom:

all those fingers winking
two or maybe three times a second
encouraged me to start thinking

that i were in a fancy show boat.

hanging by an empty chair,

i grabbed my hat and found a coat

someone had left hanging there. 

blood changes the game

blood changes the game.

at the first sound of a bullet

screaming over their heads,

young soldiers forget their own name.

blood changes the game.

forget the hero medals and the parade pomp;

the drill sergeant's foot stomp;

a young girls' thrown kiss,

hoping the bullets miss

body parts.

broken hearts

await any frontline news with anxious hands.

blood changes the game.

a grandfather in his army uniform,

pictured exhausted and torn,

holding a Springfield with an empty clip

disembarking from his crowded troop ship

underneath the Stars and Strips,

no longer dodging the artillery roar

of a distant war.

blood changes the game.

a dad, too, trading in his civilian shoes

for combat black.

there's no holding back

the urge to join in the fun.

so son, here is your gun,

but

blood changes the game.

Tyson

She dressed like a Vassar student
from 1932 with formal tucks, 

a pearl necklace, silver hair,

and her head held high like her esteem.

She would not play the fool,
nor did she like to be entertained with anything
less than the most erudite spoken language
of Shakespeare and Charles Dickens. 

She force fed as though we were fledgling baby birds
and she the raptor with wild owl beak and a penetrating
gaze into your forming character.

She would ply that mold by God because
that is what an English teacher did, so suffer little children
and welcome high school Class of 1966, into her domain.

You will never again be the same!

The Maasi

The Maasi saw
from Kenya's land
their river falling
couldn't understand
the wildebeest
or the hippo
would die in this heat
with nowhere to go
without water
without a voice
dead indifference
leaving them no choice
great migration
sadly ended
while African tribes
in smoke decended
forests were cut
charcoal was made
cattle were grazing
without ancient shade
in an old land
with a new pain
without much food
without much rain

the final cry was 'Broken Arrow'

it was once all about Saigon
but now it's gone
the muddy river once slept and burned
and what have we uniformly learned
painting it jet black won't get it back:

the body bags filled with Asian dirt
politicians said it wouldn't hurt
watching the helicopters at the embassy!

a young woman with her crying baby
grabbing the barbed wire wall
dodging shots before the inevitable fall...

and all the President's men
each with a white face
their conference table with expensive pens and frivolous lace
and a perfect powder room
where the happy hour drunks sang delirious songs of doom
in the stone temple.

the gods sat hard and cold
trading places which could be bought and sold
outside the parlors of the free press:
readers were forced to guess
what in the streets of an American city
was real and what was merely witty;

and on the television screen
cigarette smoke filled the stale air.

in Vietnam the midnight sparkle
was a phosphorescent flare,
and young men lived and died there.

while in the Pentagon,
it was once all about Saigon
but now it's gone
when the flesh gave way to marrow
the final cry was 'Broken Arrow'

Le Tricorne (22 July, 1919)

her thin fingers were magnified,
while tiny lines of Russian smiles
were seen dancing on the stage,
waving to the audience from a 
perfectly classical ballet position.

and there was sincere applause for the flesh-and-blood
physicality, but grace and beauty
shared all the jumps and spins and bows.

in the scene-painting studio on Floral Street,
Picasso had mixed light chrome with pure white,
to produce the beauty of old ivory, which added richness
to the sets of Le Tricorne, which needed it especially in London.

Massine played the Miller, speaking with his feet
in a stomping fit of flying sentences, tipping his hat
to the ladies and the admiring men, all thinking
they were watching the future Gene Kelly, while dreaming
of an umbrella and a cup of warm tea.

apparently it was raining,

or soon would be,

but all were warm and dry inside the Alhambra Theatre.

La Boutique Fantasque

La Boutique Fantasque
and the silver pipe beneath the derby hat,

the dandy little guy with his deep sharp eye
his formal tie
black before a bright white light
tied tight
inside a blond French mistress
with a youthful hunger for his cock

his fast brush and his wry smile slide
wide
with practiced pomp past the Russian dancer
into the wilds of Provence

and parade

the woman in tears displayed
on his Spanish canvas
weeps with magnolia memory
pure as a lake bottom

the sun cold with shades of nuance.

closing our book

no turn of the screw

straight ahead i could catch 

the briefest glimpse of you

wearing your favorite red

it wasn't only what you said

that turned me blue

so what had i heard

when you flashed me a smile?

i tried to hear each word

running on fertile ground

it wasn't only what i found

that seemed absurd

you gave me that look

and a toss of your hair

but something else you took

meant more to me than life

i felt the stinging of your knife

closing our book.

drugs floating in the air

Jack said there was a dog in the tree,

howling at the moon;

but when i looked it wasn't there,

although i saw a haiku

hanging from a hanging branch:

if it fades away,

how will i know what it meant?

i can't see in the dark.

but Allen said he saw the dog,

who was barking like a hipster:

he said it was wearing a French-style beret,

reading a poem called Howl,

occasionally sounding like a mad man.

what was it about?

there was a lot of applause.

i had much to learn.

then Burroughs said there should be

intoxicating drugs floating freely in the air,

so he traveled to Tangiers

with his net and a tourist guide book,

looking for an African ass to drive home his point:

he often had sex at night,

and in the morning felt fine.

his breakfast was fish.

he tried to eat like a native, he said,

between bites of flesh.

Joseph Heller

what exactly did he mean by the phrase

CATCH-22?
from my lips directly to you:
a Willie Mays center fielder's running grab?
a discovery in the National Institute of Mental Health lab?

Joe avoided a violent military death
wrote a best selling book many years before he drew his last breath
a long, slow, measured exhale
but he got to chase the girls successfully for more than one piece of tail

his B-25, a fine airplane
coming in low and fast, weaving through heavy enemy flack totally insane:
it was very sane to want to stay inside an Air Force canvas tent
crazy to fly in formation if that's what he really meant

during WWII, the thin man and the fat
the bald guy and the clown who never removed his hat
the wop and the Jew
who on Sunday morning didn't know how to act or what to do
the black aviator and the brave Mexican from San Diego
neither wanted a tag from graves registration tied to their big toe
and the freckled kid from cold Minnesota
drinking a warm coca cola
between briefings and the next flight
they all felt deep down inside their guts an incredible fright
and wondered more than once if they'd get out in one piece
to become whole again and be discovered by a lover and live in peace

Yossarian.  Major Major.  CATCH-22?
it's what they did heroically and awkwardly still continue to do.

Kennedy and the CIA

And they all died!

Any further consideration would be postponed
Until tomorrow.
A total of twenty two hundred men lied!
One was big nosed Charles de Gaulle
Who was last seen sipping heaping teaspoons of arrogance along
With ripe strawberries which came from Dalat.
Who else?
The French legions at Dien Bien Phu.
That's who.
The Emperor, Bao Dai, constantly smiled 
But never went wild
when the sneaky Japanese sat eating his rice.
They weren't very nice.
Uncle Ho knew which way to go.
And millions of peasants soon followed.
The Buddhist Group went up in flames
Playing gasoline games
In the public square.
I wasn't there.
Ngo Diem was, however, along with his brother and the
Dragon lady, who wasn't very blue.
Who else knew?
In Saigon, Nguyen Van Thieu,
Continued to work on his resume.
Kennedy and the CIA
On the river's embankment,
Ordered the bogeymen into action.
And the rain might have stopped as suddenly
As it started, but the B-52s
Were just warming up on Guam,
Their cold bomb racks filled with misery for the
Vietnamese on the ground, without qualm.
It became very clear that death could drop from
Thirty thousand feet
And kill a thousand people as they sat down to eat.
Truman had no policy, Eisenhower none, but Johnson
Pulled his pants on like a true Texan.
Nixon was no Texan, but in 1972
He celebrated an early Christmas
With Henry who flew home from Paris
With a secret merry card.
On the cover it mentioned that Hanoi and Haiphong
Would not have a merry time
tonight or for the next several weeks and
Not a single word made a rhyme,
But the men acted as though one did.
Whom did they pretend to kid?
President Ho Chi Minh died in '69.
He was no friend of mine.
The US Embassy lost a sign.
It was carried away by a staffer, who jumped
On the last helicopter leaving for the coast.
Where is it now?
That's what I want to know the most.

looking for Sonny

the ice was dull

but my blades were sharp
the water underneath a bottle of Perrier
floated the classical woman on her Viennese harp

the thin man on his Fender bass
kept bringing another cold case
for poor Sonny
who died when his head hit a tree
like an arrow splitting a knee:

it was in the dead of winter
in the American west
but we go on with our lives
imagining they're the best

they could become a dime store novel or a penny
a farthing or a pound 
a fatal fall from every grace
or a trampoline rebound

when lifetime runs down
and the entrance runs on and on
each day after day
and most are willing to pay

the price

is always right

glued to digital visions

a Russian SU or a tank

watching the Ruble wiggle and squirm

as it sank

with an earthquake or volcano

buffalo stampede or a shark

rising oceans, and a waterfront park

filled with happy campers

looking for Sonny

the Mosque wall

in Kashmir

a thoughtful Indian picked up a hefty rock

while i stayed on the sofa 

playing with his Pakistani woman,

but only in my dreams.

it often seems

there's a lingering dawn

before the fateful rising sun:

the actual sound ringing in my ear

is of a car explosion!

i see people

running past the Mosque wall,

many bleeding upright while others crawl.

this is definitely not a dream,

it would seem,

as i see soldiers with the Star of David,

hear them shouting commands

above the clamor and the swirling dust.

i must

remember how this unfolds in reality time

so i might use my rhyme

to describe the madness and the genocide.

there is no where to hide,

the innocence.

i must

remember to heat water for another cup of tea,

watching civilization flee.

on my tv

there's currently a bulletin coming from the Red Sea

about a missile strike on a Panamanian-flagged oil tanker

and another drone shot down,

having been launched from an historic Yemeni town

now curiously devoid of hungry tourists.

thousands of actors are rehearsing their lines

but no one is paying their fines:

it's overdue, the settlement cost.

much is lost!

during an intermission,

i must

remember the thuggish warlords

and the frightened underdogs,

both eating everything they can dig their teeth into,

as they drink

and sink

like hard noodles into their own fragrant broth.

the Golden Gate Bridge

but
her breasts keep getting in the way

so i couldn't sleep worth a damn
and the music was too loud
even if it was Kashmir
each heavy note came tumbling bouncing off the entrance door
i saw the stenciled sign splashed in hurried paint i hurried in
drizzled colors piled onto a dirty glass canvas announcing
Harmony Bar & Restaurant but i wasn't buying it
none of it none at all

her white shirt remained unbuttoned
while i fumbled 
i dropped the ball but had a ball played the game
went into extra innings 
she felt cold hot luke warm hot again
her nipples got the beat
each one
inclined swayed winked and nodded as i smoked
waiting on my park bench wearing a French beret
met a photographer who soon became a painter
read the newspaper headlines about the disturbance
waited until she touched me touched herself
i became erect & stayed that way

i couldn't sleep worth a damn
had a stiff one had a drink had a dream
i remembered Joseph Alioto and the bomb
his prostate cancer a bitch a hole in the invincibility wall
the streets of San Francisco pulsing up and down
round and round the Transamerica pyramid wild-eyed
his grave and everywhere parades of kids and more shadows
looking for the mafia but finding hills and bags of pills
and the Pacific Ocean and suicides
the Golden Gate Bridge the perfect foil
where inspired hippies danced by the incoming tide
outgoing too and in tune with their war
their camouflaged faces and Indochinese histories
black cats and panthers sitting on ice listening sweating the draft
their inner city jazz coming undercover coming underground
to Dizzy and Miles getting a fix on things some very good things
with sharp wit and sharper needles all at the appropriate time no less

i couldn't sleep worth a damn
living in my crummy flat by the fire department
on Haight-Ashbury with a famous singer
i can't recall his name his face just doesn't appear to me anymore
he played the drums in a white band not well but
only for a short while before dropping his sticks 
into the depths into the drug culture into the abyss
ringing my bell at all hours on each every almost any floor
at the window
by the stairs
on the road
tugging at my brains spilling my guts onto the cop's desk by his answering machine
questioning me and digging for deeper mysteries that no man should ever want to know
most any time the elevators to the 13th floor sit waiting for the middle finger
and i started to write in a cold sweat typing a combination of words
emphasizing color, light, and the need for a change of pace a change of direction
i felt i needed a job needed a push a muse a mother a mouth a moment of genuine solitude
but no flawed insight please no three piece suit please no college campus guidebook
in plain view on a polished dining room table, no stained glass front door, no father knows best
no the prevailing mood wasn't enough no crowd control no ten commandments
no zeitgeist no leitmotif no full monty to unwrap the final vision to explain everything
in one big yellow star-bursting fireworks explosion so we can all just go to hell! 
& so it goes for general motors general electric and the general population
all the crazy politicians jerking off in the planetary house of representatives
doing to us what they're doing to each other over the air waves and over cocktails
and over there and here in their hands a new generation looking for a masterpiece.

but i know where Jefferson once whispered to his black mistress, so maybe that's enough.

but

her breasts keep getting in the way 

the Ohio National Guard

the Lusitania, a passenger ship, was torpedoed by U-20,
a German submarine.
it sank not far from Queenstown, Ireland,
in the spring of 1915,
before Guernica, Spain, was bombed;
before Picasso married Olga,
but after Van Gogh lived briefly in
the south of France with his amazing canvas,
splashing paints, and his injured ear.

in Flanders Fields the flowers bloom.

tombstones there are now growing as tall as fresh spring flowers,
the difference being that the headstones are engraved with names.

i thought about this while walking
my dog on a hard gravel trail
which wanders, deer-like,
through a nearby woods.
it was a hot morning, although not on fire,
when i climbed over fallen logs,
sidestepped the poison ivy,
my legs growing increasingly weary with the
weight of my Army-issue combat boots.

in my head was Dresden, a once beautiful German city, burned to ashes and
jumbled piles of blasted stone
in the spring of 1945,
and very few local people survived the fire storm 
to save their tea pots from the flaming catacombs.

i remembered
the forgotten war 

which was forgotten by the many millions
who didn't fight in Korea.
there were dead bodies on the cold battlefields who are now pieces of thin bone,
small shards of memory, forgotten loves of childhood
lost in the drifting winter snows
on the south bank of the
frozen Chosin Reservoir.

looking ahead,
toward a fenced orchard,
i saw bright ripe sour cherries being harvested by
young men on ladders.
young men, not the present busy ladder men, died
while wearing sweaty uniforms in the oppressive humidity
of the Ia Drang Valley, South Vietnam, in the fall of 1965.
Vietnam is a beautiful country
with a rich history and kind people
who are humble and loyal to their ancestors.
their rice is grown locally.

the helicopters didn't notice the rice as they came in
on their speedy Medivac approach to grab the many body bags 

filled with dead and to aid the wounded.

my dog doesn't know about this:

she cavorts with flickering shadows and chases alert chipmunks,

rabbits, running groundhogs.
she's busy with her own interests and oblivious to
the history of man.
she carries no baggage.

the Ohio National Guard has baggage,
having shot to death unarmed college students
who were protesting senseless killing.

you're IT, Kerouac, Jack!

 "Straight from the mind to the voice,"

said the mad-eyed man with whiskey
on his lips and cigarette smoke blowing
up his loose-fitting pants where the lovely hand
of a lady journalist from Italy was busy
while contemplating her life on a Colorado Buddhist campus.

she asked him in all earnestness sweetly
if IT was because of the war or because of a need
for change or simply because the dragon tattoo
on the early morning side of his unshaven face
kept spitting fire even during the heaviest New York rains,
when everyone else went running for shelter?

while at East 9th and 3rd Avenue there was a baby boomer carriage
and he rocked that boat like a titanic wave crashing 
through the intersection of his sad generation of brown
shoe wearers' looking for a pair of uptight white socks and
Slim playing hot on the nearest radio set high in the
rafters of the famous Harmony Bar and Grill, where
the girl with the unbuttoned blouse kept bouncing her brown hair
into his face and it was the largest crowd he had seen on Harlem
streets in over a week of searching, but it was a Friday night
and their music was jumping into and out of cars and fast trucks,
and hipsters on the road were looking for a good time in no time at all,
shooting around to find something that wasn't perfectly boring,
so they finally asked him to be IT

and he said yes.

Any time now, dear

there was a time in California
when i thought i had an extended reach
so i went walking with a musical woman
to an insanely beautiful Pacific beach
where we built a huge fire
and read Russian poetry
while watching the fiery sun
lower itself into the still-glowing sea

i asked her to sing
the Beach Boys who came first to my mind
but she sang Dead Man's Curve
and i didn't want to seem unkind
so i had another quick drink
while she played her B Flat clarinet
like the famous little French bird
who escaped her net

she started to dance like the puppet Pinocchio
wet sand between her toes
i considered heading to San Francisco
to see their variety shows
but the wild surf made a steady roar
Big Sur darkness held me to the floor
and she asked for a foot massage
said both her feet were damp
so i lit a Coleman lamp
and settled into our cozy camp

i found another cold Guinness
but it wasn't just a beer:
she handed me oil and spices
and said "Any time now, dear."

the vast Russian steppes

while the snows fell heavily upon the ground,

the eleventh moon
turned to face Matisse
in his famous studio near Paris.

and the flower seller walked away with his basket full,
his scarlet eyes silent at the end of the day.

a skinny body stared numbly out to sea,
to watch the moon's reflection on the turbulent waters;
her angular arms clasped in the fifth position above her head.

the northern light, a thunderous gray,
showed no glimmer of mercy
when the ballet season ended in a pillar of chalk
carved from the cliffs of Pourville.

in a steady rush of solitude the solitary person
withered and fell on the vast Russian steppes:
the moon slowly rose like a bird in its' cage,
puzzled to discover there was no easy way to fly.

Max Jacob (1876 - 1944)

Max was in his ill-lit room making fetishes

for his friends:  little things with strange

hieroglyphs, given for money or as treasured gifts.

his poetic air was patiently dark, with drugs and rough house sex

enjoyed at a Monday evening get-together

held inside regardless of the moody weather.

lurking in corners smoking away, his menacing friends

wore white gloves while watching amateur guests from afar

in an atmosphere most totally bizarre:

they would laugh at all their excesses, and their lack of scientific

thought.

encouraged to be inappropriate and morbid,

they fingered whatever they brought.

the Dharma bums

The Dharma bums

over and under

taking it as it comes:

loaded six shooter and dove of peace.

will it keep on raining

or finally cease?

weeping as the levee breaks

while wondering what it takes

to save the flooded land:

writing poetry to help understand

what's the rush to center stage?

sitting by the campfire turning the page,

reading the Sunday news:

sports or entertainment?

it should be easy to choose!

wearing sun shades

polishing the blades

going down

avoiding the center of town

sitting by a mountain lake

avoiding the fake

taking it as it comes

the Dharma bums

playing in the key of G

breathing easily.

multiple shooters

multiple shooters

like dead-of-night owl hooters
stealthy and quiet
on the wings of a riot
holding an AK47
dreaming of a virginal Heaven
inside a shopping mall
watching innocent victims fall
in the new toy aisle.
and when the bloody bodies pile
a sullen smile
breaks underneath a black mask
running for the black SUV
from sea to shining sea.

hanging with your picture

i'm not a known artist, but

i'm still hanging with your picture

it's been another cloudy day
and all the hours have sped away.

is it too late tonight to get a fast bite
by checking out the drive in?

my fast car is smoking its' tires
burning rubber to your outstretched arms:

you're the woman working all her charms!

shifting every gear

but i'm drawing near,

still hanging with your picture

suddenly, i just want to ride my bike
so don't ask me what i really like:

it's a two-wheeler, not a trike.

my motor is running like a power jet
pedaling furiously across your radar net

still hanging with your picture

suddenly, i'm standing tall on my tallest ladder
reaching for a tool to make it matter

is it too late tonight to get a fast bite
or has your fire turned to ashes?

a flirtatious wave of your eye lashes

is all it takes

for me to apply the brakes:

still hanging with your picture

China doll

China doll

resting her head on the seashore

watches the bather take a bath

hoping for more

than glimpses of his brush

she wonders how in the world

he could withstand the incoming tide

of all her propaganda

as she lied and lied and lied

about the size of her breasts

but he shows no interest beyond his toilet

as it flushes his indiscretions away

which gets her so angry

she wonders what else to say

or how to use her charms

to entice his arms

to embrace her:

if only she didn't powder her face red,

he said,

or angle her eyes in hues of midnight black,

then a tryst could stand a chance.

he adjusted his pants

as perhaps a flirt might do

but held firm.

he watched her squirm.

she was hoping for more

but would never take to the floor

in her imagination.

he combed his thinning hair

with an air

of innocence

before crossing the strait

where fate

would find him with another woman.

stark raving madness of America

Ginsberg saw the punch of heavenly insanity

through glassy homosexual eyes
across immense oceans of distance while nearing death

He wrote from his head the trade wind Howl
of demon smokestacks and collapsed cities
screwing a Buddha universe full of astronomic atoms
where lived man who spit bloody blood and broke hearts
among hard machines created by hard machines
on the hard surface of their temporary world

pregnant with firearms & hypodermic needles
in need of fast cash and the warm hot fix
of a thousand wing-flapping angels in passionate frenzy

Ginsberg saw the stark raving madness of America

& the false copy of New York cruise ships
underneath their starry night
where cots full of spent sperm and false hips
and wigs with plastic faces danced before He died

beyond a prison wall and border fence on the edge of now

His tender men wrote their poetic scrawl on brick and mortar
confessing mutual love while shouting from the speaker's box
powdered dry on a park bench of the Sahara desert in Times Square

without relief by convenient suicide or happy June weddings
with frosted cakes of many colors & wall street traders
pumping for their gymnasium memberships

on the sweaty avenues of the big money center banks

and spying reception hall couples standing guard by the enormous Briar Rabbit hole
wherein was found a clever habit without a nun attached
near the Harvard yard of nothingness

with faculty signatures etched on the wailing diplomas

Ginsberg chanted OM on His string of inspiration

with throngs of fellow Beat poets bear-chested in contemplation

studying the crowded beer hall hordes

spilling clouds of foamy thought across their wizard brows,

observing, with ever-penetrating eyes blurred by rhetoric,

ashcan lids blowing

craftily spinning

across the hard-surfaced street
to where the Brooklyn Dodgers once played

before an admiring crowd of immortal souls
who cheered lustily inside Ebbets Field 

where memories grew like Hell

Joan Didion cringed

The death of a salesman

didn't come suddenly, and it wasn't until I was reading my mail

that I heard the surprising thump of his body drop to the floor.

I could have played A Day in the Life

or read the news today, oh boy, a thousand times

to fill the hole in my heart,

but still, the pain of his passing would have persisted!

Joan Didion cringed, watching me on my power chair twist and shout,

acting completely anxious.

You see, without the salesman, I am lost.

She seemed lost, too.

And being lost in our modern world full of sign posts is not a good thing:

no one will come to visit without detailed instructions,

and we'll find nowhere to shop.

So, we sit together smoking our cigarettes, blowing rings of pathos at each other.

She soon asks what we should do between class, and I remind her

it is Pass or Fail;

eyeing me, she said she hopes to fail.

native prairie grasses

there is something to be learned from this trial by fire

IF one is nude and tied to the most important stake
in the overwhelming presence of anxious enemies,
regardless of the time of day and in spite of several
persistent appeals to a hoped-for shared humanity.

not even half-hearted support seeped from the Speaker,
who had an embarrassing hand holding the doomsday gavel.
it doesn't matter if this speaker is masculine or feminine,
as a lusty sex is never part of their equation.

i heard the deep bass sound of a 1980's Pink Floyd
tune and "I'm all right Jack keep your hands off my stack"
slipped insistently inside my spinning head, bounced me on The Wall.

When i moved closer to a full time job inside the virtual heart of darkness,
the beating roomful of intensity draped a blinding hood over my eyes,
and from that moment on, i could not see from sea to shining sea.

the coffee chit chat space reminded me of a television reality show,
never to be canceled in spite of woefully low ratings.

outside, our great smoke is still visible, largely caused by fossil fuel burning
and often conjoined at birth by the charred corpse of a terrible irony:
during break time, a few souls volunteered for Yoga class and didn't seem
to mind trying to be mindful without the past or the future interfering.

their proud city high on a hill decked in white in spirit if not in style,
sat tightly connected in a fast 5G network, unconcerned that
the curtain is coming down, even while the audience shifts
uncomfortably in ever smaller seats and all the house lights turn dim.

here, ocean fish no longer go to school in abundance & glaciers melt.

no buffalo roam over boundless stretches of a once familiar world once
greenest with wildest native prairie grasses;

the untamed Indians are long gone but the high rises have come,

banishing the hide-bound tents to lonely reservations.

no soft touch violet round-lobed Hepatica can be found flirting
with its' slender white eyelashes as a simple hiker paused in search of spring beauty.

there is much to worry about when the natives dance in circles
and Wednesday is always known as hump day,
even while the island sinks into the bay.

Sergei Diaghilev (died: August 19, 1929)

he died in Venice:

before the floods swept away the chairs,
and 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 desserts,
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;
also Lifar the clown and Kochno the troll,

while Massine, far away, was hastily trying
to persuade wealthy Beaumont to keep Diaghilev's Ballet Russes afloat.
but he said no,
and Picasso refused to gloat.