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.