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.