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.