you chained me

when you chained me
you entertained me
it was a quarter to four
and i kept hoping for more
as i was lifted from the bedroom floor
never stop
never pause
the pain i'm giving to the cause
keeps the romantic smile on your face
black leather and hard lace
it's never out of place
your knife was rubbing on my throat
bleeding on my red rubber coat
i didn't think it was very nice
when you used me as a sacrifice
there was a menace in your eye
i finally thought that i would die
never stop
never pause
the pain i'm giving to the cause
keeps the romantic smile on your face
black leather and hard lace
it's never out of place
you whip was hurting on my back
but i wanted to experience your attack
i didn't think it was very bad
so i asked you for all you had
there was a menace in your eye
i finally thought that i would die
when you chained me
you entertained me
it was a quarter to four
and i kept hoping for more
i didn't know i had your appetite
but it felt so good when wrapped so tight
i didn't know i'd feel so damn proud
when you slapped me and i laughed out loud
when you chained me
you entertained me

Stella's chocolate cake

old grandmother made a killer chocolate cake with cocoa powder for Christ's sake! cocoa powder? she used vinegar for the baking soda that came all the way from South Dakota and flour and white sugar to mix with one cup of salad oil and vanilla for taste hand whipped without haste 2 cups of cold water into the dry mix then fold gently into the pan use the spoon for discreet licks while cooking at 350 for 30-35 then top with peanut butter icing but not too thickly applied totally yummy in your tummy

silver spoon

i heard her coming up the narrow stairs
on a Saturday morning and i thought "who cares?"
with her rainbow hair and a grocery bag
inside of which was my discount tag

i have album covers thrown across the floor
telling me i'm not young no more
and thinning hair and a nervous cough
a love for poker and charity golf

collecting smoke &
collecting dues
i'm sitting broke
with a glass of booze
i'm paying rent &
sipping wine
in a tenement
with a FOR SALE sign
eating bread crumbs on the floor
wondering what i came here for
never ending tales of woe
i have no other place to go

ungrateful kids and a teen mother yells
above the sound of the near church bells
a pile of clothes and dirty dishes
are all that's left of my brightest wishes

i play my friendships with a tambourine
an echo bouncing like a summer dream
on the crack sidewalk a silver spoon
and the fading image of my dying moon

collecting smoke &
collecting dues
i'm sitting broke
with a glass of booze
i'm paying rent &
sipping wine
in a tenement
with a FOR SALE sign
eating bread crumbs on the floor
wondering what i came here for
never ending tales of woe
i have no other place to go

digesting the meal

the grilled chicken salad was the perfect meal
and you were the perfect guest
as i watched you easily eat
with a fork and a knife
it appeared to me that you enjoyed
our time together
my iced root beer wasn't able to
provide any profound statements,
although i sipped with eagerness
the grilled hamburger i ate resulted in an
onion burp far removed from our table
but i covered my mouth and apologized
to no one in particular
it's true that a nuclear Iran will pose
regional balance-of-power issues
what is not certain is if the Israeli
Air Force will send 100 (+/-) fighter jets
on a preemptive attack against these nuclear
facilities, creating awful uncertainty
but it seems certain that Muslim terrorism is
a growing worry worldwide
what is not understood is how to address this
extremism
there are historical facts about Islamic
expansionism we can know them
I have not read the Koran; have you?
perhaps I will become a suicide bomber,
but i'm not now wearing an explosive vest or belt
These are desperate times
i trust you didn't have too much trouble
digesting the meal

you're just my lover

you're just my lover
i hold you on a wire
pulling higher

like a little bug
on a little rug

never satisfied
i like to roll you on the floor
always wanting more

like starting a fire
burning with desire

i guess it's different
why i love you
as i take my place above you

like a little bug
on a little rug

i'm touching your smile
staying for awhile

but you don't own me
i'm setting you free

you're not the only
sweet lover for me

you can't mess around
bringing me down

i've cried so often
without making a sound

like a little bug
on a little rug

you're just my lover
i hold you on a wire
pulling higher

never satisfied
i like to roll you on the floor
always wanting more

Amish buggies

i rode my bicycle this morning.
Hunter and i participated in a fund-raiser
for the Lancaster Bike Club, along
with 3,000 other enthusiasts of
all ages, mostly middle-aged to
older. I did see the young kids
riding their fat tire bicycles and
their smiles of pride were wide open
and genuine.
Because the 62 mile route (it was
a metric century) was designed to
follow rural roads, there was an
enormous amount of horse poop
on the asphalt. Why? We were
riding in Amish country, on a Sunday
morning, when that community was
traveling to Services and we saw
dozens of buggies, all horse drawn,
with young Amish children watching the
lycra-clad English riding alongside
and passing their transport. It's cool,
too, to go over the covered bridges.
Our course took us through 7 such bridges,
several re-built from prior flood damage.
Thankfully, the heavy rains didn't materialize
until after Hunter & I were safely inside
my van, considering a mocha frappe at the
nearby McDonald's. Our road time was
3 1/2 hours. We had fun.

the mission

does anybody really care to know
why the sun sets
and young babies cry?
people die while happy lovers sigh
where the wild winds blow inside my private studio
wanna try to wonder why
the smiling girls are wearing curls
dressing all their little toys
like little drummer boys
and calling them on Friday night
for a teasing nibble and a bite
does anybody really care to know
why the sun sets
and young heroes cry?
there's a cruel thunder in the sky
and an angry warship on the sea
heading for a battle with it's big guns
aiming straight for me
does anybody really care to know
if the Captain is a cameraman
with a popular Hollywood TV show
downloading a pixel picture of me
filing it inside his memory
he's on a mission
he's a member of the CIA
undercover with a shutter
with a silver party tray
playing his dirty dancing game
playing the flirt
playing me for the fool because it doesn't hurt
does anybody really care to know
why the sun sets
and young babies cry?
they both know they're gonna die.

burning on the floor

when i stood to leave and said you were beauty
as you rose and thought to ready bed
i didn't do it as my duty
could you hear anything that i said?
when you didn't seem to notice how i cried
as you firmly closed the door
i smiled even though a part of me inside
felt like burning on the floor
i walked into a strange and ghostly land
into the sundown like an angry spear
trying to maintain a sure and steady hand
even though you were not near
what is it? i wondered that you failed to know
i loved you such a short time ago

black leather gloves

black skirt and black high heels
a hard rock sidewalk
with angry tire squeals
muffling the way you talk
crossing the busy street
wearing black leather gloves
for the hungry men you meet

the memory of broken loves
with you hustling late at night
past papers tossed by heedless wind
and hopes of sweet delight
your hair unwashed, unpinned
a fancy collar by your ears
you walk with secret fears.

you take all the chances
there's no one by your side
no one to give you romances
everyone you trusted has lied
you've thrown yourself away
there's no tear falling just for you
no one can touch you without pay
will any dream come true?

by three in the morning you're tired
nursing a new black eye
but it's not like you were hired
to be baking grandma's apple pie
it's a rough world and you're the man
in a city full of rock n'roll
playing songs from Roy Orbison's band
finding your head and losing your soul

today i heard you'll find yourself
asking hustlers for a clue
as though it could be found on a closet shelf
worn like a favorite shoe

your coffee, sir

run along sonny
take your skeleton
and your rope
don't pay any attention
when they call you a dope
inspecting the sewers
the piping underground
dressed in your finest tie
you won't make a sound
run along sonny
take your Indian land
your expansion dreams
don't mess with reality
for it's not what it seems
climbing the ladder on main street
polite in the line
drinking your premium coffee
working overtime
run along sonny
with a new vehicle smell
your loyal friend
with her road map displaying
GPS to the end
and when you're exhausted
and feel like a goon
you can't think of dying
it's simply too soon
run along sonny
take an apple pie chart
an upstart leg
a seat on the sidewalk
learning to beg
take five with an option
for selling the firm
get pregnant in shadows
and carry full term
taking tests for advancement
swatting the flies
cleaning furniture cushions
polishing your lies
run along sonny
a neat hole in your head
an uphill grind
it's Uncle Sam welcoming you
to full peace of mind

you're away so far

drinking alone with my evening beer
sitting at this bar
thinking about why you're not here
why you're away so far
and i'm considering how i feel about you
tonight i just don't think i'm right
because i miss you and i never want to
feel this way again
without you i'm so crazy and then
i'm tripping down a city sidewalk
looking at a star
thinking about why we never talk
why you're away so far
and i'm considering how i feel about you
tonight i just don't think i'm right
because i miss you and i never want to
feel this way again
without you i'm so crazy and then
i'm reading about a love gone wrong
wondering how you are
singing the saddest words of my song
why you're away so far

Edna (1892-1950)

In Paris, a simple bridge over the river Seine
could not be rebuilt:
George Dillon brought his younger arms,
surrendered to lavish red-haired charms
and the scandalous Fatal Interview
about the sexuality of two
was promptly published on the following Saturday.
It offered a literary way
to understand the sad demise
of one famous Poetess sonnet-wise,
who became drug addicted and Steepletop lost
at an undeniably human cost.
With lips like a valentine heart
and sweet songs from her apple cart
would she love me, if I said
I could raise her from the dead
and read Aeneid or Baudelaire
in French or Spanish, if she'd care.
We could go walking in the nude
and while not perfect or purposely rude,
I'd kiss her inside her candle's glow
and play music on the keys of her piano.
She could recite her poem Renascence
with that unforgettable voice which forever haunts.

Paris dress

Heaven in a city of France
when i watched the happy people dance
i heard the hustling street performers sing
underneath a statue of an angel's wing
between puffs on an elegant cigarette
where i saw a woman i wouldn't soon forget
she was walking high and all alone
lips full of an exciting unknown
her shoulders back and hair pulled tight
i imagined she'd dance with me tonight
inside her low cut Paris dress
what treasures hid i could only guess
but she didn't pay me any mind
crossing the Champs Elysees where fashion dined
trailing expensive perfume in the air
snaking through traffic without a care
not hurried and with her casual sway
i sat enthralled what could i say?
she disappeared inside her foreign tongue
but God, she was lovely and very young

i just can't believe

there's a hole in my heart
where your sharp arrows flew
i just can't imagine
that you ever knew
that you would ever try
to be cruel so i would cry
and i just can't believe
that you would ever leave
baby, oh baby
there's a hole in my head
that your last words blew through
i just can't imagine
that you ever knew
that you would ever run
i'm feeling so totally undone
i just can't believe
that you would ever leave
baby, oh baby
there's a song in my bed
where your spirit used to sing
i just can't imagine
what loneliness will bring
what the sound of my life will be
without you lying next to me
baby, oh baby
i never wanted to travel to the moon without your shadow
i never wanted anyone without your sense of style
i never wanted to laugh without your laughter
never wanted to live without your smile
baby, oh baby
there's a weight on my chest
that my sadness has put there
i just can't imagine
that you haven't a care

Giverny, eventually

Montmartre 

on a steep historic butte 

with fresh strawberry tart 

unwrapped nudes,

excited affairs of the heart 

underneath a fine Parisian sky 

watched i 

seated outside my busy sidewalk cafe 

wondering what people say 

by the walls of the ancient Sorbonne 

in their studious Latin tongue. 

nearby, the spry 

Agile Rabbit 

sitting on his vineyard hill drinking cheap local swill 

with a painterly friend of mine 

asked Joyce if he really had a choice 

or was it just a rumor about the invisibility cloak? 

Perhaps another drunken joke 

about a man stuck inside his wall:

a shadow of a ghost before his eventual downfall? 

there's more that i should say: 

i recently talked with Claude Monet 

about his first impressionist flowers brush-stroked every single hour until 24 had been made 

he said he was adequately paid. 

i sipped my warm cafe au lait wishing this Paris memory would stay and stay!

 

but a wind and hard rain came up abruptly and took all the dryness away. 

Montmartre 

on a cobbled July afternoon 

in the shade 

stirring with an unfashionable plastic spoon 

i the tourist began to consume 

a Lebanese grape and a sweet pepper with a stem shaped like the quarter moon.

The Sun Also Rises

no one saw Hemingway shit into his green slop bucket 

so fuck it 

he's long dead now 

but i walked on a tour to his former studio 

and people in the know 

think it's cool he was an expat who came from money 

Hadley was his first special honey 

he wrote in a sharp narrative style making himself famous 

winning awards from the House of Lords on a hill near Paris 

i didn't give a damn that he grew depressed 

who could have guessed 

he'd loudly kill himself?

he still quietly lives on many a library shelf: 

the old street is narrow where he walked, drank, talked 

the Paris traffic passed by in its' familiar hurry: 

it did not appear aimless as it sped over ancient cobbles with edges smoothed by dreams 

which often bleed with age.

The Alps and Paris

i'm leaving for Murren, Switzerland
July 10th from Philadelphia airport
via Zurich and Luzerne. The Eiger
Guest House will be my home away from
home for 6 days of hiking and enjoying
the beautiful mountain scenery. I hope
to get on the high route, walk the
wildflower meadows, and see the Eiger
and the Jungfrau up close. Once
that part of my European journey is over,
I'll travel to Paris for a 5 night stay
in the Latin Quarter, where I have an
apartment rented, close to the Seine and
Notre Dame. I will be busy exploring.
Stay well.
Until the 25th of July, then.

traces

i think i'm going to town
and you may not be there
but i'll still have a quick look around

i'll look for the way you walk
and the style of your hair
i'll listen for your easy manner of talk

i'll stop in the grocery store
buying only what i need
sliding my feet on the linoleum floor

i'll look at all the faces
i'll focus on their eyes
& look for hopeful traces

patti smith is coming

patti smith are you for real 

or a photographic myth floating on the fog 

when the light is dim 

are you waiting at the exit or just coming in? 

patti smith where has Bob gone for his photographic kiss 

in New York City when the time is strange are you keeping it simple or forcing a change? 

patti smith becoming the night 

are you dreaming on the stage? 

what are you saying? as you escape your cage?

with your arms stabbing the air

your body swaying 

johnny's no longer praying 

'cause he's bleeding on the floor 

he ain't dancing anymore 

little joey has his little gun 

he's shooting up for a bunch of fun

patti smith, where you going with that song in your mouth?

are you packing heading south? 

down to the bad into the dark 

under the brooding trees in the county park 

over by the river and through the wood 

a rocking chair might do you good 

patti smith are you for real 

or a photographic myth floating on the fog 

when the light is dim 

are you waiting at the exit or just coming in?

441

along the river road
an old shoe and a broken commode
scattered bits of window glass
and an old outhouse
a dead squirrel, then a flattened mouse
more unidentifiable fur
of a him or a her
riding in the heat of summer
with a fried brain
in need of relief and rain
i was going east on four forty one
riding away from the sun
towards Marietta and the turn
beyond the fruit stand where i learn
my legs are really tired and the heat
is killing me and i feel beat
no car or truck or motorcycle
hits me on my carbon bicycle
as they go whizzing by at speed
after the corn field where i peed
i remounted and felt wonderful
i still had one cold water bottle full
and the memory of a special girl
and i mean that sincerely
i was thinking very clearly

since November

when i see you hiding in the bath
a secret wrapped around your head
floating above the water
thinking of what i just said
thinking of bed

well, now it's time to remember
that i've had you since November
and you've been with me since yesterday
but
that's more than i should say
won't you come again before you go away

here is my ring and a solemn vow
when a window is closed i'll reopen it somehow
when a kiss is as hard as nails
good loving fails

when i see you sitting in my chair
i'm still looking for you everywhere
and you thought it was a prankster joke
but i never spoke
and you took me at my word
although you never heard

when i see you hiding in the bath
in the afternoon before two
hair wrapped in bubble shampoo
thinking of what i just said
thinking of bed

well, now it's time to remember
that i've had you since November
and you've been with me since yesterday
but
that's more than i should say
won't you come again before you go away

here is my ring and a solemn vow
when a window is closed i'll reopen it somehow
when a kiss is as hard as nails
good loving fails

it's you i'm thinking of

now sitting on the couch
after a few beers
thinking about you only
brings me full of tears
walking in the sun alone
away from home
under the shady tree
no one but me
and i can't remember did i phone
i don't know why
there's no reply
i can't be singing
if there's no ringing
sometimes i just stare into space
i'm looking for you but can't find your face
i'm not afraid of any man
i just can't seem to understand
now sitting on the shore
after a long sleep
thinking about you only
makes me want to weep
walking in the rain alone
away from home
under the angry sky
i wonder why
it's you i'm thinking of
love
it's you i'm thinking of

whatever follows the dawn?

Sun King is so chill
but the fool on the hill
is still no easy pill to swallow
somewhere a heart is hollow
somewhere near the end
i'll have no more silly notes to send
but if i could only choose
i'd wear a pair of new blue suede shoes
i'd sweep you onto the nearest dance floor
ask you for a little squeeze and so much more
but you're not asking for anything
and pretty soon winter will pass into spring
and maybe you've never spoken that word
or possibly you haven't heard
all the winds of time are forward-blowing
all the maidens in love are happy knowing
dreams come true in paper back romance
i'm in a complete trace
but you're in a foreign land
hearing the lonely heart's club band
seeing everything while i'm not there
you're always telling me that life's not fair
now tell me how everything seems
you've exhausted all your womanly schemes
how will you feel when you hear my tires squeal
and the ride you wanted to take is gone
how will you carry on
whatever follows the dawn?

George and his brother

"This was not what I intended,"
George spat the words at Henry
as he shoved the chair aside,
"I could have been a contender,
but now I'm a bum, a bum, you hear
and without any Hollywood connections
and I'm not talking about Mr. Brando."
But Henry had already stormed from the room,
the door swinging in and out on fine hinges
and George's dog watching from the porch
seemed to follow with her retriever's eyes
the motion of the door, but couldn't ask
why the brothers argued, only knew
she wanted another bone to chew. There was none.
Henry had the keys to the Chevy parked in the
drive and inserted them into the slot, rotated
his slender wrist with a casual twist, and upon hearing
the motor come to life, he began to back away
from the small cabin, seeing his brother holding
the door, stopping its' movement, and yelling
words which were not meant to be generous.
Henry saw the mouth move, but could no longer hear
the individual words. He felt their sharpness.
He had already reversed the truck to where it nudged
the old oak tree, scraped a small section of bark,
and was ready to drive to town,
to escape George for an afternoon,
to relax with strangers on the tourist section of the
local beach, maybe to have a cold beer under an umbrella,
with a pile of steamed oysters for comfort and because they
tasted so damn good, were fresh from the beds.
Once more he looked over to his brother, and he threw his
left fist into the air, out of the open window, and
raising his clenched hand, he extended his middle finger.
It was stiffly erect, sending the message to George.
Henry shifted the transmission into drive and pulled out,
over gravel and unmowed grass, turned onto the public road,
and with a puff of dark gray exhaust,and the high whine
from it's aging engine, rounded the bend in his truck,
without caring for his brother or the dog.
He never glanced back. "Contender, my ass," he thought.