The Party

throbbing with guests,
the intimate deck overlooked an insignificant creek
alongside of which 5 goslings foraged for bugs in the tall grass;
nearby, the gander and his mate seemed ever watchful,
but their enjoyment of the babies was not so obvious.
party music splashing from the small house tumbled over their food search,
eventually reaching the distant courtyard where a collection of expensive cars
and hungry women sat polished and ready for action.
black humor and white pants full of deception hung in the air
inside the house where the gathered men disregarded loyalties,
went swimming to the bar and back, and repeated the same four
letter words over and over again, devaluing their own powers.
one man's huge face leaned to kiss the lips of a waiting woman who had
a nose like a giant morel and the man almost bit her, confusing the
pockmarked mushroom for a tattoo of a striped snake.
another woman in tarnished finery came from the kitchen wearing candy
floss hair and began yelling at the amorous male so he shot her a look
of puzzlement, but his confusion was likely to have been intentional.
a whirlwind of legs and laughter soon went bouncing from the front door
into the lap of all the hungry women wearing caked makeup and began guessing
where they might next celebrate the perfection of a carpenter's square.
the expensive cars were soon relocated, too.

Port Antibes with the Murphys

By the summer of twenty six
Many hotel guests ran out of tricks.
By October  of '28
Those remaining realized dinner was being served late;
Even their dessert put out to sea
Where it sank ignominiously
Like the crumbs of a banquet from the prior week.
Few looked back or cared to speak
When they saw pictures of Mussolini on every wall.
Some memories the Murphy's cared not to recall,
Like the sale of their Weatherbird boat,
Which faded with time and seemed fairly remote
When viewed from the depths of Fifth Avenue in 1942.
The Spanish civil war was over and Picasso spoke
From his studio as the levee broke
for Gerald and Sara, Scott and Zelda, and Hemingway.
In America they would all have their final say
After leaving the twentieth century of Paris in flames.
Picasso remained to continue his games!
First one wife, then two:
Countless ladies but what could a modern master do?
Meanwhile, Sara kept a rose in a tall vase in her New York entrance hall;
it was what Fernand Léger pointed to when he saw
the simplicity and exclaimed "The value of that!"
Everyone agreed and tipped a collective hat
for Gerald, who wanted to go outside to play.
He put down his brushes with nothing more to say.
He painted when he was younger, but not often or much.
He always felt he had a second-rate touch.

the modern movement

wanting to be good
i did the things i thought i should.
wanting to be kind,
i peeled the orange rind
and gave all the sections to you;
it was what i was made to do.
wanting to be brave,
i learned to shave
and shine my shoe;
it was what i was made to do.
wanting to be wise,
i sacrificed the lies
and lived a life of tragic dignity;
it was what i was made to be.

candy from the street

inside your left ear
you only hear what you want to hear
and in a hundred other places
there are a half dozen other people you want to be
some part of our times, some part of history
i used to think you were such a fine mystery
when your face was hard and lovely
but i'm a Sunday driver in my own little corner of the room
a brash young man from the country side of the moon
where the news is eaten cold and dry:
i searched without success for the bottom of your eye
from the comfort of my easy chair
i started from the absolute top and couldn't find it there
no person in the world would have that much more to spare
i threw confetti everywhere!
what a difference between a Champion and an also-ran
i picked up candy from the street with the passing of the band
and found little glances i was never able to understand
one, a heart so milked of compassion
it had no need for immeasurable passion:
now you only want to sip and taste!
but i am the detective on this case
and anything less than a big bite becomes an interesting waste.
inside your left ear
you only hear what you want to hear

a Simple Shopping Trip

She walked over the narrow bridge
She walked alone to her car
I didn't try to interfere
The distance seemed too far
There was a lonely man on her path
And I could hear him cry
When I asked for an explanation
He told me he didn't know why
I couldn't see beyond the dark cloud
A shadow had fallen across my face
When I heard her drive on down the road
She disappeared without a trace
The lonely man said he would give me a hand
I told him I didn't understand
He said sadness is nearly a laugh
A broken heart like a new birth
When life seemed to hold no value
There was always a way to find new worth
And I walked away from the bridge
I walked alone to my car
When I saw a flying butterfly
I reached and it didn't seem too far
My radio began with the news
I played with the stations but found I couldn't choose
my car started but mostly in reverse
and I began to think it seemed like a lingering curse
the tires rolled smoothly over the gravel
my life started to unravel
so I grabbed the wheel and steered
it wasn't nearly as bad as I feared
everybody waved as I drove past
there was the King and the Queen and the rest of the cast
but I kept going when they gave me their smile
I think I made it for another mile
then I saw her again in a convenience store
looking for an easy way to love once more
and there were lots of customers in her long line
each holding something that I thought was mine
I didn't try to interfere
and no one noticed when i came near.

Freddy

Freddy
Freddy
my friend, you always kept it steady
from morning sun coming around to ever ever ready
the complete showdown or a gypsy mouthful
you sang about it and made it seem so cool
white stripes, white sheets, red pants, 
hot tongue, long legs, bare chested, day long romance
the burning man didn't stand a chance
when you jumped on the world's biggest stage
adored, never bored, often locked inside a Queen-sized cage
but no matter what the London critics said
you never gave it away or lost your soul giving head
the piano dreams came with you to your final lover's bed
under covers like THE CHAMPION and it's hard to believe you're dead.
Freddy
Freddy
my friend, you always kept it steady
from morning sun coming around to ever ever ready
the first time you were early and had the crazy hair
and the young silly fillies followed you everywhere
and nice fat bottomed girls, you swept them off their feet
and pedaled under pressure and stopped on easy street
with a tight little fist in all the right places
somebody to love removed all the traces
Freddy
Freddy
as a friend you always kept it steady
from morning sun coming around to ever so steady

Practically at a Standstill

inside the door
go past the Missing in Action sign
a couple empty bottles of foreign wine
beyond her uncorked smile and the oh-so-perfect hair
if you drive another mile
she'd still be trying to get there
starting to do what many people do
in the summer or anytime
jumping her garden wall
to pick up the pieces after a great fall
worried deeply about life
playing with a Bowie knife
under the wheels of a little car
her heart tattoo a bleeding scar
resting on a railroad track
she's not looking forward
no longer interested in looking back
until early the next morning
but never completely buried
the signal light kept on blinking
she wouldn't be hurried
there were moments in her hour
like smashed seconds inside a year
practically at a standstill
i watched her shed a tear
inside the door
the highlight of her overnight trip
a sudden decision or a slip of the lip
in a hundred other places
echos could make or ruin a life
playing with a Bowie knife
under the wheels of a little car
her heart tattoo a bleeding scar
resting on a railroad track
she's not looking forward
no longer interested in looking back
inside the door
go past the Missing in Action sign
a couple of empty bottles of foreign wine
beyond her uncorked smile and the oh-so-perfect hair
if you drive another mile
she'd still be trying to get there.

What religion are you?

Are you still seeing that guy
who wears blue jeans that
(at least one of his pair)
has an obvious hole
over a knee?
There are fine
white treads
like scrambled roots
unwinding around the entire circumference
of that hole
and each time he
wears that specific pant
the hole in question is definitely larger
than it was the last time
he wore them.
Back in my day when
men really were men and
women
took their lead from what men
who really were men
had to say,
only bums or hobos wore holy pants.
So is he Catholic?

Vincent van Gogh: Painter (1853–1890)

i took my shovel from the shed,
also the wheelbarrow 

and a garden rake;
i loaded bark mulch in full sun thinking of you
sitting on a cabin porch 

overlooking a secluded lake
one could only reach with a slow drive over a rutted road
deep into the back woods of Maine.

it proved to be a long drive for a quiet time with a special book,
but you had nothing to lose 

and everything to gain.

i cleaned nesting houses for the wood ducks and chickadees,
found a fallen feather from the red-tail hawk by the slow-moving creek;
it repeatedly circled low overhead with broad hunter's wings.
the field mice sensed the danger and seemed too afraid to peek.
you asked me about Vincent van Gogh and i mentioned Theo,
as you drove away packed with gear and a GPS device
plugged into an outlet like it had been the previous summer.

you had the driver's window open for a kiss and i gave one to you twice
and i thought about that when i cut the dead evergreen branches,
scattered the mulch and the dried leaves over dry, bare ground.

there was so much work to do to prepare for a healthy garden!

you would soon hear the wild loons make their most enchanting sound.

i sat alone at my evening table while you made a distant vegetable soup
with zucchini and tomatoes and yellow corn and kale.

i read your most recent letter and would happily accept your offer,
but also knew i didn't know how to blue water sail.

i took a look at the online guides about being a Captain and a mate
and made mental notes about the purpose of each special knot
and how wind could be harnessed to propel our boat when it was in perfect trim.

i wrote you a reply in which i simply said "Yes, why not?"
and thought that together we'd get to read about Vincent and his days in Paris,
which were spent largely with his brother in a tidy apartment along a busy side street:

like he, i worked many days and weeks alone and when asked 

would always or usually say i wanted my art to feel more wholesome and complete.

and i waited for you.

do you remember this?

i'm sitting with a beer
and a fine shot of desperation.
you no doubt were with me as
we walked the cobbled streets when they were crowded.
people pushed and moved in ever so close, but we were not afraid,
although i saw you pull your purse tightly to your body.
i pointed to the church steeple
and the bright red door.
the steeple became the high point of my day!
you saw hundreds of pigeons and their droppings.
you said the fountain was full of warm water and countless pennies.
i tried to count the pennies.
the bright sun went behind a passing cloud.
i saw a man feeding the birds and he looked tough,
not at all bothered by the momentary shadow.
the hundreds of birds were hungry and scrambled for the feed.
you were careful when you walked, and told me
to watch where i stepped, since shit was everywhere.
i wanted to climb the interior steps of the church and
look out from the steeple, to see the world.
you wanted to sit at the white linen-covered table to
order a strong coffee and light up a smoke.
i saw the cloud move and so did i.
do you remember this?

Cole Porter

I tried my hand at music in 1923 but
there was no one near enough to judge me.
My dearest friend kept entertaining theories about
notes and harmonies and late night dinner parties,
and told me not to worry.
So I waited until the summer of twenty six,
when the Riviera was full of curious Americans
ready to try their hand at anything new, especially when
it included other people's feelings.
When they weren't being infuriating,
they could be affectionate, or so it seemed.
When not idle, they were off visiting small mountainside cafés,
dancing without a partner, listening to Negro
spirituals, listening to jazz played on old pianos, and
lounging on the white sands of a nearby small beach.
Their gambling was constant and, for some, almost ruinous.
A few seemed to enjoy my honest attempt at experimental songs,
but no one ever mistook me for Cole Porter,
who made a few appearances wearing his tie.
His wife, Linda,  favored serious stuff, so hated my songs.
But Cole took them largely and without suspicion,
as though they were friendly ghosts at his banquet.
He later made an important name for himself on Broadway,
as well as a great deal of money, which i never saw.
He didn't return to the Riviera, but his ballet,
Within the Quota, came appreciatively near.

Delores and her cat

There was a toilet down the hall and I went there
Before Delores could lock herself inside, which she
Often did just to piss me off.
She was watching a large screen TV in an adjacent room,
Days of Our Lives or some such shit, and didn't once
Take her eyes from the show.
Just as well, I thought, that she doesn't know what I'm doing.
I noticed she had the cat on her lap and was stroking its' head,
And that best explained my success in getting to the bathroom door.
Delores, after all, loved her pussy.
But she was the only one who gave a damn about that thing!
The framed mirror by the toilet I found newly cracked and later learned that one
Of her friends didn't like how he looked while he was trimming nose
Hairs and so hit the glass with his high school graduation ring which sported an oval
Shaped sapphire stone.  I knew this loser and couldn't believe
That he actually graduated, but educational standards over the years have
Slipped and, incredibly, the government still believed that, without exception,
no child should be left behind.
And this fellow is behind or is a behind cock sure of himself.
But Delores liked him and a couple of other guys simply because they put up with
Her furry creature and when together they'd watch television during the day.
Now she was alone, except for that purring cat, brain sucking
commercials, inane broadcasting, and a monotonous announcer's voice.
Life seemed to be in balance.  Even her wallpaper had roses and daffodils in bloom.
I wondered if I was the only person fascinated with the swirling water of a
Flushing toilet?  In which direction was it spinning?  I needed to know.
It felt really good to relieve myself without all the usual drama.

Mom, where are you going?

Remember when we were young
and i constantly ran out the back door to play?
the temperature might have been soaring
but it couldn't keep me away
from Ravic, Francis, Doug, and Joe
and all the other kids i was privileged to know.
you always seemed to stay in the house
cooking and cleaning or playing your favorite game of cards,
and i could never be bothered to come home on time,
distracting myself in each of our neighborhood backyards.
you were young and pretty and happily wed!
i never imagined you would ever be dead!!
your shining eyes deeply blue
will forever remind me of the uniqueness of you.
our last hug
so much more precious than an intricate Turkish rug.
there's nothing more from our shared decades i want to take;
i have more than enough heartache.

The Alamo, Texas

Visiting the city of San Antonio to be with an ailing mother.  I must have brought the chill northeast air along as it is cool and overcast.
My mother suffers from a cognitive impairment: Alzheimer's.

her brown eyes

Ah!  The cows.
blue on a black background
hungry bulls roaming around,
each one taking turns to make a personal visit
with an indifferent female he was about to wed.
non stopping until their appetites were fed
and the barn door closed tightly for the night.
five days later,
my favorite dog hit a terminal phase:
the vet said it was only a matter of days
and i sobbed rather noisily.
i promised to make a prayer flag for her grave
and string it by the entrance to the cave.
i will be forever haunted by her brown eyes.

Joseph Heller: "It's all fucked up."

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 with 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 discovered by a lover and live in peace
Yossarian.  Major Major.  CATCH-22?
it's what they did heroically and awkwardly continue to do.

the Bermuda Triangle: redo #730

Seven boxes and seven suns
Were arranged in the middle of the hallway.
Blocking me, a polite man from Asia asked me if I
Wanted to pass.  He was standing behind
A microphone, but in front of a large crowd of anxious people.
I nodded yes and he stepped aside.
As I went by he handed me a twenty dollar bill,
Then asked to see my passport.
Fortunately, it wasn't stolen or out of date.
While he looked it over,
I grabbed his mike.
"Ladies and Gentlemen," I spoke clearly above their clamor,
"These boxes are empty."
One particularly ancient woman who said her name was Helen
Shouted that she didn't believe me!
A man who introduced himself as Dan asked about the seven suns!
He said he didn't believe they were really radioactive.
What did I think? he wanted to know.
I felt the tug on my arm and saw my passport was being returned.
The polite Asian man asked for his twenty back, but I told him I had already spent it.
He threatened to hang himself with a scarf if I refused, so I gave it to him.
I picked up the first box and it was very heavy, very black, but when I looked inside
There was simply a vast ocean of nothingness.
Several people started to shout for answers, so I moved on.
The seven suns were so hot that when I used my arm as a shield, I could clearly see
My thin bones through my newly transparent skin.  When I looked around for him,
Dan was already gone, as were the other people, including the Asian man.
All the tiny hairs on my arm slowly singed.  My face burned.
Suddenly, I was very tired and alone.
Where had everyone gone? I wondered.
I fell down to my knees and crawled in the nearest box to search for signs of life.

Assisted Living

I visited an old aunt in her old room and she gave me an old smile which I tucked
Away inside my new coat pocket, before returning it to her.
Her black eyes were still purple with shades of blue and the bump above her left eye had stitches
Like little bristles found on a two day unshaven face, six of them in a jagged line sewn by a young
Doctor in a Lancaster hospital and he never asked for her name.
A cleaning woman had just left but the room was still messy.
I relocated the morning paper and sat near the small bed by a tasseled pillow.
My aunt complained, typically, about how her jaw was hurting and she didn't know
What she could do about it.  Tylenol?  She had just taken more Tylenol, she said.
She caressed her chin while she spoke.  I caressed my chin while I spoke.
She wanted to know how old I thought she looked!
I told her she looked 85 and she smiled around the facial bruises.
"I'm 89," she said matter-of-fact.  She thinks she
Has no skin wrinkles and can trick everyone into guessing she's a kid again.
All the residents and some of the staff have wrinkles, a few of which are in strange places.
I sat on her foot stool and elevated her right leg.
I tugged at her compression sock, finally removing it.
She said I was a little rough.
But then she bragged that I do the best job with her clippers and I made her promise
Never to tell anyone.  Ever.  No Matter What.
She told me she has a new neighbor, an old woman.  "Where did the former
Neighbor go"?  "He died.  But I never liked him."  "Who is the new neighbor?"
"I don't know.  She never leaves her room."  My aunt never leaves her room, either, except to
Eat.  She often skips lunch.
When I walk by the dining area during meal times, it is always full.
Most everyone visits the dining hall, and if a wheelchair or a walker is needed, so be it.  The
Food is not the important item on their menu.  Someone will see them.  In that moment, they
Are so much more than ghosts. And some of the old men can dance the Texas Two Step.
Some of the old women are incredible flirts, and they all believe I can't guess their age and I never can.
"Ouch!"  "What?"  "That hurt!" Darn, did I take some skin?
I finished the nails and struggled with the socks.  She complained I was too rough.  I said the socks are too small.  She said they're made to be small.  I said her feet appeared to be swollen.  She said they've
Always been swollen.  I asked about her jaw.  She said it was always sore.
No one seemed to notice when I left.

Tender Is the Night

Tender Is the Night,
which was brilliantly written by
F. Scott Fitzgerald,
failed to impress Gerald Murphy or his
wife, Sara, who spent her time without a book,
smiling under a beach umbrella.
she loved a great laugh, as did her husband, but did not want too much
sun or to be cross-examined about her relationship with her husband.
it was whispered he was homosexual.
Scott Fitzgerald was known to amuse himself by introducing Gerald to pretty
young men.
Gerald amused himself with pretty young men, but never once thanked Scott.
Sara was a friend of Fitzgerald's wife, who was
known to be crazy.
Zelda Fitzgerald had once overdosed on sleeping pills but they did not kill her.
an excess of alcoholic consumption did not kill her, either, but
God knows one famous summer she tried to drink everything bottled at
the Hotel du Cap, and almost succeeded.
when briefly sober, she had a blatant affair with a rookie pilot,
and often spread her wings at the local air base.
Scott would drink heavily, but he was a writer!
eventually, the couples would part ways, leaving hotel life,
and the busy Mediterranean coast for
certain mischief elsewhere.
And they could afford it!
after all, Living Well Is the Best Revenge.

"Let's stay here!"

the bare walls of my garage
should have your name hanging from the nearest hook
i haven't done a full accounting yet but when i do
i'll know what all it was you took
"Let's stay here!"
i heard you whispering into my ear.
and for awhile the winds were calm
i could reach out to you and you knew what i would do
with closed eyes while the world was mine
you especially tasted divine
but i can't hide from a hurricane
and you can't outrun your past riding on a speeding train:
young men kept coming into your studio in twos and threes
too many cocktails and sleeping pills,  "Another one please!"
and it came to an end when i opened the front door
it didn't even seem possible to reach the distant shore
but i knew i had to get away
to walk on the white sands of an innocent beach
far out to sea and out of reach
my mouth and hands and feet and eyes
no longer painted in still life disguise
the bare walls of my garage
should have your name hanging from the nearest hook
i haven't done a full accounting yet but when i do
i'll know what all it was you took
"Let's stay here!"
i heard you whispering into my ear.

Putin readjusted his tie

it's no laughing matter:
Russians are everywhere,
as crazy as the Mad Hatter
but not nearly as much fun!

at the pinnacle of his power
& capitalizing on his Olympic success,
Putin decided that very hour
it was time for his very own Gold medal.

so, he lit a big victory cigar,
took a deep Stalin-style grip 

on the bare throat 

of the Russian military machine.

he determined to make it an instant media star
inside the modern day Crimea.

he personally did not invade

(he was too preoccupied with his Italian tailors),

but his soldiers stood unmarked and masked
on the territory of Ukraine 

on a special operation,
while he choreographed their dance.

when he learned of his success,
he readjusted his tie
& readied himself for international phone calls.

as soon as he spoke the first word, it was a lie!

it's what he does for a living.

Waldman and Ginsberg

Anne, I wonder where you are?
Last I heard
You were in Colorado as an artistic writer,

Teaching especially creative writing.
It's where young people watch your every move,
Take notes.  Play notes.  Become notes.
They love being near the mountains.
I knew Allen, your very gracious friend Allen, visited several times and talked to a group of listeners.
Many in attendance would dance and sing Buddhist songs, humming in a
Spiritual way to center themselves inside the Universe.
You were much younger at that time, almost fully covered
With beads and bangles and hair.
Allen had lots of hair then, too.
He has since died, while you travel onward.
Your creative writers know the score:
They allow their thoughts often to have an
Easterly drift, to New York City.
Allen loved that city, even when it tried to beat him down.
He talked to the sidewalks with his feet and used his eyes to scrub

The worldly windshield.

His heart was open as he spoke, driven with inspiration.
I can sometimes hear him call your name!
I wonder why you don't write him more often?

lentil soup

Andy told me what i needed to know

but when i tried to read his map,

i still couldn't go.

alcohol and drugs:

under the bed and under the rugs,

sent over by my own doctor

who left me for dead;

in my body and inside my head,

i opened the front door to

hear what he said.

i had an old mother

who came to my side:

"Remember when you were younger

and took a fine bride?"

but there was a chill in the air

so i ran out the door;

everyone kept crying

we'd soon be at war.

i stopped at the clinic.

God gave me a drink;

he was off to a funeral.

i went there to think:

there were scars on my face

and one near my heart.

i was a spy for the Gestapo,

but needed a new start.

i made lentil soup at four

with vegetable broth and ham

and served it to Rene

who knows just who i am!
a wizard at mathematics,

he tried his hand at dance.

i left him at communion

and took my cross into France
where i made a few sketches,
played some guitar,
and reached up for the moon
which didn't seem too far.

high fever and beads of tiny sweat

for better or worse
i rolled down my window and gave you a smoke
i thought i heard an answer
but perhaps you misspoke
i poured a Merlot into your glass
about half full
it was a perfect summer
to sit by the neighboring pool
your body was black
well burnt by the sun
i offered you bog-myrtle
but you wouldn't have none
you noticed the bamboo
which grew near the creek
i watched you start standing
and offered my seat
your head gave way to a pillow
your ass on the floor
the coffee was empty
i offered you more
without cream or white sugar
i used an old French press
you wore a man's baggy pants
i wore a woman's dress
in a high fever
and beads of tiny sweat
i couldn't stay away
we had just recently met
and sat on the stairway
welcomed the dawn.
i woke up when i heard
you stifle a yawn.
you reached for a cigarette
tasteless and grey;
nearby a piano
continued to play.