The Devil in the Flesh

she couldn't float her pointed little brown-tipped stick
on the tepid water of a completely full bathtub.
i watched her struggle for an hour while i sipped Russian Vodka
flavored with very ripe yellow peaches earlier picked from a
neighbor's tree, the skins removed with a sharp knife and
left for two weeks quartered inside a large Mason jar.
she wasn't interested in deeper conversation and had no
curiosity for my home made concoction, devoting herself
entirely to delving into the silly supernatural of uncertainty,
splashing and protesting and repeating "Yes, yes, I know."
also, she was smoking opium.
her wet hands would occasionally
slide each fingertip across a dry bath towel.
the nails were painted purple,
as were her full lips which parted when she furrowed her brows.
before falling under the spell of her latest efforts, i was sitting next to
Raymond Radiguet in a small anteroom indulging in alcohol and
bouts of artistic martyrdom.  we ended up drinking a bottle of whisky and a
bottle of gin before i mentioned anything about Vodka and
only as a last resort, to stop the girl from leaving our company with her little
stick.  it was too late.  she stood confidently.
Raymond and i were both infatuated with her ass and allowed our eyes
to follow her movements when she shattered our repose by moving
abruptly to leave the room.
his health was deteriorating so i was instantly chosen to rush by
her side.
even in my weakened condition, i opened the door for her to pass as
she took her leave.
i took my Vodka and a glass.
i might have hallucinated, but we ended up in a room with a completely
full bathtub.
try as she might, she couldn't float her pointed little brown-tipped stick
and i never saw Raymond again.

Let it be

there were no numbers remaining on his front door step
and a surgeon friend removed all remaining trace
of granulated sugar and midnight lace
and afterwards when the lights went out he slept
he awoke crippled and weak
opened the stain glass window and took a peek
his intestines were rotten and stank
he literally fell into a bottomless tank
imagining himself a modern day poet
and that made him green with despair
i went to talk with him there
it was in London because of his English accent
and when he spoke i could tell he was happily broke
a little bit snobbish and very much a dandy
but all he asked for was a small piece of rock candy
from the local mom and pop variety store
he could have thought of so much more
like furniture, books, a precious piece of paper and a pen,
a little working girl who peddled her bottom at ten
or a carton of unfiltered smokes and a fine bourbon
no, he would have none of it
he was obviously sad and sick.

AUGUST 2014

Brain damage
splashing daily matter
one thin dime at a time
resting on the dirty floor
a company of strangers in need of a broom and more.
Solzhenitsyn
sitting on his closet shelf
collecting August dust in 2014
one hundred steps from the actual front
his combat weary grunt
counting each passing year with metal slivers of seconds
careful not to get too close
or drift away too far
remembering The Bell Jar
and other useful tunes in the box.
more empty bladders on yet another battlefield
with one soiled, impassioned STOP sign and a frantic YIELD;
the child resting on wild meadow grass
shielding her eyes from the burning sun,
looking for the wisdom of a neighbor and finding none.
a fanciful dancer
touching each nose peering from the trench;
a quiet bus waiting near the public bench.
a mother boards every twenty minutes
for a village either north or south,
as the narrow valley runs directly in either direction.

Robin, a little bird

He was only a man
The oddest to appear on stage
Since Pluto played an orange dog
Chasing a conversant, busy mouse.
In front of an audience of aliens
Visiting from the planet Loneliness,
He often spilled his bottled water
And his random insights
Like small polished pearls taken from a necklace
Once worn by a reclusive lady stylishly living in
her post-modern home in fashionable Marin.
His crowd was mostly vocal
In their laughter and in pain
Wearing their softest bras or wire rimmed glasses
or nothing at all with beards and high foreheads
they would sit or stand and famously cat call
or lion roar and roll on the well-lit studio floor.
He seemed to enjoy talking with his pet
Mister Happy in front of their paying eyes
Often expressing delight and constantly surprised
by an instant erection or a hearty applause.
He was only a man
who found one door which opened when he needed it to.

the gray door

the door to the studio was painted gray,
a privileged color if i ever saw one.
i knocked and knocked.
it was unwilling to open.
even in the face of multiple entreaties
or vocal threats, it did not move.
hiding behind it,
the mercurial woman was almost the same age as me.
she occasionally took pleasure in fishing the local stream,
but still would not open the door.
outside, against a large Sycamore tree,
her heavy boat was overturned in the yard,
it's keel a cement line meant to harness effort
when maneuvering around rocks in fast current.
i had an idea and tried the window
at the neighboring property.
a contractor had installed it only last week.
he said it was a celebrated picture window.
it was to the front of a biggish gabled house
on a hill facing the sea.
i faced the sea when i was at the window.
i pulled the sides and the top and the bottom,
but it, too, was unwilling to open.
frustrated, i had an idea.
i pushed her boat across the lawn
to the water's edge and stopped.
i spent a night thinking about the door and
the window, while sleeping with the boat.
at first light, i went looking for a set of paddles
and found none.
i soon walked back to the door to the studio.
it was painted gray and i began to knock.

we are all ex-lovers

you've all seen the film
a razor slicing into an eyeball
the opening shot
one of the most memorable in cinematic history
i have not seen it for a year
although it is a favorite scene
when i am about to sit down for a meal
with several of my closest friends
Atom Heart Mother is the music we hear
while the mashed potatoes are still warm
and the wine a sweet red
gone before the tea is served
i have no time to spare
with all the innocent bodies
chilling in the morgue
so i rush to wash and dry the dishes
all my friends have the same desire
nobody knows what we are up to.

like a virus

Tender is the night!
No matter how old the dream
There always seems a bigger bite
When your mouth is full of peaches and cream:
Sitting near an open flame,
A game show on my tv,
Tanks roll across the kitchen floor
Aiming their hungry barrels directly at me.
Airplanes fall in pieces from the sky;
A double vodka tonic in my hand
Enticing sweet lies and gentle lullabies.
Oh, Alice and her friends trashing Wonderland,
Soon shouting near my open card table.
Their game runs from ten o'clock until four.
In the afternoon i'm dealing peace;
In the evenings they're playing for war.
And it keeps getting hot in the local cemetery;
the color and texture of coffee grounds.
I hear in the sky a thunderous gray
and a glimmer of mercy in the sounds.
my chair like a cage,
i stare numbly out to sea.
the large crate of words in my mouth
remains sealed inexplicably.
Unable to stir up any further mischief',
the scarlet letter has no time to spare;
it proves submissive when compared to death
which is spreading everywhere.

a game of Jacks

No one talked on the sidewalk
And the bedroom seemed as quiet as a church mouse
I went outside at noon to water some plants
It looked just like a normal house
From my perspective
holding my rubber hose
I saw a frightened man speaking in foreign tongues
He was rubbing his powdered nose
Running down the center of the street
I heard him say he was in a hurry
I aimed my water at his face and hit him dead center
I told him not to worry
For a limited time only it was sacred stuff
It would heal the pain he felt in his heart
Without missing a beat and spitting wet he said
It might be a good place to start
I noticed weeds growing in the road
And at the intersection a young woman held her rake
She asked me if I wanted anything
And I carried away everything I could take
There was a picture window taking pictures
Of everyone who ever claimed to know
Without a treasure chest and without a car
Without a map they still knew the way to go
And a little boy tugged my sleeve
Asked me if I wanted to play a game of Jacks
I handed him my rubber hose
And told him water was the only thing it lacks.

Buffalo Ranch

Judy played at the Buffalo Ranch
rode a sixteen hand horse
on a straight and narrow course
her saddle a pair of burning pants

she smoked red hot lipstick with her smile
a cowboy for each wrist
manhandled not kissed
she stuck it to them for awhile.

she had a poet in her left hand
a tattoo on the right
a sailor every Friday night
with his mind blown proudly in the sand

they tried to talk but Judy said "NO!"
"NO!" bleeding on the shore
"NO!" eyeballs rolling on the floor
looking for a safer place to go

her skinny body like a cage
squeezed on her own crib
a kiss and protruding rib
wooden balls and passion filled with rage

Judy played at the Buffalo Ranch
rode a sixteen hand horse
on a straight and narrow course
her saddle a pair of burning pants.

Dinard (1928)

in 1928, the beach at Dinard
seemed less sinister when the bright blue penis
was inside the rented house north of town
and a tempting back door was sealed shut.
but when that door was opened,
his secret shadow crept outside looking for
an eighteen-year-old blonde who would have
been an easy target for predators.
his Queen of Hearts, after convalescing,
came ashore with her single bloody playing card,
protecting their son in his costume
as they walked together to the annual beauty pageant
held for young girls in bathing suits.
a few hours later, Miss France didn't see them enter the Hotel des Terrasses
even though they made no attempt to hide from the life of the party.
the secret shadow came along, overplaying his hand with ironical
amusement and a rather long-nailed little finger.
after all, his son was in a costume not of his choosing.
in the crowd Charlie Chaplin made a face and everyone laughed.
the blue penis liked him well enough, but thought he talked
too much in a language requiring translation, which soon
became boring, even when all dressed up in furs.
a girl caught the blue penis stiffening and he handed her his key.
inside their private room, her golden pubic hair sparkled visible to his naked eye
both when he entered and when he withdrew.
inside the deadly decorum of the hotel
the judging continued for the contest
while the Queen of Hearts played with her bloody card.
in town the blue penis throbbed with life!
his secret shadow saw the bathing suits flap on clotheslines
and heard the wind around the middle of August
pick its way through the branches of a tree.
a little blonde bird was hiding in the tree.

the lark

i handed her a goat.
she placed it directly inside her throat.
i read the lovely poems she often wrote,
falling softly on my knees.
the summer air blew past carried on a steady breeze
and i heard her curse,
shifted myself into a full reverse.
she was always in high demand;
i saw her cracking open an empty hand,
bits and pieces starting to fall.
i felt myself completely thaw.
an intention was newly painted on her wall;
little bricks of iron and polished brass
filled with tears and laughter of finely spun glass;
it felt like magic was stirring the air.
i went looking for it everywhere.
people running came streaming in;
she started to grin.
there was a burning candle sitting on the floor
i saw it shrinking and asked for one more.
she tried a new technique
it faded disastrously within a week
and became a blend of blond and dark;
i found myself on a chair in her private park
looking toward the sky where i finally saw the lark
still bravely singing she hardly ever cried:
she shed a single tear the moment before she died,
leaving a simple design scribbled on my head.
i couldn't read her message but i understood what was said.

The Waltz

and on the subject of her hair
or lack thereof,
i've already commented
on several occasions that
her loose strands were set free to create sexual mayhem
and sometimes
kept dormant in the maiden style of Carol Burnett;
that's no stand up joke, my friend.
oft times there was nothing funny about a fine tuft of beautiful hair
especially when it was located in the moist center of the known universe.
in other words, it could be closer to first-rate
than that famous crack in the Liberty Bell of Philadelphia
and equally rare & precious.
i once went to a protected area near the local river
where I unrolled my favorite blanket;
i remember it was a foggy afternoon during a humid summer week
and she was already there waiting with a warm bottle
of Strong Merlot and a plate made sweet with ripe strawberries.
her hair was unkempt.
she still had on a pair of thread-bare shorts and nearby
were her leather sandals neatly placed on the wet grass.
without a shirt or bra, it was pleasing to see her oblong areola deeply pink.
for some reason, i thought of the waltz, a song made for dancing.
she wanted to dance.

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Black Rock Roller Disco
Twenty four girls in San Francisco
An even dozen around the floor
And at the entrance several more
Coming in with the entire cast
Knowing Friday will be the last
Unless someone finds a Fairie tooth
Reported outside the photo booth
Skates for rent or skates for hire
Dancing music to inspire
Come in one and come in all
Be careful of the alcohol.

Woman in an Armchair

it might have been an unprofitable project,
but once all the political guests had departed,
i went ahead and mowed my lawn.
to safeguard my reputation, i used an edger
and a leaf blower around the standing nudes
guarding my celebrated pond.
inside the backyard cabana, i used a commercial
cleaning product to disinfect all horizontal and
vertical surfaces which might have been touched
by a woman's public hair.
although it was a very private place,
i didn't want it to seem evident
that sex was on my mind or that it became an obsession.
of course it wasn't, and by placing the morning's paper
on the single canvas seat, i was disguising the cave-like
interior by making it similar to an airport waiting area.
everyone, i thought, enjoyed a good flight.
but in my haste to be neat and tidy,
i overlooked the Woman in an Armchair,
on whose lap a skinny and sharp-colored boy was being held.
he was younger and she perhaps the poet-hero older woman
full of joy with a big bronze bust and elevated forehead
which she used effectively to put holes in his heart.
i went ahead and polished that bust before departing
for the nervous streets of my hometown.
i planned to wander from one neighborhood to
the next, keeping an eye out for another discarded canvas seat.
i found one the previous summer.

a green pea

She was alive
in an elegant and secluded
hotel around the corner from
a famous church
whose name I have never known.
how she got there,
i can not guess and won't begin to try.
instead of hiding in her cozy home
and sewing throughout the day,
she unnerved friends with her untimely disappearance,
leaving no word or written explanation to
satisfy those curious few.
at first, i accepted her absence as a rumor;
however, the more obsessed among us believed she fell ill and
some even said she might be dead,
her head shrunk to the size of a green pea,
breasts flat against the wooden floor,
tiny mouth agape and lovely teeth already loose.
i went to investigate and made the trip in several
slow minutes, but she was not home, nor were there
any stray cats about or any peculiar odors to notice.
in one room, i saw new drawings and was surprised
by their highly finished aspect.
mostly, i realized, i didn't know that she knew how to draw.
her mother, who had not seen her for thirty four years,
was the owner of the hotel where my reclusive, once missing
and thought ill or dead neighbor
was now staying.
that was the latest rumor, at least as current as this afternoon,
and i, like a bloodhound on her scent, went to find her.
at the hotel, when i dashed up to the front desk and made inquiries,
a polished young man told me it was closed because
a convention was being held and all the rooms were
now filled with important monuments.
at least, that was the latest rumor.

Three Women at the Spring

if she suffered a breakdown
i didn't hear about it;
yes, she was a neighbor, but
she was a shadowy woman
who loved her sewing,
often tying herself into myriad knots.
it's possible i could still see her through the
window across the street.
she once left a rocking horse on my front porch
and a bicycle without a chain.
the bike had an Italian frame and her
name was scrawled on the down tube.
in her spare time, i knew
she planned to do nursery compositions.
she once showed me a short piece about
Three Women at the Spring which i said didn't
seem very appropriate for a theme about morality.
she insisted that i knew nothing.
to prove her point, she removed my shirt
and made it into a rag with the intention of selling it
to a New York shaman.
i can't be entirely sure, but i later heard she received a
great deal of money in that transaction.
the following rumor had it that the shaman called her a bandit,
and for months waited in ambush to be repaid.
i should walk across the road to end this silliness
since i do want to solve the mystery of her health.
and with the answer i could feel fully entitled to a few
quiet
moments
of
rest.
i'll need to remind myself to go without wearing a shirt.

The Shining in her Eyes

I've been in this position once before
Probably somewhere between the last Peace and the next World War
I saw someone beautiful coming up to my front door
And I sat thinking why does this always seem
like it's just another hazardous dream?
'Cause there's a solid pounding inside my best ear
I keep looking behind me to see if she's still here
Or over the mountains and through the foothills
And I keep getting chills and circus spills
It's a most welcome surprise
To see the shining in her eyes
To watch the spark between our fingertips
Especially when we're touching lips
And then I'm howling at the far moon
I don't want this dream to end anytime soon
And I'm left wondering if I can keep it going until the following afternoon
While near my bed by the softly glowing light
There's a little piece of candy and I reach it to take a bite
It's milk chocolate sitting on the nightstand
I hold it and it almost melts inside my hand
It has a sweetness and I have to taste it just to understand
I know I can't stay in bed forever
What time this dream ends is anybodies guess and I'm hoping it's never
I've been in this position once before
Probably somewhere between the fat cat and the new dog on the floor
When a million radio stations kept playing a tune which I never heard
I picked up the black book and tried to read each and every word
And one came charging from the pages to hit me in the middle of my nose
I saw it falling and thought, man, I want me one of those
I keep looking behind me to see if it's wearing any clothes.

One sip for the yellow dress

Let me take a quick guess.
Who is that woman in the yellow dress?
She is sitting belly up to the bar;
Under her right eye is a petite scar!
A knife fight or a friendly cat?
I'll sit here and wonder about that.
Oh, another sip of whiskey.
Pretty soon there's nothing more that I can't see:
A buffalo and a blue bird
Whispered but the crowd never heard a word.
A black President and a powdered king
Opened their mouths and started to sing
An anthem, each trumpet shop-worn in the shade.
The music grew louder but nobody stayed.
On the road a BMW threw open its' door
Killed a young man inside a neighborhood store,
Gunning the engine wanting to kill more.
A hummingbird with a ruby-red throat
Sipping sugared water read a new note:
Please bartender won't you draw me a beer
One more for the road.  I can't stand it here.
Dust in the rain drops and chill in the air
Blood on the midway of a county fair.
My crazy uncle rode his wild horse;
He started out normal but soon went off course.
Here is my beer filled to the brim:
One sip for the yellow dress and one sip for him.

President Ho Chi Minh died in 1969

And they all died!
Any further consideration would be postponed
Until tomorrow.
A total of twenty two hundred men lied!
One was big nosed Charles de Gaulle
Who was last seen sipping heaping teaspoons of arrogance along
With ripe strawberries which came from Dalat.
Who else?
The French legions at Dien Bien Phu.
That's who.
The Emperor, Bao Dai, constantly smiled 
But never went wild
when the sneaky Japanese sat eating his rice.
They weren't very nice.
Uncle Ho knew which way to go.
And millions of peasants soon followed.
The Buddhist Group went up in flames
Playing gasoline games
In the public square.
I wasn't there.
Ngo Diem was, however, along with his brother and the
Dragon lady, who wasn't very blue.
Who else knew?
In Saigon, Nguyen Van Thieu,
Continued to work on his resume.
Kennedy and the CIA
On the river's embankment,
Ordered the bogeymen into action.
And the rain might have stopped as suddenly
As it started, but the B-52s
Were just warming up on Guam,
Their cold bomb racks filled with misery for the
Vietnamese on the ground, without qualm.
It became very clear that death could drop from
Thirty thousand feet
And kill a thousand people as they sat down to eat.
Truman had no policy, Eisenhower none, but Johnson
Pulled his pants on like a true Texan.
Nixon was no Texan, but in 1972
He celebrated an early Christmas
With Henry who flew home from Paris
With a secret merry card.
On the cover it mentioned that Hanoi and Haiphong
Would not have a merry time
tonight or for the next several weeks and
Not a single word made a rhyme,
But the men acted as though one did.
Whom did they pretend to kid?
President Ho Chi Minh died in '69.
He was no friend of mine.
The US Embassy lost a sign.
It was carried away by a staffer, who jumped
On the last helicopter leaving for the coast.
Where is it now?
That's what I want to know the most.

The sweater

And when the telephone began to ring
No one was home to answer my call.
The kitchen was empty and down the back hall
The bedroom was perfumed in shades of cool pink.
In the bathroom a brown wig dried in the sink.
A weeks' worth of papers by the studio door,
Each in a wrapper dropped on the floor.
Ends and odds and cigarette butts
Turned and tossed by an obvious klutz;
A note from the laundress pinned on one shirt,
Bloodied it hung from where it would hurt.
Upstairs for ten minutes and no one could speak;
I once sat there dreaming and stayed for a week.
Breaking a fast in my mind with a start:
I wore a frayed sweater with a thread for a heart.

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