she'd be there by the dawn

she came in from San Francisco
mostly heading east
looking for a new place to go
her travelings had to cease
and the next bus stop was frozen
her hands were turning blue
she looked at me in desperation and asked "What should i do?"
but i didn't know which way was Memphis
and my voice was turning hoarse
so i pointed her to a statue of a poet
who told her to change course
her smile became wild and simple
i recited my favorite verse
and when she heard me mouth the words
she never once heard worse
so we headed to the nearest saloon
where pretty girls sat sipping wine
i poured her two full glasses of Chardonnay
and she soon was feeling fine
a speaker paused to give a speech
she wanted to hear each word
i told her he was just blowing smoke
but she loved what she just heard
there was dandruff on his shoulders
flesh heaving through his shirt
there was something we could agree upon
he was a smiling genius flirt
so insecurely at my table
i grabbed a bottle of sweet vermouth
paying closer attention to the gentleman
and found him long in tooth
but she said he was a famous painter
and suddenly she was gone
down her long road to Memphis
and she'd be there by the dawn.
so i took a clue from her absence
took the next swift boat to France
where i found a romantic studio
and taught myself to dance
Susie was in the Russian ballet
her hands where turning blue
she picked me up and tossed me
and asked me "Just who are you?"
i said i give a great speech
in both fair weather and in foul
i was wondering how far it was to Memphis
and if i could get there soon somehow.

the blue house

so when i came home
my house was blue
i looked everywhere
i missed not seeing you.
the last time i saw you
you where waving goodbye
and i couldn't help but
start wondering why.
so i took the long drive
it was already getting late
what i didn't know
that was our final date.
yet you were amazing
as we read and we spoke
then you were gone
and i awoke.
but in my dream
soft and strong
i saw you walking
i wanted to tag along.
you told me
you were in no rush
and when i held you
i noticed you blush;
everyone would notice
if we walked or ran.
you would be my lady
and i would be your man.
and then the sun rose
my alarm bells started to ring
and i looked everywhere
but couldn't see a thing.

to love forever

no more digging in the dirt
no more walking around with the hurt
i got tired staying down on my knees
how many times was i supposed to say "Please?"

i had a dad who was an old street fighter
he'd hit me and kick me every other day
i saw his fist begin to roll even tighter
i'd run and try to get away
he'd grab me and say i was really gonna pay.

i joined the Army to see what all the fighting was about
shot my way into the center of town
saw people pointing but couldn't hear them shout
they kept looking up while i kept looking down
i knew i wanted something that couldn't be easily found.

no more digging in the dirt
no more walking around with the hurt
i got tired staying down on my knees
how many times was i supposed to say "Please?"

i had a woman tell me i was a special man
she kissed me and she loved me every other day
it took awhile before i could fully understand
if i lost her i would have nothing more to say
i'm not religious but i'm staying on my knees to pray.

wounds which may never heal

passion in abundance
but lacking in common sense.
it'll be me.
the blood spilled by my feet was my type
my pain vivid, intense,
unnecessary, perhaps
unwanted, i knew
undeserved, i felt,
and at such a time
that the shock was stunning, awesome,
simple and complete.
how can one love without undefended vulnerability?
someone must have once made the comment
that perhaps the pain of loss
exceeds the rapture of togetherness.
maybe i said it.
from the parking lot,
i once remarked
"See you around!"
she replied,
"We must communicate!"
how easy it should have been in retrospect to keep
emotions in check,
entanglements at arms length,
maintaining that critical distance,
the detachment,
a cool reserve,
a preserving space,
while still having her
in an impersonal fashion.
oh, nostalgia!
i so wanted to trust someone,
to have help with every door,
to allow,
to risk everything for.
look, i heard
you and i wanted
a meaningful connection,
an honest embrace,
a fundamental relationship
without pretense or phoniness
no holding in reserve
and i gave you my word:
no secret part of myself
would be hidden
and i willingly gave to you
and flew
at every altitude
free-falling
walking on air
and always there
feeling that special breeze
which can only appear with abandonment
a ghost and a solid thing once and for all
steady
continual
and most certainly
vital and alive.
we saw things most clearly.
now am i the fool?
i am on the verge of closing myself down and
tending to wounds which may
never heal.
where now is the knock-out rose?
only the arborist knows.
the hand-formed candle resting on my glass coffee table
is in danger of losing its' dancing flame.
the fireplace has grown cold.
oh, perhaps the gas cylinder is empty again?
the nearby wall of glass no longer holds a view
of the near shore.
what is all this for?
the shore itself has disappeared.
that's what i feared.
the creek no longer flows.
someone else one said
"And so it goes."
even the simple flowers have lost their bloom.
you've already left the room.
any color appears drained from my face.
you've left without a trace.
or is this an illusion?

brown eyes blue

on my fall from the highest star
i passed a friend who had her brown eyes focused
on the far side of the street
it was a Tuesday when we had first arranged to meet
and we sat down together
didn't give a damn about the weather
we climbed a hill and rolled underneath the full harvest moon
she took my hand and promised i'd get it back sometime before June
but it never came and she went
when daybreak finally arrived i was spent
there wasn't a single penny on the floor
i saw her just before she shut the door
Fleetwood Mac was playing on the radio
i didn't really know why she felt she had to go
alarmed by another landslide
i wanted to get away but my hands felt tied
if you see my friend she might have her brown eyes blue
her painted nails stick out from the front of her shoe
she'll be carrying a smile which lights the new dawn
and when the time comes i'll hope to carry on.

it was a Tuesday

there was a partially eaten hamburger
a warm Guinness
a bright Chardonnay.
it was a Tuesday.
the sun was shining
outside the window.
the lunch crowd was in
drinking fresh tonic and gin
water with ice and sliced lemon
and i could touch your hand.
sitting knee to knee
you leaned over and spoke to me.
tears on the plate.
the waitress asked how was everything?
balsamic vinegar on the floor.
walking to the side door
we were still tasting the atmosphere;
i watched you,
that's something i need to do,
all the way to the parking area
where we saw our cars.
you went one way.
it was a Tuesday.
and i followed until i ran out of gas.
there you were with extra fuel
in a hand-held can.
"so let's get this show on the road again."

no one behind the wheel

driving alone
no one behind the wheel
starting from a beach front hotel
a strange woman i didn't know well
her red stop signs and red street lights
tall towers and tender sights
her doggie style wild cat fights
but no accidents
no one behind the wheel
a letter said she was too tired
without laughing i said she was hired
her red stop signs and red street lights
tall towers and tender sights
her doggie style wild cat fights
driving alone
no one behind the wheel
a woman with her dark back seat
asking if i'd like something to eat
driving alone
no one behind the wheel
her hand on my keys all night through
couldn't get lost so what should i do
driving alone
no one behind the wheel.

an eagle with a woman's breasts

one more drink:
will it be bourbon or wine?
well, the grey-haired woman
thought everything was fine,
but then her tires went flat.
can you imagine that?
her corns began to burn,
her demeanor caught cold!
is she a bust on a funeral pyre
or simply grown too old?
the following Sunday
more lessons came my way;
i sat calmly reading the papers
to pass another day.
a long bull's penis
was in the morning news.
it was tipped with a ribbon
of more reds than blues.
three years went by
while i stayed firmly on that chair;
she said she looked around
but couldn't find me anywhere.
hell, then the window opened;
an eagle with a woman's breasts
offered me a challenge
and i passed her tests.
when i rose from my seat
to stretch my bones,
she grabbed my arm
and we erupted in moans.
we didn't have far to go;
we wanted to feed the birds,
and our bag of seeds
did more for them than words.

johnnie's blow

hey Joe,
i've got a pocket full of johnnie's blow
he tried to fill me with his candied red
i found him shot and bloodied on his bed
once a shit from 43rd
everyone knew he was a little turd
and that's the latest from what i heard

hey Jane,
i've got a plantation full of sugar cane
it'll rot your teeth and blow your brain
your head will split and nothing will remain
once and done and overall
they're looking for johnnie to take the fall
and that's the latest i can recall

hey Jack,
i've got a warehouse full of whitie's crack
it's pure and simple and smells like gold
one pinch and you're hooked and then you're sold
try a sample in the park
almost nothing you can't do after dark
and when you do it'll leave it's mark

hey Joe,
i've got a pocket full of johnnie's blow
he tried to fill me with his candied red
i found him shot and bloodied on his bed
once a shit from 43rd
everyone knew he was a little turd
and that's the latest from what i heard

it just felt right

her fresh hair
would i dare?
play the strings of her heart
listening to the tune
i watched a quiet moon
floating in the night sky
not for me to sit wondering why
it just felt right
she picked up my smile and took a bite
but i headed home
it wasn't very far
there was my old piano and a new guitar
on the kitchen table a piece of flat bread toast
i thought of beginning life out on the west coast
she wouldn't travel in a car
and sometimes that's just how things are
i had her in my head
it must have been something that she once said
i thought of myself going to bed
and she would be between my sheets
lithe and trim
it was a game i couldn't win
i remembered back to when we met
she was young and i wild
a military man and a flower child
we got a good seat at the local bar
and sometimes that's just how things are
i watched a quiet moon
floating in the night sky
not for me to sit wondering why
it just felt right
she picked up my smile and took a bite.

all i want to do is say hello

i've found a climbing stair
it's leading me straight to nowhere
but i keep on walking
convinced that i'll find you there
and it might be dark
you might be playing games in the park
swinging on a set with your legs kicking the air
shaking your head no
when all i want to do i say hello
take you to the nearest motion picture show
down the road past the local rodeo
where a lucky cowboy gets to take a dangerous ride
won't you walk with me close by my side?
i've found a climbing stair
it's leading me straight to nowhere
but i keep on walking
convinced that i'll find you there
and it might be wrong
this might not be your favorite song
but it's all i have and i've sung it everywhere
shaking your head no
when all i want to do is say hello
take you to the nearest motion picture show
down the road past the local rodeo
where a lucky cowboy gets to take a dangerous ride
won't you walk with me close by my side?
i've found a climbing stair
it's leading me straight to nowhere
but i keep on walking
i keep on walking
walking and talking
and it might be dark
you might be playing games in the park
swinging on a set with your legs kicking the air
shaking your head no
when all i want to do is say hello

instead of television

the first time that i saw her
she came to me when i moved away
i was very shy and worked very hard
and didn't know what more to say
there were easily restraints
i never asked her what she knew
when she finally told me the truth
i didn't know what else to do
she had the strangest eyes
occasionally wore a bright red rose
i had no idea what it meant
and it was impossible to suppose:
a kid sister or a saint?
the barbed wire twisting in her hair
at times intimidating
other times completely fair.
black and cream
like a monumental dream
but at the same time
i was hers and she was mine
instead of an individual dance
we moved into a mutual trance
i loved to tease
she loved to perplex
instead of television
we both loved sex.

accelerating to highway speed

fine
sitting on my sofa with rich dark coffee and thoughts
spilling
over the hardwood floor
like spent shells ejected from the slide of a small handgun
still smoking
like cold raindrops hitting on a hot summer tar road.
i watched her get naked in front of a tall mirror
turning the tap for more warm water than cold as she stepped
into the hard white porcelain tub;
a thick rubber mat kept her from slipping if soap bubbles
would form underfoot like memories
dangerous in the dim light of the steam-filled room.
i knew she would shampoo her short hair.
later
when it was dry it smelled like an early spring morning.
disturbing
current events are uniformly awful and my current book is filled with stories
of a mad Moses and an unhappy Abraham picking sand fleas one after another
from their crazy beards, looking always for a safe place to toss them and finding
nothing but candle grease, cheap wine, and refugee camps filled with
cotton canvas tents
and aging black-eyed children who
once upon a time would have been in a school.
i showed her my book and it was written in Chinese or Japanese, I can't
remember which, and we spent a long time trying to translate it,
alternating places on the sofa, finding extra time to feed the starving chickadees and
adding wood chips to the nesting site for the colorful wood ducks when we
occasionally walked outside for a breath of fresh air.
contemplating
chasing a great romance on a well-tuned Harley Iron 883 and
never missing a shift while cruising the grand boulevards in search of
the love of my life and feeling the wind in my face and big breasts, sturdy thighs,
and chocolate brown eyes and a voluptuous body wrapping her arms
around my waist and even deeper into the garden shed,
all the while i'm accelerating to reach highway speed.

A Fitzgerald moment

Isadora Duncan,
with her purple hair,
sat dining at the Colombe d'Or
wearing dark aviator glasses.

Scott rushed to her side,
fell to her fancy feet without his famous book
or his crazy wife,
and pulled out his sword.

"My centurion," she said
as she played with his head.

Zelda, watching from nearby, rushed from her chair,
which had recently been used by a Riviera celebrity,
and flung herself off a nearby parapet.

Her drink remained untouched on her table,
but when she miraculously reappeared,

famously alive,
she downed it in one gulp.

Her hands were blood-smeared and left
red streaks on the polished crystal.

Isadora smiled at Scott.

He leaped up and danced across the floor,

ignoring his wife, who continued to bleed.

His dancing was nothing to write home about,

but later he told Hemingway it was great.

Inno di Mameli

in the morning,
over worn stone steps,
the Italian artisans walked inside.

the lady was hiding her head under the covers,
a fresco recently made of her ass;

it was like an tasty island rimmed with collector's red lipstick,
freshly painted on the nearby marble ceiling.

waving her arms
in the eighteenth-century manner,
she rose from her bed
and headed to the bathroom,
stepping over an ample supply of caviar.

the artisans stopped smoking their opium
as she walked down the wide hall;

no man whistled or thought of a pick up on the street,

even though one of them was a Turk!

an artificial lake in the porcelain bowl,
like a small grotto in a nearby park,
held her false teeth from the night before.

when she finished with her makeup application,

she reached for her sunglasses and put them on.

it was almost evening before she set about
assembling a breakfast from ripe olives, tobacco, and red wine.

a crowd of visitors were already
in her kitchen, 

tossing hand grenades among themselves
while they watched her eat.

she was very, very cool, chewing slowly.

when she finally finished her last sip of fine Piedmont wine,
everyone came to attention and saluted.

one woman soon played a snare drum and 

a small dwarf grabbed his acoustic guitar.

the crowd began to sing Inno di Mameli.

but i wouldn't see her again until the following year,

by which time the artisans would be finished with their tasks.

she wasn't green or blue

she wasn't green or blue
as she lounged about in bed
her hair was fairly dark
long body painted red
an oriental lamp
a table made of steel
a pine tree in a Mason jar
which couldn't have been real
a sketchbook and a head
whittled down to only ears
a harlequin with folded face
and sad eyes filled with tears
a rain cloud in the window
umbrellas flying past
her lonely heart still beating for
a love that's made to last.

Erich Priebke

Priebke died in his ripe old age 

but

as a younger man, 

he was a captain wearing a fancy SS uniform,

with God on his side, a holster,
and a fierce Nazi salute in the streets of Rome.

years after the 1936 Olympics,

where a black man in Berlin
silenced the adoring crowds of
blond smiles and white teeth
with his flash of muscular brilliance,

Priebke participated in his own ceremony:

the 1944 massacre
of Italian civilians in the Ardeatine caves
near Rome.

it might have been the highlight of Priebke's career!

but he never shied away
from his enjoyment of
hating minorities and other gypsies,
who sang and danced and drank pure German beer

with the pretty flower vendors in the streets of Munich,
in halls far from Der Marienplatz.

Guitar, 2015

the North Korean leader said to
prepare for war
and what is more
the behavior of subatomic particles
is fundamentally unknown to the many people
the world over
who have fetishes.
Putin, meanwhile, acting like a rag with no intention of selling
his shares of the Black Sea,
kept squeezing all the piss and vinegar
from nearby Ukraine, hoping
the natural laws would seem less menacing,
the nails in his head would no longer cut his hands,
and a guitar found dead near the Moskva river
would no longer seem like such a paradox.
the threatening noise from that shadow rising in the East,
like a sorcerer's apprentice,
grew harder
when i slipped my
finger inside her panties.
it was winter and the snow geese stayed busy in the snow.
i asked if she'd like a coffee.
it was always a cold day in Hell but warmer near my wood fire,
the grey mantle rocks radiating their protective heat as
her soft moans reassured me that my fingers
were generating
an illusion of protection against the gathering storm.
she said she'd love a cup of coffee.
Einstein was close with his famous notion of general relativity,
which is deterministic,
and he had no intention of selling his idea to just any bidder.
he spent many years hard at work with sticks and stones
and strings,
trying to answer the question of how to tie the button.
both the Bishop and the Iman tired to ignore him
and their many allies also feigned disinterest while
from a close distance
they watched me kissing her neck,
becoming especially aroused when her two lovely breasts
were exposed.
suddenly, no one could guess what would happen next!
that much was certain,
while she and i sipped coffee together on my sofa, laughing.

snow devils

she lived in the mountains of Colorado for the winter
and her skis did a lot of talking.
between runs there was coffee
and a warm fire,
and any conversation quickly heated up
from the front side.
to me she gave a huge sigh and said
"of course you may join me"
but i was under temporary arrest after taking a shower
with a soapy stranger in the hallway room
where the overhead fan when turned on made a noise.
you know the place.
once i escaped, i noticed that she had a large Picasso hanging over
her fireplace which was crooked.
the artist would have enjoyed the irony.
like people, paintings are better seen when they
are out of place.
and i learned to ski later in life, probably i'd say
i was 40 and afraid on the bunny slopes.
elementary aged girls gave me suggestions and
then turned down slope with a grace that seemed
subversive to my envious eyes.
coffee or not, what makes a great day is one
that you fashion yourself.
i often thought about moving to Colorado in the spring
of 1926 when i told everyone to move west.
"move west," i often said.
there are skeletons in the mountains there,
and snow devils,
and it is such fun to touch the sky.

A Clear Mountain Stream

there are multitudes of
brown leaves on a broken creek.
it's the season of Christmas,
and the snow is dirty white against a red background
Inside, a smoking seamstress is stitching
together a picture of lonely people
with no one particularly in mind;
the infrequent source of the next twenty years,
the clear mountain stream,
is flowing all the way from Never Never Land
where the lost boys live
looking for their marbles,
as she sits across the street with her
sewing machine
treadling away rhythmically.
underneath a persistent sun,
warming shadows
and in the dead of night,
a bicycle and a rocking horse
and a man wearing a black mask.
a plaster cast sits near her open window,
a small part of a still life
switched at birth
in the famous maternity ward where
everyone who enters is registered as a guest
from dawn to dusk
and in between all the parts and participles of time.
the crisis confronting her is
accurately identifying everything she pieces together:
a solitary figure is represented as an all-important foot
placed next to a seated man whos' grey beard is reading
a fairy-tale story about a goblin
underneath a bridge
with an unending line of zeros and ones
erupting from his mouth.
but one cannot be entirely sure
because everything is barely discernible.
a blond and a brunette and probably a mistress,
periodically opening the door
to a wallpapered wall,
found enough ideas for a lifetime,
which is the utmost limit of our time on Earth.
her sewing machine continued to thread a needle
while the mountain stream preserved memories which
sparkled in the sunlight.

Near Vladimir is Where?

he might not actually die
but from the dark wall i heard him cry
with a sharp needle stuck deeply into his Russian arm
like an angry plow blade in dirt on a communal farm.
looking up from a narrow balcony
he caught a fleeting glimpse of me.
i saw him watching a solitary woman frown;
he saw her golden hair was turning brown
and didn't want to let her down;
he thought it high time to sound a national alarm,
so i ran upstairs for a quick ten minutes
to find them both in high good looks.
scattered on the floor were religious books,
other stolen relics from their historic past,
and cold drinks in a hot room meant to last
until my visit came to its' awkward end.
yes, i might have been a former friend
but our conversation was not a great success
i left feeling more downs than ups:
i must have drank too much and was too far advanced in my cups
many others had lost their way on the descending stairs,
some very strong characters with plenty of cares
and the weaker ones who haven't fared as well
when looking from east to west for a tolling bell.
they lost collective nerve and fell.
he critically blamed me for all his imagined woes:
his small stature, the frost-bitten toes
and those pervasive feelings of neglect and fear;
even the torch-carrying lady wouldn't blindly tread near
as he laid on his most personal charms.
i heard him threaten her with force of arms
but she didn't go to pieces all of a sudden
like some other girls did.

but would not die

i was a gentleman
standing on the street corner
minding the store
at a quarter past four
when black-masked men stormed the door
disturbing everyone with their extreme hate
and it was too late
for several who went to the floor
automatic rifles had already begun to roar
dictating death
cartoonists who once penciled in lines
fell to the two Muslim gunmen who drew bright red
and calmly fled
before they in turn were killed by French policemen
in Paris, the magazine Charlie Hebdo bled
for what was portrayed not for what was said
yet freedom of speech will not die
and any sane person can understand why.

Still Life with Fishing Net

blue eyes
standing like a ram's head
while all the pretty young ladies
thought he might be dead
by the end of the following day.
sure, his guitar looked old but it continued to play,
and with a new mandolin
and a fresh fruit dish,
his first idea
was to get his latest birthday wish:
an allegorical magic like a common law wife
changing completely the course of his busy life,
and a candle dripping wax onto his naked arm
reminded him that age has a certain passing charm.
in the soft sand he found an empty fishing net
and since the surf was about to make it wet
he decided to keep it for himself,
secretly placing it on a hard-to-reach black shelf
where for more than sixty years it was out of sight.
one day he decided to paint the shelf white
and instead of a net, he found a solitary fig,
a glass tumbler and the head of a promiscuous pig.
he searched for an answer but didn't know,
knocking down a few walls in his studio
to get a better view of the neighborhood bars:
newer girls smiled from their passing cars.
he saw all he needed to make a choice:
a woman approached with a gravelly voice.
blue eyes
asked her to sing him a song
and she agreed but only if he'd sing along.
for twenty years they rambled and roared
over piles of books and never grew bored.

guessing and looking again

Pablo said that Cubism was full of deception,
but nothing was more deceptive than his lies
which blinded his wife's vaginal eyes.
each time she cut her hair short
she seemed too frail to withstand his
phallic nose,
so he sniffed around in other places,
finding yet another vagina,
this new one lower than his waist,
as he sat with his back to the sea
calmly drawing her a tattoo of a snake
which might have been a baby.
with her candy floss hair and a tarnished finery,
she watched with her mouth agape,
her face between his Spanish feet
smaller than his smile.
another vagina with reddish arms once gave him
a shoe which he wore to a convention
of art lovers where a giant breast tripped him
and he fell into the heart of the matter,
asking himself repeatedly why an orange smells like
a kiss.