still sleeping on the shore

i talked to Mandy as she was driving east
her current lover called and promised her a feast
but she was in Ohio and looking for a room
he promised her a virgin gown if he could be her groom
she told me she felt neglected and was searching for a drink
that she couldn't find her marbles and needed time to think
an hour's drive from Toledo she saw a motel sign
it said that Elvis wasn't really dead but this was his tribute shrine
she had at least two husbands and she didn't need a third
i told her hope was all we had but she was nervous with that word
the lights went out near Cleveland as she headed toward the lake
i promised her my new canoe but she told me it seemed fake
i felt even more responsible when she told me she was lost
she wanted to own a fancy house and i asked her what it cost
but her map seemed so confusing and she took a dreadful turn
on an avenue to Philadelphia where there was nothing new to learn
she drove her car to the Jersey coast where a fisherman came near
they spent one night together and drank warm beer
when i asked her what it was she wanted she didn't have a clue
if i had any answers i said "i would share them with you"
i heard her mumble something she once read in a book
but at that point i lost connection and couldn't bear to look
the tide rolled in, her car went out, and our conversation failed
i called once more and heard her say her boat had finally sailed
well, i looked around and realized i couldn't hear her anymore
so i imagined she dropped her anchor and was sleeping on the shore.

the children with colored eyes

when you dream
don't dream of me:
the screaming horse at lunch
didn't die for free
the final cost was a question mark and a Chinese penny
buried underneath the spreading Chestnut tree
where an electric black guitar
found inside a wooden box with stainless nails
played reruns from The Tonight Show with Jack Parr.
you quickly lost sight of all the famous trails
and returned to where it all began:
the mass media found a woman picking flowers who was actually a man
sweating in the afternoon heat.
he was soon drinking at his own funeral;
both eyes on one side of his nose shedding tears over his feet.
and the smiling harlequins and clowns
were wearing bright pants and silken gowns,
their faces painted brightly with splashed food.
of course they were in a humorous mood.
when you dream
don't dream of me:
the children with colored eyes
didn't die for free

Carnac, France

they might have been rocks
but were clearly voices of the dead;
druid tombstones.
rows of large flat stone and past days of glory:
invading soldiers from a failed conquest stopped
now and forever in their tracks filled by myth
and mysticism amid
ancient groans and ghosts and under blue skies
which resonate with crashing waves
and are at night lit by bonfires roaring on a prehistoric coast.

Federico Garcia Lorca

i decided to attend a movie preview
and it was a total flop:
the film,
not my being there.
it was simply beyond lackluster!
later, i heard the producer would henceforth
abandon cinema and
that's a good thing.
the money backers fell into a panic
when they saw actual stones being thrown
from the audience.
yes, it was that bad!
the opening scene might have been of a razor
slicing into an eyeball,
but no,
not even as memorable
and thus history was deprived
of possibly another surprising moment.
the most interesting person in the audience
was Federico Garcia Lorca and not only because
he had once been an erotic friend of Dali,
who was now living with Gala.
Lorca was the highly esteemed Spanish poet who imagined
himself a literary critic, 

but who knew little of imaginative painting,
which was Dali's great strength.
Gala was good for Dali, too, or so he said.
And Dali knew he needed to distance himself
from his ex-lover, so he refused to attend the preview.
Picasso also kept out of sight.
He was busy elsewhere with his private auditions of a young blonde.
she would get the part.
Picasso's wife would get the dog.

Lorca would eventually eat a Nationalist militia bullet.

he's still being looked for.

i hate golf.

Herb thought i was being rational
and i think that meant the left brain
but i've always written with my right hand
and didn't want to hurt his feelings,
after all it was his office and i was sitting
by the only desk lamp
in an antique green upholstered chair which
reminded me of the ugly one i had always avoided
in my grandmother's living room
but since i was paying Herb 130 dollars an hour
for the privilege of being in that chair,
i told myself to like it.
He was a nice man, too, taking notes when something
i said seemed to pique his interest which
was often and now that i reflect he was scribbling
furiously for the hour we were together with but
a few nods and ahems and quick questions to
alert me to his continued grand interest.
what was this all about, anyhow?
Six years after being a participant in a soup kitchen
experiment i continued to feel a driving attraction
for the head chefs and their love of Chardonnay although
for the life of me i think i've come to accept the taste of
an interesting Merlot or perhaps it was a Pinot?
no, the difficulty was a penis.
yes, that was the root cause of my problem although it
wasn't a problem it was an issue and if we're talking
newspaper, an issue is usually delivered daily but i've
always preferred the Sunday Times and not
simply because it was expensive but because
i like the writing and the writers and their subjects.
so basically i had a bicycle seat which over the many years
of riding both mountain and road bike etched a deep welt on
my ass which extended frontally and it became painful but
i ignored the pain and then i think i became impotent.
but i had an abusive childhood, also, and learned how to
live with people who took advantage of me in ways that they
may not have even been conscious of and i never knew what
i did to trigger their persistent needling and clever hurtfulness.
i became melancholy.
i wanted an experiment, say perhaps a changed life or one more self-compassionate
or is that too muted, well regardless, one is certainly not available at a car dealership
or is the subject of curious conversation in a neighborhood man cave,
and certainly not at the tavern among the guys who only want to talk
about a different type of handicap.
i hate golf.
i love the chef.
mostly, there is a lot to be said for creating original recipes and sharing common
interests, but more can be learned about someone when the emotional honesty
is first and foremost an important ingredient of the relationship dish.
did i mention that i love food?  good.  it's true.
if you were given a second or third chance in life, what would you choose to become?
consider this:  you won't have to ask Herb for permission.

Keats said he knew me

Keats said he knew me
but not really.
it was nearing the end of August
and i wanted to visit Russia
to tour the hospitals
and the rest homes.
no, he said, he didn't want to accompany me,
saying the world was too miserable,
that he didn't have much time to write anymore.
and i believed him!
there was a lot of sorrow going around,
and it was simply awful news about Hemingway,

damn shotguns,
but it hadn't stopped me from feeling all right.
so, let me know what your plans are, i said.
my own feeling was that we should go together.
no, i didn't imagine he'd die anytime soon, either;
there was still time to change the road
we were on,
and i wanted to do quite a lot with him.
i remembered all the good of our past times together
and asked him to reconsider.
i told him to let me know very soon,
but i never heard from him again.
i traveled to Russia by myself.

no time

no time
for a trench dug deeply in the backyard dirt
no time
and yet my hands finally begin to hurt
yes, sentences form inside my book
one page finally becomes a seventh chapter
and i give it a second look
i'll work even when i'm afraid
i talk with Doris my therapist
she said she doubts i'll ever get laid
but i might take a lover
inside a sea full of goldfish
underneath a star-filled cover
no time
for the dozens of possible stories
throughout a sad city
whose heroes once had their glories
no time
for the Beatles and other British bands
no time
and yet i leap to my feet and clap my hands.

don't go making me blue

you won't have to beg me please
i'm already down on my knees
looking up while you're looking down
yes, i'm tired of painting the town
i'd much rather paint you
you'll be sweating when we're through
so don't go making me blue
paint me red when i'm in bed
i'll remember every word you said
and i know your momma was young
she knew every song that was sung
and every guy who gave her the eye
well, they didn't really have to try
very hard
she didn't have a full deck
it was only one card
and it wasn't you
so don't go making me blue
what i like is what we do
you won't have to beg me please
i'm already down on my knees
i won't be a big tease
looking up while you're looking down
yes, i'm tired of painting the town
i'd much rather paint you
you'll be sweating when we're through
so don't go making me blue.

don't want any more assholes

i don't want any more assholes
inside my paintings or in my morning cereal;
and no more spilled milk or cold water on the floor.
i tried to tell myself everything was super cool
but knew i just couldn't take it anymore.
maybe i ran out of gas or imagination
while walking on the frantic eastern shore:
i tried my hand at an expensive vacation.
i tried to persuade a fantasy
to run away with me,
but as luck would have it i climbed to the top
of the nearest witness tree.
i bought a blazingly fast racehorse and then bought ten more
and soon they lost all my money;
i was reduced to sweeping up shit from their apartment floor.
i handed over my trusty Bowie knife,
grabbed a favorite wooden spoon to stir up another crack at life
but it was all done tongue-in-cheek
with a recipe i tried to sell in Philadelphia at least once a week.
never did i doubt that those damn horses could run
or that a mysterious woman could be an exceptional artist and want to create
a masterpiece if it wasn't too late.
and in my new venture, doubtlessly inspired,
i wanted to be the next President but i was just too tired,
washing away all my post-depression fears
with shots of Irish whiskey and snorts of bubbling coke.
someone on the street corner said this all must be some kind of joke!
i found fresh memories from a distant past
laid them out in a neat row in front of my empty alley home;
i told everyone i was packing bags and headed out to roam;
and then she reappeared on her totem tree making extra room for me;
she called my name while dusting off a stressless reclining chair,
so i took her to the shower and asked if i could wash her hair.

Olga and the 11th moon

while the snows fell heavily upon the ground,
the eleventh moon
turned to face Matisse
in his famous studio near Paris.
but the flower seller walked away with his basket full,
his scarlet eyes silent at the end of the day.
a skinny body stared numbly out to sea
to watch the moon's reflection on the turbulent waters,
her angular arms clasped in the fifth position above her head.
the northern light, a thunderous gray,
showed no glimmer of mercy
when the ballet season ended in a pillar of chalk
carved from the cliffs of Pourville.
in a steady rush of solitude the solitary person
withered and fell on the vast Russian steppes.
the moon slowly rose like a bird in a cage,
puzzled to discover there was no easy way to fly.

i was happy to love you

when you lowered yourself
to my mouth
north came heading south
your hands steady against the closed door
i stretched excitedly on the floor
a towel placed underneath my head
like a soft pillow from a nearby bed
might have been comfortably blue
i was happy to love you
in one way or another, too.

the status quo (did not fit)

the status quo did not fit

her tight jeans

nor the lacy Victoria Secret

underwear

nor the French kiss sweetened by the clear

stream waters nearby

where the meditation rock sat impassively

waiting with infinite patience

for the two naked people who eventually came

giggling

slipping

giggling

slipping

over the newly laid wood of a moonlit deck.

a tongue filled with intensity

redder than her blood

crawled inside an orange and white

tent

once it was fully erect on the deck

by the kitchen wall

under the spreading hemlock tree

(and no easy feat that was

without instructions!)

and sought the mother-earth

of the warm woman

who in her suggestive energy

triggered a landslide of desire

(which shook the soft tent)

as it buried itself

deeply inside her mouth.

she remained still like a Goddess

carved from a different light

with strong arms

listening to Mozart and a perfect piano,

or searching for a meaningful book,

a poem, perhaps,

an unfailing mariner,

an ever clearer sky.

her thin body 

cloaked in nothingness

and yet with everything real

trapped his head with her hands.

then the slow morning 

made famous

by the sleeping beauty

who discovered his hunger where her ass

had only recently been

ticktock ed

paused

giggled

and eventually slipped

into its' own quiet afternoon

when two smaller cavorting dogs

with no hint of solemnity

walked into their cages and fitfully slept.

i could love you even more: revisiting a dream

from the armchair to the sofa to the floor,
the bed to the balcony,
the kitchen and the shower
where we lathered gleefully for an hour
with oil rubs and soft voices:
we gave ourselves multiple choices,
always reaching for the more adventurous dream
behind the discreetly simple privacy screen.
in another room you appeared to me as a secret
in a bright orange wrap, no less,
while holding a volume of true desire.
i felt your fire!
i came almost last
but you loved me
as though i were the summer breeze
and you the shore.
i took you again by the hallway door,
telling you i could love you even more.
it was true.
you stood naked and i was disrobed
when a song like a disco theme
or was it a beautiful philodendron
moved our feet together,
in  spite of the humid weather.
and i knew the name of the band
when i kissed your hand.
you listened like a mountain in the morning light
while i climbed to the summit
and kissed those lips which i so adore,
telling you i could love you even more.

twenty pound bag of ice

i
saw you working in the yard
with a box of flowers by your side
and nailed to a tree the polished skull of a random deer
that had recently died.
his antlers painted white, his nose was gone
it was rumored that years before he had been a happy fawn
but now he stared so vacantly
while there was nothing more for him to see.
he looked forward only to a lovely rest
you provided company and welcomed your new guest
gave him drink and offered him a simple bed.
when you spoke it was obvious he didn't hear a word you said.
he was a wilderness head with complacent eyes
he wouldn't speak any future lies
even if he imagined he could.
so i grabbed an axe and started to chop wood
hoping you'd see me for another hour or so
but with your company about to arrive i knew i had to go.
i drove away in a heated car and blew my windows down,
looked into my mirror and saw a frustrated mans' frown
but what i didn't know and couldn't remember twice
is that i'd stop to buy you a twenty pound bag of ice.

i can make it!!

i won't make it until tomorrow
i can't go on no more
my knees are weak, my heads a mess
i'm crawling on the floor
just thinking is often painful
it hurts to lend a hand
my body is in limbo
on some distant Never Land
you said you'd always love me
i meant the world and more
then why am i so lonely
and crawling on the floor?
is this what's meant by sadness?
where music fails to sound?
if color has no meaning
why does it hang around?
to touch your face was heaven
to hear your voice was joy
now everything is changing
i've transformed into a boy
and in my childish fever
i cry a wailing whine
my loss feels overwhelming
and nothing sure seems mine:
a box of coal for Christmas
a cold slap on the face
a friendly touch one moment
then gone without a trace.

you turned out the light

i wore my white shirt
had the new blue tie pulled tight
came to your front door
and asked you for the entire night
and i saw you hesitate
how far would this go?
is he a serious suitor
or is this all part of a carnival show?
and there was late traffic
everyone had a Friday head in the air
but i kept running after you
i didn't want a casual affair
the street noise was too abrupt
i already saw your fleeting smile
if you wanted me to
i'd walk another hundred mile
and i'd bring flowers
and a heart designed solely for you
i'd want to know exactly
what more or else i could do?
and then the rains fell
and we stood there with eyes searching for more
i wore my white shirt and new blue tie
meeting at your front door
asking you for the entire night
and when we went inside
you slowly turned out the light.

i gave you more

and i placed my finger on your lips

watched you adjust your hips

there was a cloud passing overhead

you whispered and i heard what you said

"take me to another shore"

i hadn't heard that one before

my hands picked you up from the floor

you had a terrible appetite

come to me hungry every single night

knock on my door or ring my favorite bell

do what you want 'cause i'll never tell

just as sweet as a smoking gun

i'm not finished with you until i'm done

the clock is ticking it's almost four

you whispered "take me to another shore"
and baby, yes, i gave you more.

to sleep in your arms

when i came to sleep in your arms
your door was closed but your heart was still open
i went to find the key
it could have been in an adjacent room
instead of across a raging sea
where i found myself tied to the turning mast
and my ears were full of woe
i heard you give your sage advice
but wasn't sure which way to go
honey i was your mariner
and i braved the steel-eyed storm
i led the way across a battlefield
and saw the sad forlorn
i hiked to the nearby mountain top and grabbed a lightening strike,
mixed it into a rainbow that i thought that you might like
i stood in the middle of the highway
and braved a thousand stares
and made a fancy salad with crumbly cheese and pears
i traveled to the ends of the Earth and listened to the tides
tried to find the answer but all it does is hides
and all along the twisty path i kept looking high and low
i heard you give your sage advice
but wasn't sure which way to go.

How did i get here?

once a boy
in a far away land
traveled across a lonesome ocean
which he never did understand
and at age sixteen
he lit out for the territory ahead
no thoughts of mortality stirring his head
he looked instead for a perfect love
in the distant sky,
wanted a safe place to rest
where he might never die;
and he toiled and then he bled.
he went looking for a cure but it was all inside his head.
he found one answer that he hoped to trust:
why turn to stone before returning to dust?
and he found a long lost memory;
he hoped it would give him some security.
a woman alone on her trail also on the run
and they drank to health and loved
wrapped together as if they were only one.
but then aging is perplexing;
it infects our very air
it puzzles every one of us
who are lucky enough to get there
and so the kissing mouth went brittle dry.
the man, like the boy, never did understand why
and suddenly the sun forgot to rise
Pascal's Wager proved to be another surprise
as well as those Dear Uncle Sam's and all the applause
written in small print at the bottom of each clause:
love goes where it wants and carries us along,
even the adventuresome boy and his song.

Walt and the leaves of grass

why not?  the bike ride was about to begin.
Mr. Pump House went straight for the port-a-potty
and, once inside, peed on his feet.
like a rain forest the interior was hot and dark,
overly damp,
and smelled of cheap perfume.
but he shook his feet individually, impatiently, and left,
leaving the toilet's black plastic lid erect and untouched.
he was briefly curious of the Grateful Dead poster
he glimpsed hanging on the urinal wall.
he went to a companion on the outside and complained
about the foul air inside.
the companion was a Grateful Dead fan, but didn't hear
of the poster so entered an adjacent port-a-potty.
this adjacent port-a-potty had no posters.
it had no paper, either, and the work sheet indicated
it wasn't due for a cleaning for 5 more days.
the group ride was scheduled to begin soon and Mr. Pump House
was determined to be among the first to leave the staging
area, with or without the company of his companion.
but just then,
Walt Whitman rode past the start line on his new Trek,
not having to pee or anything else.
Walt thus became the first person to randomly begin the
Preservation Trust 51 miler, as the official team sponsor
was having their promotional picture taken by a paid photographer
and other riders simply deferred to this group being the
opening act.
in fact, a sizable queue had formed, waiting for some official signal to begin.
so Pump House was thinking the ride hadn't started, either.
and good Walt never stopped, floating over the cow patties
and past the hanging wash, taking quick corners on
the inside with a significant lean, all the while imagining himself an insightful poet.
unfortunately, no one was nearby to see him ride 

over the famous leaves of grass

scattered wildly on the open road.

he dreamed of individual freedoms while
speeding on his Trek which had the new electronic shifter system
and he didn't really need to know much to make it work,

so he pedaled furiously with his Oakley sunglasses catching the buzzing bugs.
when the ride officially began, next to the big green John Deere
tractor and the circus tent, it was like a gold-rush
and a folk-rock festival rolled into one and it smoked.
but no one could catch Walt, who was writing a novel in his head
as he rode while screaming at the top of his lungs.

he was making up songs,
and no one seemed to notice he wasn't wearing a helmet.

his beard was bigger than an Amish buggy.

the Strait of Messina

her slender fingers were digging into my head
her eyes were closed
we had no thoughts of the nearby bed
several times i heard her softly say
this was nice
and it was nice!
"I wish you were mine."
well maybe i wouldn't want to be hers:
limos, diamonds, mansions, and furs?
i've been to Passport Cafe parties before
they've emptied my pocket of coins
in search of perfect passing loins
and still she tried to get closer to me
and spilled her coffee
i had been rubbing her arm
she said with no hint of alarm
but i wanted her breasts
she showed me where the spill was
between her legs
and i wanted to suck her pants dry
why?
i support life, i suppose
and to water my rose.
Plus, i wouldn't let her down
but she wouldn't let me up.
so i went to get her another cup.
her one glass of white wine became two
me, beer!!
and we both became in good cheer
i have a theory for you,
my dear,
we are who we are
sitting on the sofa by the fire
discussing travel and books,
culinary notions,
the Strait of Messina and ancient potions:
running barefoot in our dreams on the sand
waking up after the storm on dry land
hardly worth mentioning
we are both looking for a place
and i hope we find it
a copy of Bohemia was on the table
her head was on my shoulder.
no limo, diamond, mansion, or fur
i simply wanted her
because of who she is.
n'est pas?
how's my French?

saw you today

saw you today
watched how you smile when you're at play
noticed the way you put up your hair
before you come down the stair
heard you sing your song
you asked me to sing along
i felt you had the better voice
but you had a different choice
and complimented me
while we were standing by the moving sea
but sorry darling my eyes were entirely on you
i can't help myself it's always been true:
there was a time when you came and i went
but i always felt you were Heaven sent
and i looked you steady in the eyes
and then to my big surprise
you gave me a favorable look in return
so when will i ever learn
there must be a way to keep the air in your tires
to stoke the embers and light your fires
why does the day seem so long when you're away?
saw you today
watched how you smile when you're at play.

when she called my name

when she called my name
and i heard her small talk
when she asked me if i'd enjoy a long walk
her hand is in mine
and all the words rhyme
she was happy to be
it was just her and me
and the moonlight each night
she still held onto me tight
stars in her eyes and the sun on my head
every song sung and every book read
remembering everything that she said
these thoughts remain inside my heart
now it might be time to make a new start
when the music changes tune
i would be happy to see the new moon
when she called my name
it was familiar and yet never the same
and i heard her small talk
when she asked me if i'd enjoy a long walk
and i'd grab my coat and shoes
chasing away any temporary blues
her stocking cap pulled on tight
walking across our private prairie at night
when she called my name
and i heard her small talk
when she asked me if i'd enjoy a long walk
her hand is in mine
and all the words rhyme.

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.