champagne corks

an illusion
a fantasy friend
all the way to the bitter end
we talk at night by candlelight
when i open my door
once i found a foreign war
a song played
i found you hiding in the rubber tree shade
and it was cool
we swam in the pool
life has never been the same
no longer the routine game
a helicopter ride went nowhere
the spinning rotors kept us suspended in air
you smiled and poured the wine
i walked the straight & narrow line
feeling completely alone
chilled to the bone
i was just a foreign guy
under a distant Asian sky
the popping sound
was more than champagne corks.

on the plaza of Santa Fe

i talked with an Indian selling jewelry on the plaza of central Santa Fe
near his heart were hammered silver pieces and colors of turquoise
his pueblo memories of younger girls and boys
stirred a feather as i watched the old winds blow
soon new sign posts pointed to which way i might now go
and down a mile long canyon road where buffaloes still roam
i found a rattlesnake woman sleeping underneath an old oak tree
by her side was a postcard which she handed to me
and a large tarantula with black legs full of desert hair
it was only for a moment that i questioned what it was doing there
but spiders don't contemplate and they certainly don't speak
and i was already on the high road for more than a week
sitting on the tiny balcony with a croissant and a history book
where i read the first chapter and became angry about a current war
i dreamed of traveling to the ancient Mediterranean shore
between bites of a raspberry and lime tart
i finally looked at my watch and knew it was time to start
so away i went
in a hot air balloon with a spicy bowl of green chili
to follow the Rio Grande river whenever it grew hilly
and into the wilds of an artistic town where an old tomb stone
hardened by the past released a sad and mournful moan
i tried to find an historic hotel close by highway ten
but a thin mountain lion and a hungry black bear
slowed my progress and implored me to share
and that's just what i did in the basement of the Gopher Hole bar
sipping tequila from a Mexican mason jar
two cups of morning coffee followed by a day long drive
with a little paper map to help me safely arrive.
the vigilant highway cops just stood around and waved
they couldn't know it had been weeks since i last shaved
i removed my running shoes
which i donated to the local Good Will.

a second week

you're not my mother
not my little brother
yet so much more than a fish i met
my favorite pet
is not a dog or a friendly cat
more than a this or a silly that
i feel you are looking my way
leaning in for what i might have to say
but the great books have all been read
i thought about what you ultimately said
when the afternoon winds began to form
i walked outside into the gathering storm
you sat on an easy chair
a homemade granola bar with hiker's hair,
water bottle and apple core,
i should have stopped but wanted more.
an unexpected rain took your sandals away
i wondered if i'd have to pay
for my best effort to get a peek?
i could get lost for a second week!!

you won't think about me tomorrow

you never see me for who i am
my blue eyes could be hopelessly red
you might not miss me
even when i'm long gone and dead
i'll be so far away
you won't think about me tomorrow or today
we pass in front of an open door
you don't kiss me anymore
all the days i thought forever would remain
you don't remember my name
when i walk i no longer hear you talk
when you laugh i hear myself cry
there must be an answer but i can't figure out why
my hands reach to touch you
they find nothing solid and pass straight through
there is thin air
once we had each other and now there's nothing there
you never see me for who i am
my blue eyes could be hopelessly red
you might not miss me
even when i'm long gone and dead

you asked me to stay

it was a rainy day
i was walking away
you asked me to stay
now i don't believe i'll ever stray
hey, when you look at me
what exactly do you see?
well, there's love in my eye
it's there when i sigh
you won't have to wonder why
when i smile it's for you
it's the best thing i know how to do
there is a gentle wind to the air
i watch it tickle your hair
you say we make such a perfect pair
the night feels soft and fair
when i look you're everywhere
it was a rainy day
i was walking away
you asked me to stay
now i don't believe i'll ever stray.

she came in red

she came in red
stood the crowd on its' head
i can't remember what it was she said
she asked for a drink
i tried to clear my head to think
she gave me a woman's wink
and i began to swoon
felt myself flying to the moon
it happened in early June
and now it's July
i can't remember why
i gave her my best sigh
and my, oh my,
she took me by the hand
but i was a player in the band
maybe the guys would understand
as we walked softly to the door
i couldn't ask for any more
she swept me off the floor.
she came in red
stood the crowd on its' head
i can't remember what it was she said
but i couldn't ask for any more
she swept me off the floor.

sometimes everything makes sense

sometimes everything makes sense
looking over a backyard fence
a music jam is not for toast
Hunter is renting a house on the coast
Katie was married yesterday
her phone has more to say
Jon is her drummer
he'll be faster all summer
Dylan is now yesterday's news
Led Zeppelin is more than one man if you choose
the man in his blue dress is a cop
the Donald had a boardwalk casino flop
Peter kept growing ever sweeter
with Sally in her parents' alley
but nobody should be surprised by this:
Miss Piggy grabbing Kermit for a kiss...
in church the organ music played a lively tune
Neil took a mind-blowing trip to the moon
Timothy ingested LSD
they both ended up on lowered knee
somewhere in upper Manhattan
wondering what the hell is a board and batten?
my kayak and canoe in the river
in the winter they both shiver
because sometimes it's just too cold
if you're skinny and old
or fat
and not wearing a hat
a friendly gent said he was from Naples
his war wound was stitched together with metal staples
and he said he loved GIs
both gals and guys
all those who liberated Rome in June
singing a Yankee Doodle Dandy tune
the world was indeed saved countless times
counting pennies and Roosevelt dimes
sometimes everything makes sense
looking over my backyard fence
the yellow cab at the corner
driven by little Jack Horner
who sat eating his curds and whey
throughout the wedding day
on the phone he had so much to say
talking to Katie
who was waiting for Jon.

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.