Herb Gold

Herb was golden
in his San Francisco chair
certainly grateful
for the few strands of grey hair
he found in his bathroom sink;
well, at least he could think
his way out of a wet paper bag,
and he didn't need a chest tag
to remember his own name
as he walked past the hippie lady with her two small poodles
to a late night diner that served tasty Chinese noodles;
he was excited to read Home Boy
written by an old Park Avenue friend
who used drugs like a friendly toy
until his untimely end
when, very drunk, he crashed his motorcycle!
Herb, on the other hand, rode his Huffy bicycle
which was much safer
sure and slow;
he often knew which way to go
divorced
and solo
into the streets of San Francisco
cruising the world.

what is important

the head of a woman
her strong arms
long and slender
silent summertime charms
and twelve years later
i'm checking for changes
check, please, waiter!
her forehead and hair
falling loosely from an easy chair
gouging my cheeks
delineating lines
old cobblestone signs
and i'm on the road to creation
looking for Mr. Jack
but he's not coming back
with Alan or Paul
and i read them all
earlier in the day
before she modeled for me in an adjacent hay field
monumentality
i was forced to yield
johnny on the spot
like a figure of a man
a passing tiny dot
with flattish breasts in the background
and my treasured book
she took another look
in her androgynous pose
and nobody knows
better than i
how her breath becomes tender
when it wraps itself around my mouth
remembering what is important to remember.

when it rained

i wanted to know

when it rained

why on earth

that man thought it was snow.

his pregnant belly

like a plastic bag

of hot pants

and peanut butter jelly;

his silly laugh

flat as a FOX tongue

late at midnight

in a lukewarm bath;

by the public door

of a big white house,

his orange hair

on a bedroom floor

wild as a deer heart

but dead on arrival,
sputtering,

and never to start:

i wanted to know

when it rained

why on earth

that man thought it was snow.

in his masculine pose

one big hand small

advertising

like New York broadway shows

i wanted to know

when it rained

why on earth

that man thought it was snow.

the neighbor's cats' cries

the headlights flooded my studio
with a light so bright
i had to protect my eyes!
i heard the neighbor's cats' cries
and watched her arch her back
with a feline intent
she wandered into my gatehouse
curious and slightly bent
looking for a tray of tea
but all she saw was me
without knowing what i was for
what should she do?
i had painted my face green and blue.
looking out my window in the spring
i was astonished to learn the cat could sing.
sitting on the alley wall
there would be a terrible price to pay
if she should fall,
so i kept her in sight
throughout the night;
and in the background were bare trees,
stark and lonesome in the quiet breeze
as she crouched like a sphinx
her nose visibly pink
her giraffe-like head
like a sculpture resembling a primitive bed
slightly larger than a breast in heat
she sat confidently on her own four feet
for the better part of the coming week
modeling for the purpose of an extra treat
which i secretly provided
when our glances at each other collided
and it seems so bizarre
but that's what we are
and back to back, we looked at each other
sister and brother
dualities like the sun and moon
late and soon
sea and sky
her and i
night and day
closer and closer and further away
until our hungry lips got in the way.

the winter hare

concentration camps
think seriously;
they hang kerosene lamps,
light multiple gas ovens
in a barbed wire haze,
and bones sleep on hard wood,
hear gun shots and shouts,
and a winter hare runs from a chasing white dog
through the tall drought-resistant grasses
scampering into a hillside burrow
into darkness
hiding
because it needs to hide
and the trailing dog's nose becomes filled with dirt
while digging
persistently
when it discovers frightened people
like a giant throbbing lump of clay
hiding in the deep burrow
and suddenly
the nearing nuclear war
doesn't provide any relief
between the two.
close by,
under cover,
the commander in chief
wore his peaked cap
to protect his eyes
from the flash and nobody realized
his shadow was the only source of light.
on his last day in office
he looked unusually tentative,
devoid of charisma,
and filled with a Big Mac melancholy
which he shared with the white dog
who had come into his office
to escape the out-of-doors.
the people remained frightened,
staying in the background,
along with the vanishing winter hare.

the sea is a wall

self-referential
i'm a sunny Presidential
and the sea is a wall of busted blue
at the dawn of creation a single flying fish flew
and this should come as no surprise
i now have two naked eyes
and inflated body parts
a seesawing figure with two unconventional hearts
two balls and a Paul Bunyan hat
looking for a woman with a chest that's looking flat
a blind man found my steaming bath and sat
he waved from his pile of bubbles as he sank
up to his head he swallowed while we drank
to a woman whose pet name was Myrtle
her hips and breasts to my mind were fertile
and our harvests promised to be bountiful
we sang and ate our bellies' full
establishing a personal rapport
painting still lives on the living room floor
to satisfy our hunger for a sensual war
and in a tangle of tendrils
yet-to-be executed thrills:
all the bad girls wearing bleached blond curls
piling their bowls with fresh fruit
wearing sweaters tight and oh-so-cute
a pitcher of beer and a happy face
in a New Year's letter a piece of lively lace
and a curving candle stick
i took another look and took a lick
self-referential
i'm a sunny Presidential
and the sea is a wall of busted blue
at the dawn of creation a single flying fish flew.

if someone came for you today

i've fought with the army,
and fought with the devil in hell,
had people ask for an answer
but i've promised never to tell
when the clock strikes midnight
and shadows appear on my bedroom wall
the nightmares call for me to remember
but i don't want to recall!
i've seen hearts that are broken and blood run in the street,
tears on every single face i meet,
the sounds of war playing exclusively for the young;
battle cries written and perfectly sung
and when i raise my head above the shouts and screams
it always seems
that all i see are old mens' dreams:
sad faces stitched with military laces,
frightened souls hiding in desperate holes
and the war which never wants an end
will it come for you, my friend?
will it come for you?
well, some books ask you to turn all their pages
before you can escape from all the cages
what will you ultimately say?
what will you say
if someone came for you today?
i've fought with the army,
and fought with the devil in hell,
had people ask for an answer
but i've promised never to tell
when the clock strikes midnight
and shadows appear on my bedroom wall
the nightmares call for me to remember
but i don't want to recall!
i've seen hearts that are broken and blood run in the street,
tears on every single face i meet,
the sounds of war playing exclusively for the young;
battle cries written and perfectly sung
and when i raise my head above the shouts and screams
it always seems
that all i see are old mens' dreams:
sad faces stitched with military laces,
frightened souls hiding in desperate holes
and the war which never wants an end
will it come for you, my friend?
will it come for you?
well, some books ask you to turn all their pages
before you can escape from all the cages
what will you ultimately say?
what will you say
if someone came for you today?

swirling clouds of blue and grey

i pretended to take a walk
down an alley where i heard you talk
and you called out my name
but you need to know, this isn't our only game
chatting to friends on the back street
hanging them with a rope by their black feet
exactly like we did before the Civil War
a monument to a lonely time that once before
painted us in swirling clouds of blue and grey
and we got down on our knees to pray:
someone had a dream and knew just what to say
the police are already here
arresting suspects suffocating in fear
for the benefit of Mr. Kite
it should be okay but it still doesn't feel right
i heard them say move along
so i began to sing my favorite country song
about a wild neighbor's dog
who ran into a fight and got lost inside a fog
covered with a secret tattoo
no one believed it was true
but stranger things have come to pass
i picked up a piece of broken glass
and got down on my knees to pray:
someone had a dream and knew just what to say
he may not get there after all
but you don't have to fall
i pretended to take a walk
down an alley where i heard you talk
and you called out my name
but you need to know, this isn't our only game
chatting to friends on the back street
hanging them with a rope by their black feet
exactly like we did before the Civil War
a monument to a lonely time that once before
painted us in swirling clouds of blue and grey
and we got down on our knees to pray:
someone had a dream and knew just what to say.

hell to pay

once there was a time
i went for a long walk with a beautiful friend of mine
and it was dark
there was a serious small time dealer in the local town park
they said his bite was worse than his bark
and he was furious
well, a month later we all became curious
and it was after our first big bite
yeah, we started to feel alright
didn't want to get out of bed
i had a moment when i forgot everything i just said
and there was a terrible noise
all the girls and boys tossing their church house toys
and it was party on
as the man said, from dusk to dawn
and to settle the point we stayed inside the joint
singing songs watching the news
feeling painful while playing indiscriminate blues
falling on faces and falling on knees
thanks largely to trying too hard to please
lamented poets' ashes being very discreet
i had a moment when i forgot how to cross my neighborhood street
and would you admit you didn't crave a beautiful hit?
hell to pay trying to get over it
i had to buy the heaviest hammer to get over my handsome stammer
where people seldom go
it's not what i believe its what i know
and would you admit you didn't crave a beautiful hit?
hell to pay trying to get over it
so once there was a time
i went for a long walk with a beautiful friend of mine
and it was dark
there was a serious small time dealer in the local town park
they said his bite was worse than his bark
and he was furious
well, a month later we all became curious
and it was after our first big bite
yeah, we started to feel alright.

in how many languages?

in a small yellow room
with a small glass dish and a water bowl
sweet flowers of autumn red and summer blue
and a lovely soul
listening to the classical piano
and in no time at all
summer had given way to fall
i saw you board the bus and ride away
in how many languages do i have to say
please, stay?

and through the open window
the harvest wheat has been cut and piled high
sweet flowers of autumn red and summer blue
and a southern sky
dancing across the floor to you and i
and we finally kiss
all our moments led up to this
in how many languages do i have to say
please, stay?

during a starry night
i saw a spinning light and a strange moon
sweet flowers of autumn red and summer blue
passing too damn soon
eating at a table with just one spoon
and in no time at all
summer had given way to fall
i saw you board the bus and ride away
in how many languages do i have to say
please, stay?

finally to thaw

her voiceless breath
and i reached for the ready door
a lonely sidewalk with no footprints
so i followed
to frost crystals in a forest fortress
and an abundance of shelf fungi parade ground straight
overhead cracked branches and brazen crows
opening an open window wider and full of snow
making quiet noise
in no time unable to speak
a poetic hiding place without poets
a postcard perfect drifting
pure and simple and possibly perilous
smoothed out of a raw country
smuggled out of the prior spring like rare jewels
and slipping underneath an overhang of glacial rock
hardly ancient yet darkly old
once again the subject comes up
with a far more telling image of solitude
hidden away inside the cold cold cave
far from a burning hell:
our shivering skin,
shaking like an early alarm,
struggling to grasp heat from a faint sun,
but wrapped together in a warming embrace
mingling air
nose to nose
one into two without mathematical calculations,
having drifted from a pillowed room
into unmapped territory
blown by circumstance up a gentle hill
on a winding path that the deer have trimmed
finally melting
finally to thaw.

there is always the moon: a memoir

there is always the moon
dropping light
like bright pebbles
or like an extravagant  ball
racing above the clouds in regular lunar phases
blurring the gap like opium blurs the brain
perhaps of a famous schoolboy poet
who wrote a memoir about a voluptuous woman
with a skill giving French lessons
to the poor
instead of using her beautiful voice to teach diction
and how
without a penny
and only a single friend
became a successful actress on stage
and early screen,
who spoke with her golden voice on the radio
from where it was heard
by Gertrude Stein
who immediately wanted to visit for a book idea,
but the hour was late,
the suggestion less than honest,
and the moon had already fallen from the sky

on a star-filled night.

the local bull

the local bull
his balls heavy with top spin
his pasture field too abstract for grass
the hard dirt like an engraving on stone,
scratched by hooves and horn and
bursts of penetrating rain
a gun metal grey sky
smoking puffs of clay clouds
swirling around his wet ringed nose
roots and rocks as well as sand
the twisted tree
a white shed for shelter while the
cold winds blow:
so sure of himself
he went to work on his rest day
using the unlocked back door
of his favorite arena
not too far from the herd
stuffing himself with momentary pleasure
between her legs.

the color of blood

for a more perfect solution
don't jump into the water!
but it's up to you, to
run don't walk on freshly mowed grass
it's so much lower than high class
chasing the hardest walnut seed
or watching the grey squirrel treed
and edged with zigzag sunshine rays
close to low rising river hills
swimming momentarily for cheap thrills
chasing flotsam from the beach
slowly drifting out of reach
darkening like a shadowed flower face
the current pulling as though in a race
sporting decomposition with hard arms
devoid of any imaginary charms
down to the last finishing smile
and fishing for a little while
with enthusiasm and a safety net
of slick driftwood heavy and wet
stuffed with raisins and in a rising tide
of toy boats and seaweed
the color of blood that wild dogs bleed.

A Special Flower

Ford Madox Ford.
Ted Hughes!
his old lady
and her oven shoes
writing in their London flat
where she poetically sat
listening to the news
with Ezra Pound
and Dorothy,
who slipped underground:
he to Venice
stressing clarity
& musical words
absent disparity.
Robert Lowell.
Robert Frost!
at St. Elizabeths
at any cost
at any hour
giving the inmate
a special flower.
James Joyce
had no choice:
he always wore glasses
to see
language and brilliant infinity,
while Marianne Moore,
went quietly approaching her door,
but no one was there.
and it didn't seem fair
that Edna St. Vincent Millay,
who kissed all lips,
had the softest fingertips
to write sonnets
which the modernists hated
and constantly berated.
they loved Eliot, though,
especially the flow
of The Waste Land:
Pound for Pound
despair
and
The Burial of the Dead is there
stirring the air.

tearing petals off a daisy

i heard what he had to say

and it hasn't even been a year

but i remain here

not sure if it's night or day

tearing petals off a daisy

growing restless and increasingly lazy

and as i slept

promises were not kept

indeed, my bath is cold

i'm feeling old

sleeping 

weeping

sometimes i'm peeping

over the border wall

there is an iron urinal

in an old white church

and from my cell

i can hear the refugees stomp and yell

looking for a place of their own:

for awhile it would remain unknown

ready to believe anything

sitting on an empty swing

set up on the west wing lawn

i'm waiting for a brighter dawn

ready to see

doors open 

the children set free

i heard what he had to say

and it hasn't even been a year

but i remain here

not sure if it's night or day

tearing petals off a daisy

growing restless and increasingly lazy

and as i slept

promises were not kept

indeed, my bath is cold

i'm feeling old

sleeping

weeping

sometimes i'm peeking

over the border wall

there is an iron urinal

in an old white church

and from my cell

i can hear the refugees stomp and yell

looking for a place of their own:

for awhile it would remain unknown

ready to believe anything

sitting on an empty swing

set up on the west wing lawn

i'm waiting for a brighter dawn

ready to see

doors open 

the children set free

a reason for beauty to exist

and in classical style
i used my chainsaw
to cut wood
that is hidden away in my
back yard
chopped split and piled
screened from prying eyes
covered from rain and the like
and there's no reason to alter that
the property has entrances through the trees
none underground
and a fireplace inside linked to a tall chimney
so that in times of siege
i can stay warm on cold winter nights
with a neat bottle of middling red wine and an old book
of French poetry
totally free of riddles and drafts
and when quite fortunate
to share and care
there is a woman with tastes that are affordably
plain or fancy
seated closely
nestled in a brown leather chair
comfortably awake
and that's a reason for beauty to exist.

replacing blue and green

it's obscene!
and terribly mean
the repeated yelling
about a homosexual scene
and a subsequent arrest
but who is the real protagonist?
from the darkness of the theater
a woman shrieked;
her paper cup leaked
and the audience fell silent
when they learned who was sent
to save the day
they had nothing to say
about the suicide in a Washington bar
it might have happened far
away
and there was always hell to pay
for any water on the floor.
many old friends went off to war
and some would die
eating their mother's apple pie
to save face
an anonymous caller asked me for a taste
while someone ripped my coat
before the end of Act Three
but i escaped responsibility
like a successful trespasser in the dark
took a walk in Gorky Park
ice skated with a famous church mouse
in the backyard of his Georgetown house
sometime in early 2017
it's obscene!
and terribly mean
replacing blue and green
for West Virginia coalminer's black,
painting the White House walls
in full-size images of an Idaho potato sack
making calls
to bring back the ghosts of Christmas past.

building the wall

oh shit!
in a letter to the Trump tower
there were comments about building the wall
and all the work and money
the back-breaking labor
the stupidity
the bullshit, frankly, and all the crazy stuff
well, just thinking about it gives me heartache,
so i'll pass with this comment:
somewhere there is a thief
supposedly honest
who was never accused of any wrongdoing
which he wouldn't deflect,
who hides a receipt under his remaining hair,
who regards himself as a builder
but mainly of his own reputation
and who, later in life, will probably co-author a very slim book
about his early years
working so so bigly hard to achieve world peace.
oh shit!

Bowie

with the flag unfurled
The Man Who Sold The World,
lungs full
of Major Tom and stardust,
a busted Angie bust,
and a nose for changing money,
the only artist capable of
dressing like an androgynous honey
while acting like Cocaine Man,
played the pipes like mythological Pan
and did things differently each day
singing cabaret
100,000 miles
of strawberry blond smiles
far away
getting his rocks off
rocking with his socks off
at a crossroad with a Spiders From Mars book
he signed a contract for a closer look
stayed in tune and natural fact
without a straight and narrow track
he'd dance with his Brixton pants
pulled high over his head
like guitar Heroes
he meant exactly what he said
lighting a spark in the dark dark
jumping over the marriage bed
wham bam
thank you ma'am
Fame wasn't the only game
he went on to claim
in Black Tie White Noise
and all the famous Rebel Rebel boys
with children baskets filled with favorite toys
they did things differently each day
singing cabaret
100,000 miles
of strawberry blond smiles
far away
getting his rocks off
rocking with his socks off
at a crossroads he took a Spiders From Mars book
he signed a contract for a closer look
stayed in tune and natural fact
without a straight and narrow track
he'd dance with his Brixton pants
pulled high over his head
like guitar Heroes
he meant exactly what he said
lighting a spark in the dark dark
jumping over the marriage bed
wham bam
thank you ma'am

one Last Supper

go back to your student days
of thinking clearly
or in a haze
would you care
if grounded
or up in the air
about anything there
fantascising conceptually
enslaved
or creatively free
missing out on no important detail
remember:  it's pass or fail
on the final page
escaping from your cage
into the outside
rather than the inside
power walking
or hitching a ride
living dreams
buying them
and visionary schemes
and torments and martyrdom
and thoughts of elementary school
acting dead
or playing it cool
in a cafeteria dress
at morning recess
kicking that spinning ball
against the solid brick wall
and a civil war broke out
much later in life
you carried a hidden plastic knife
when i heard you shout
eating one Last Supper
with a faint hint
of an after-dinner mint
while you filled your sketchbook
taking a last look
at all the fast women who became saints
and the men who died too young
and all the songs they knew and sung;
how they slaughtered the bull
kept eating until their bellies were full
rolling the dice
paying the price
but at the end of the day
they said what they came to say.

dying in the desert

Revolver
AK
what more is there to say?
NRA.
old man chopped down
young woman in a wedding gown
twisting her head to see the muzzle flash
from an unfamiliar point of view
could she be you?
backward and outward
running without direction or a shoe
jawbone broken in two
the cracking sound of another round
and each successive shot came so fast
tearing a little girl's head in half
the killer gave a silent laugh
watching her eyes
disappear and reappear
into another face
in his haste
reloading and reordering
brain matter on a country & western platter
gripping the rungs on an out-of-reach ladder
not far from the famous strip
the blood-spattered cigar fell smoking from the policeman's lips
as full metal jackets continued to rain down like hail
as if you could drive a nail
through it
thick as an armored battleship
smoke alarms
hundreds of people hurt
dying in the desert
Revolver
AK
what more is there to say?
NRA.

underneath the fingerprints of a god

oh yes
there are bones
skeletons of dogs
and sheep
and yet the one impression that i keep
inside my favorite foundry mold
is of a long tall tale of being old
in an age of superlatives:
deadliest mass shooting
most post-hurricane looting
and i have a lot of others, sisters and brothers
because i'm working on the history of Man.
i see him crawling away from his trash can
artificially built up by reputation,
dreaming of a prolonged retirement vacation
with his modern holiday lover
claiming to know how all the marked cards are dealt.
i watch his party ice melt
and his furrowed forehead become warm
underneath the fingerprints of a god
who had been modeled originally in clay
oh yes
someone pray.

on the bloody ground at Mandalay Bay

monstrous heads
small feet
kicking me
up and down the street
like a brushstroke
of writhing paint
on a colossal canvas
i faint
with an eloquence
all my own
on the bloody ground at Mandalay Bay
in Las Vegas, a concert moan
a groan
a dead mother
a dad and his brother
a son
a daughter
a senseless slaughter
during a time of peace
it has to cease!!
and fifty years later
a well-dressed waiter
might ask me if i'd like a drink,
but i'll have to think
about that.