Hiroshima melting

on the million dollar set,
a little dog wagged her tail;
she went looking for the grateful dead
before they went on sale.
and i'm on the road again
to Philadelphia, USA;
i wonder where the yellow went
when i hear the preacher say,
the "Dark Star is rising!"
his flock waiting in the church.
the Boston harbor is flooding!
a canary on her perch
singing 'Yesterday!'
bells ringing in the old town square:
it's Hiroshima melting!
radiation spikes the air,
and a thousand points of random light
but does anybody care?
i'm singing for another round,
a fancy question in my head
the seas are rising to midnight,
the sky a menacing red!
every molecule pays a price
the circuit overloads!
tripping down the center lane,
i'm taking all the back roads.

when our fingers touched

the giant Hibiscus
in my pants
and along the shoreline
in a primetime trance
i'm hearing the low ball,
listening to the blues,
following the high tide
to the lying man's shoes.
oh, there he goes again
turning an angry compost pile,
tanning his facial hair,
practicing his practiced smile.
i keep looking for a fortune
but settle for a kitchen sink;
it wasn't the trip others dream of
but it made me think,
sipping my very cold beer,
reading an interesting book;
the white trash was heading curbside
and i just had to look.
she came into my dreams;
i watched her fly;
it rained every day that summer
and we both knew why:
it isn't easy to start a fire
when the wood is wet.
i tried to save the sinking ship
but have no lasting regret:
in a mushroom cloud
i imagined things i'd rather forget.
there were birds eating seed
and a grey squirrel with a nut.
they talked to me in earnest
about living in a rut.
the doors closed and the windows shut:
i sat on a flat rock in a wild creek
with the sun in my eyes;
she laughed as our fingers touched:
it came as no surprise.

feeling lonesome

i'm gonna tell you what is happening
but what has been
is probably just another dumb story
of being high and living in sin
and i'm thinking of doing it
all over again
to your face or behind your back
or on the other side of the subway track
in a cute motel with manicured lawn
all night long partying until the dawn
in a beaten down shack in a beaten down neighborhood
beating my head thinking life is really good!
and it doesn't matter what time of day
or what you think or feel or might say:
a timeless story
walking high while falling fast from glory
looking directly at fate
trying not to hurry or be too late
looking over my shoulder
feeling lonesome, tired, and older
and she walks into view;
she wasn't familiar and she wasn't you
there was music and her perfume
she burned me in her room
but i lit the match
it became more than a scratch.
i'm gonna tell you what is happening
but what has been
is probably just another dumb story
of being high and living in sin
and i'm thinking of doing it
all over again
to your face or behind your back
or on the other side of the subway track
in a cute motel with manicured lawn
all night long partying until the dawn
in a beaten down shack in a beaten down neighborhood
beating my head thinking life is really good!
and it doesn't matter what time of day
or what you think or feel or might say:
a timeless story
walking high while falling fast from glory
looking directly at fate
trying not to hurry or be too late
looking over my shoulder
feeling lonesome, tired, and older
and she walks into view;
she wasn't familiar and she wasn't you
there was music and her perfume
she burned me in her room
but i lit the match
it became more than a scratch.

passing the buck

must be the season for the fools
those little plastic bobble heads
like convenient tools
lounging on their lazy pillow beds
reading fairy tales with stories of fantastic luck
passing idle time, passing the buck
wireless signals passing thru their brain
at the highest speed of the fastest train
running faster and up over the hills
i'm getting nervous, getting the chills
passing idle time, passing the buck
reading fairy tales with stories of fantastic luck
and over by the Swanee river
where the waters' cold i start to shiver
a crowd of rebel soldiers
seated high on a confederate horse
long rifles resting on angry shoulders
aiming to kill their historic remorse
near the nearest town square
lead bullets flying toward people there
must be the season for the fools
those little plastic bobble heads
like convenient tools
lounging on their lazy pillow beds
reading fairy tales with stories of fantastic luck
passing idle time, passing the buck
wireless signals passing thru their brain
at the highest speed of the fastest train
running faster and up over the hills
i'm getting nervous, getting the chills.

from old Mexico

i crossed the border from old Mexico
always looking for the safest place to go
heading past San Antonio all the way north to Texarkana
wearing my foreign frown and a newly found bandana
a busy job and a pretty wife
my dream of an opportunity to earn a better life
there's a job working in the big fields picking big green peas
bending my back and bending my knees
crossing my fingers that i don't get caught
with the few things i brought
and i'm rolling over endless ground hoping i won't be found
by the government men with their orders
to stop men, women, and their kids crossing borders
looking for a land full of promise
a sunset to kiss;
a dawn to love with a full heart and a song in my soul
i crossed the border from old Mexico
always looking for the safest place to go
over the river and thru the dangerous desert
past the cactus whos' shade could hurt
i wondered truly about the awful hard times
words running away from easy rhymes
i wondered about the sweet lands and the hard future toil
the smiling girls and the fertile soil
the long night roads and heavy weight
i thought ahead and i can't wait
i crossed the border from old Mexico
always looking for the safest place to go
driving past San Antonio all the way north to Texarkana
wearing my foreign frown and a newly found bandana
a busy job and a pretty wife
my dream of an opportunity to earn a better life

the honest men and the ones who lied

it felt like the dawn
with a big wheel and a spin;
there was a tug and a pull
but i couldn't give in
to the urge for sleep:
people were gathering in the street,
children on the run
looking up at the rising sun
and down the barrel of a mean, steel gun.
the loudspeakers blared
that nobody cared
but i saw a friendly hand,
felt a sense of pride
that i could tell the difference
between the honest men and the ones who lied.
there was a moment
when the skies grew dark and cold;
a mother with blue eyes
trembled when she realized she was growing old
and the blond dad
who once felt determined and glad
saw his world changing, grew angry and sad.
it felt like the dawn
with a big wheel and a spin;
there was a tug and a pull
but i couldn't give in
to the urge to sleep;
people were gathering in the street,
children on the run
looking up at the rising sun
and down the barrel of a cold, steel gun.
the loudspeakers blared
that nobody cared
but i saw a friendly hand,
felt a sense of pride
that i could tell the difference
between the honest men and the ones who lied.

i felt like a whiskey bottle

walking in the woods
down the single track
sweat dropping from my fingertips
sweat rolling down my back
spider webs around
the sun overhead
my little dog is plenty hot
she's missing what i said
no one is watching
we're traveling slow
we both were younger once upon
a thousand years ago
after many miles
swimming in a creek
i felt like a whiskey bottle
that didn't spring a leak
and there was the car
a bone and a key
the bartender poured you a wine
and a cold beer for me.

Maker's Mark

Maker's Mark on red
is what the umbrella said
and i got it in my head
to have a shot before bed;
but one proved not enough
so i hung tough
and had plenty more of the stuff
until i could no longer huff and puff.

the Mekong

the Mekong was, you know,
once a very dangerous place to go
for the Frenchman and the Japanese
who often got stuck in mud up to their knees.
they were sometimes buried in Chinese lead
when angry bullets struck them in the head;
they'd fall in brown rice water and remain,
spilling conquest fantasies from large holes in their brain.
regardless of the season, the weather was always hot
when the Vietnamese civilians took aim and shot,
not interested in a foreigners' language or school,
with no intention of becoming a mercenaries' tool.
Ho Chi Minh said to fight and fight they earnestly did;
sometimes they'd stand in open defiance and sometimes they hid;
but for years and years they always stood their ground,
until no stranger armies could be found.
even their great Imperial city of Hue was destroyed
by Americans in 1968 who with massive force employed
a relentless bunch of young Marines and destructive artillery shells
so that even today one can walk there quietly and hear the desperate battle yells.
the famous Citadel has been restored, the Perfume River flows without war dead,
and the victor has the final word about what was done and said;
a small piece of southeast Asia with mountains and a long, inviting coast
is today filled with humble people who have no desire to boast.

she'd rather have a good laugh

i went underground on a strictly vanilla morn
when i heard old Triton play his wreathed horn,
and my dog jump over a fallen log;
her head was in a canine chipmunk fog!
but it was a good day for an even better walk;
on the way home we stopped many times to point and talk,
and two cars passed on my right,
their confederate flags flying high as they sped out of sight,
taking but two days to reach the Mississippi coast;
on the way i heard them scream and boast
both cars were Chevrolet from the good old USA!
and i just don't know
how much longer i can go
following in the footsteps of their dead wake
when i'm told something is real but i know it's fake.
my dog ran up to me
carrying a broken stick from the nearest tree.
she asked me if it was real;
i listened to southern black tires squeal
as she helped me to my feet.
on the return home we crossed a bigly main street
with a parade of roaring tanks and artillery shells,
and white sheep in abundance wearing charming cow bells
like a flock
as far long as a massive city block
and as wide
as the golfing fat man who lied
and then we stopped for ice cream and beer:
the more we drank the less we had to fear.
we heard there was a cabin in the woods for rent
and it was hot and i didn't have my tent,
so we decided to pause:
i rested my feet while she rested her paws
and the news gave us both a moment of relief;
an eagle-eyed reporter said the EPA chief was a thief.
i thought i'd try to give my dog a bath
but she said she'd rather have the popcorn and a good laugh.

the Ohio National Guard

the Lusitania, a passenger ship, was torpedoed by U-20,
a German submarine.
it sank not far from Queenstown, Ireland,
in the spring of 1915,
before Guernica, Spain, was bombed;
before Picasso married Olga,
but after Van Gogh lived briefly in
the south of France with his amazing canvas,
splashing paints, and his injured ear.
in Flanders Fields the flowers bloom.
tombstones there are now growing as tall as these spring flowers,
the difference being that the stones are engraved with names.
i thought about this while walking
my dog on a hard gravel trail
which wanders, deer-like,
through a nearby woods.
it was a hot morning, although not on fire,
as i climbed over fallen logs,
sidestepped the poison ivy,
my legs growing increasingly weary with the
weight of my Army-issue combat boots.
Dresden, a beautiful German city, burned to ashes and
jumbled piles of blasted stone
in the spring of 1945,
and very few local people survived the fire storm 
to save their tea pots from the flaming catacombs.
i remembered
the forgotten war 

which was forgotten by the many millions
who didn't fight in Korea.
there were dead bodies on the cold battlefields who are now pieces of thin bone,
small shards of memory, forgotten loves of childhood
lost in the drifting winter snows
on the south bank of the
frozen Chosin Reservoir.
looking ahead,
toward a fenced orchard,
i saw bright ripe sour cherries being harvested by
young men on ladders.
young men, not the busy ladder men, died
while wearing sweaty uniforms in the oppressive humidity
of the Ia Drang Valley, South Vietnam, in the fall of 1965.
Vietnam is a beautiful country
with a rich history and kind people
who are humble and loyal to their ancestors.
their rice is grown locally.
the helicopters didn't notice the rice as they came in
on their Medivac approach to grab the many body bags and wounded.
my dog doesn't know about this.
she cavorts with flickering shadows and chases alert chipmunks,

rabbits, running groundhogs.
she's busy with her own interests and oblivious to
the history of man.
she carries no baggage.
the Ohio National Guard has baggage,
having shot to death unarmed college students
who were protesting senseless killing.

Trump's Dump

so you want your children
but you want your freedom, too?
well, just don't come calling north
'cause they'll know what to do:
they're like a big bad pack of wolves
and awfully mean;
they'll choke you blue
while they color you green,
disappearing into bureaucracy,
sight unseen.
hiding beyond the border river,
they're the genuine Indian giver!
and they don't like your kind
so don't bring along excuses
or you'll lose more than your mind:
there's a tent city in the dry desert air
they lock up your children there;
you'll end up in a prison rack
with a black number on your wet back.
save your heart for someone with a real heart
no chance now you'll be given a new start!
so you want your children
but you want your freedom, too?
well, just don't come calling north
'cause they'll know what to do:
they're like a big bad pack of wolves
and awfully mean;
they'll choke you blue
while they color you green,
disappearing into bureaucracy,
sight unseen.
hiding beyond the border river,
they're the genuine Indian giver!
and they don't like your kind
so don't bring along excuses
or you'll lose more than your mind:
there's a tent city in the dry desert air
they lock up your children there;
you'll end up in a prison rack
with a black number on your wet back.
save your heart for someone with a real heart
no chance now you'll be given a new start!

he's so deranged (not Putin!)

he's so deranged
he's so deranged
how much has been changed?
the flowers in the park
are now dying in the dark;
the birds who once would sing
have now lost everything.
he's so deranged
he's so deranged
how much has been changed?
tanning his skin on perfect Mar-a-Largo beach
cheap hamburgers and beauty queens never far out of reach
riding on the putting greens with his fat ass in tow
doesn't want to study and doesn't want to know
he won't read a written report
threatens to sue and take everyone else to court
he's so deranged
he's so deranged
how much has been changed?
skipping over student dead on a schoolroom floor
threatening Canada and Mexico with his dream of total war
sleeping by himself without an understanding wife
sharpening his friendly narcissistic knife
he won't read a written report
threatens to sue and take everyone else to court
he's so deranged
he's so deranged
how much has been changed?
knows a lot about airplanes while dodging the draft
demands unquestioned loyalty while giving the national press the shaft
a George Washington-like reputation is imagined fantasy only
in a crowded room with suits and ties he's standing fat and lonely
he won't read a written report
threatens to sue and take everyone else to court
he's so deranged
he's so deranged
how much has been changed?
the flowers in the park
are now dying in the dark;
the birds who once would sing
have now lost everything.

No Reservations

Anthony, where have you gone?
your food is cold
and your mail unread;
the newspapers wondered
what was left unsaid!
there's dust on your driveway
where your daughter cries;
her chest is so heavy,
i can feel her sighs.

Van Gogh found his toe

Van Gogh
found his toe
beneath an olive tree
near the town of Saint Rémy
but he lost an ear
when the sky was crystal clear
during a strange sword fight
on a rumored starry night.

Pablo Picasso
knew where to go
on the Dinard beach
where he liked to teach
while playing with his ripe banana
inside a locked cabana.

The smaller towns were red,
the French man said,
while drinking local wine.

and a friend of mine
agreed,
as she peed
behind a Rhône valley tree
near a busy winery
where empty bottles grew.

the famous mistral winds blew,
Paul Cézanne so well knew,
all the way to the shimmering Med
the famous colors bled
into the air and, oh my, the sight:

such amazing quality of light!

he painted throughout the night.

They will come, you know!

some day
They're gonna come over that
border fence
stepping over their
neighbors' dead
bloodied
but unbowed
bodies
that you shot dead
with your sniper rifle
aiming for their faded blue jeans,
printed t-shirts,
or the neck scarves
or hair coverings,
the faces with sweaty desert dirt,
their bright angry eyes,
all heads held high at that last moment
before the impact of your steel tipped bullet.
They will come, you know!

everybody hurts

everybody hurts
if only they'd tell the truth
watching the balloons come crashing down
burning down the town

fighting on the floor
mad as hell at soap operas
when a doctor doesn't know his lines
and still pays no fines

traveling circus
jugglers with great balls on fire
the ringmaster with his big black hat
great fat lady fat

at the popcorn stand
hot butter flowed like honey
tumblers and clowns and the magic tent
money paid the rent

as the big top closed
the audience fled the room
breezes blew each head into the night
soft as candle light

everybody hurts
if only they'd tell the truth
watching the balloons come crashing down
burning down the town

tossing the summer dog his wishing bone

X-ray
in the landing zone
her sleepy eyes
tossing the summer dog his wishing bone
blowing on a tenor sax
in an all-night shift
waiting for the passenger car
to give that girl her lift
in a famous back room seat
outside the machine gunners' door
hot shells are exploding,
bouncing off the bouncing floor
in the tropical air
her hands dancing everywhere
i took a full nose dive
coming out the other end alert & alive:
colors on the bedroom wall
i tried to count them all
but the high noon sun was bright
her hungry grip too tight
i wanted to eat but lost my appetite.
X-ray
in the landing zone
her sleepy eyes
tossing the summer dog his wishing bone
blowing on a tenor sax
in an all-night shift
waiting for the passenger car
to give that girl her lift.

i never tire of watching

there was a young cowboy
who wore a Red Ryder hat
and carried a small gun
into the nearby woods
where he found an old fallen log
and sat
with his faithful dog
by his side,
alert to anything that might move;
they pondered a future
when snow might cover their tracks.
in the space of seventy years
the small gun has been lost
but the dog,
with a new name and a new license,
maintains a nose for interesting scents,
and a keen eye for any movement
far removed from
the global financial markets
or fluctuating interest rates.
the dog loves digging
into dirt
after the chipmunks
as they dive for cover;
and squirrels of any color
always provide an exciting rush
as they scamper to the nearest tree
scolding the pretentiousness
of the canine pursuit,
which i never tire of watching,
even in the dead of winter.

grateful to be dead

it's about time to ask the question,
trying to understand my next life lesson
before the night gets too dark and cold and damn,
i can't remember who i was or who i am.
so, there's plenty of fear and nerves and grief;
i can't seem to get enough relief,
flipping through and turning each page
while reading about the days of constant rage
with young blood on the school room floor.
well, no uniform needed to fight the next war?
but, hey, there's the national song!
i wonder if those lyrics are simply wrong?
i'm getting so old,
feeling tired and bought and sold,
walking away from the bull without a fight:
tell me what is it we all agree is right?
i'm dancing wearing pearls with a drink in hand,
grateful to be dead, listening to that passing band.
this glass half full that i'm holding high
it's filled with tears; i'm no longer wondering why.
just one more for the broken road.
my head stays high while my back is bowed!
it's about time to ask the question,
trying to understand my next life lesson
before the night gets too dark and cold and damn,
i can't remember who i was or who i am.

when you're not here

baby,
when you're not here
my head's just not thinking clear
'cause i'm spending all my down time
wishing you were near
and dear,
here comes the night
how can i feel alright
out walking my thin dog
when it all feels like a thick fog
and i can't see without a torch:
are you waiting on your front porch?
baby,
when you're not here
my head's just not thinking clear
'cause i'm spending all my down time
wishing you were near
and dear,
here comes that song
and it took much too long
it's the one about you
when you're wondering what to do
and the story goes that we met
the winners of a romance bet
baby,
when you're not here
my head's just not thinking clear
'cause i'm spending all my down time
wishing you were near
and dear,
here comes the night
how can i feel alright
out walking my thin dog
when it all feels like a thick fog
and i can't see without a torch:
are you waiting on your front porch?

the girl with the deep brown eyes

the girl with the deep brown eyes
filled with wonder
and surprise
she sang to me
and set me free
on a walk into the deepest wood
i was her big bad wolf
she was my little Red Riding Hood
her basket filled with sweet treats
we walked together down the leafy streets
hand in hand out into the town
she kept me up and i kept her down
our secrets like an open book
we turned the page for another look
the girl with the deep brown eyes
filled with wonder
and surprise
she sang to me
and set me free.

"Brave New World," whispered Huxley

"Brave New World,"
whispered Aldous Huxley
when the president went golfing
under a clear blue Florida sky
with the foreign wife carrying his junk
and a bottle of fancy dye
for his orange hair;
he used a net,
(somewhat like a devout Mennonite woman
with her fancy mustache
that she tried to conceal from the adoring crowds
gathered on the steps of a Christian mega-church
hoping for a sight of baby Jesus
heading to the back nine)
to scoop his balls from the rough,
tickling,
placing them in a more advantageous position on the fairway.
across the pond
beyond his driver's range
there was a rumored chemical attack
that wasn't due to an expired box of hair coloring
or a missed putt on the 18th green
or a recent attempt to hide an old affair with a young porn actress;
no, an actual barrel bomb dropped from the clear blue sky
onto a suburban street of eastern Damascus, Syria
and if very young children happened to be playing in a pile of their broken dreams
or busted stones, or watching a skinny bird pick through rubble for a crumb of food,
while noxious fumes of chlorine
sought out noses
pried open lips
groped lungs
invaded throats
well,
that would be too damn bad
assumed the adults who planned the attack,
piloted the military helicopter,
assembled the bomb,
and the men who gave the order to launch,
because they would expect a pleasant evening
surrounded by pleasant family,
amazingly untroubled by disturbing visions or nightmares
or threats of demotion or stories of demolition,
imagining themselves playing golf with the President,
whatever President,
regardless of his country of origin,
applause greeting their every easy step to the waiting clubhouse.
"Brave New World,"
whispered Aldous Huxley,
as everyone swallowed their pill.

no hair covering my eyes.

i wasn't Sampson by any stretch
being too small and young
and without a full and flowing head of hair,
but still my dad grabbed me,
hippie as i was,
forced me into his car
and drove off
headed straight to his favorite
perhaps only
barber
and there i was given no choice about cut
or trim or color
i was told to sit in the chair
and thought that i was lucky it wasn't
electric
and then again that
i didn't have to wear a dunce hat
like i once did in second grade,
oh, i remembered Miss Barnes,
all right, and how i was forced to go to the
front of the class
to the blackboard
where i found her piece of chalk,
that was the only piece i was thinking of
in second grade,
before writing "i will not..."
and i can't remember exactly what was
my awful transgression
or perhaps i was simply being a willful boy
as we did often try to be
but i wrote
over and over
top down
bottom up
in a sort of white scrawl
on her hard green surface
until she was satisfied
and i was tired
and the stool in a corner of the
old classroom
waited for me
and i sat on it
while she placed the
dunce hat on my little head
which had short hair
and now my father was trying to
imagine what i must have looked like in
second grade with the buzzed flat top,
a bit of wax to the stiff front hairs
so they stood ram rod straight to the sky
but i was no longer in elementary school
now being 21 years old and a freshman in college
yet he had his way
as i looked around for the stool
and the chalk and Miss Barnes,
who i heard had moved to Japan
married to some guy with short hair
and my father cast a big shadow
in the barber shop
from which it was hard to see the light,
even with no hair covering my eyes,
and i felt small
in the big swivel chair
with the red faux leather seat.