how many fingers, please?

60796
open your eyes!
you knew this would happen
one night
over thirty years ago
when you saw the bright green grass
change into brittle brown.
so stop your crying!
tell me,
how many fingers, please?
when i hold up four,
you should see five!

cleaning our christian souls

oh,
it's only a simple song
that came along
well before
the once upon a time
i fought in an ancient Asian war
wearing a proud hat and a big brown bag
over my head
that might not have been the proper size
but i was already too young to realize
what the news frequently said
that, yes, i was already quite dead
and the man
sitting in his big white house
joked that i was just another little white mouse
serving at his discretion serving my time
looking for my street seller
selling a dime
like a poor broke little Jackie Horner
hustling on a busy American corner
his long beard asking me "What's up?"
and i taking an unsteady drink from the communal cup
rushing for home
which was no longer there
just like my childhood Sampson hair
falling from the small town barbershop chair
where
for twenty five cents
we smoked our cheap cigarettes inside army tents
cleaning our christian souls
of all the loose women and immoral black holes;
I'm Waiting for the Man and memories of childhood:
Bobby Darin and Sandra Dee
being swept out to a raging sea
on a raft of bamboo spikes and the salty 8 track
never to be found again and never coming back
like Frank Lloyd Wright and his famous prairie cans;
the truth in the American desert is the unrelentingly dry sands
and the perpetual thirst:
i still don't know the answer to the question,
"Who's on first?"
but might eventually want to know
which television game show
i need to see
before being spanked on the Catholic Bishop's horny knee
as you sit and smile and laugh and shower
i count my days in cotton bales each passing hour!
and there's a decision to be made about Columbus and his sailing crew:
did they do what they were supposed to do?
on the islands sinking
what were they thinking
wearing Spanish leather boots while walking on the steamy shore?
those native huts of Hispaniola never needed a door
but the vaults at Fort Knox are built of bones and blood,
and the southern shacks of sharpened sticks and mud;
the tall men in their plantation suits carry all the keys
so,
remember your manners and always say please.

i shared a trail

i shared a trail
with the lady and her dog
walking until we dropped
on a hidden forest log
where she laid her head
beneath the parting of the trees
i found her sleeping
across my naked knees,
and the day was hot;
it happened so damn fast
sweating under the clouds
but i knew it wouldn't last;
she said a slow word
everything i hoped to hear:
should we go up or down?
but it quickly became clear
and the dog smiled
when the lady threw his bone;
he ran to paradise
where he found himself alone
and i was there
with the lady and her dog
walking until we dropped
on a hidden forest log.

drinks for eight

caught you shopping
at the new town mall
i went in short
but came out tall
we sang a song
and ate a bite
you offered me a date
but i wanted all through the night
with pizza for two;
drinks for eight
i thought it was early
but you said it was getting late
i just couldn't keep time
fell from the soft leather chair
found you in the bathroom
combing your tangled hair
saw the tattoo
asked you who
you said you couldn't remember
it's just what he drew
and outside those lines
the parlor colors bled
and i heard you exhale
but that's all you said
and in a rush
you put on a dress
where were you going?
i just had to guess
so down the steep stairs
and back to the bar
it seemed like a million miles
but really wasn't far
you stood standing
in front of the crowd
shaking your stuff
singing much too loud
the room was full
your dancing wild
and your eyes sparkled
like a little child
i caught your glimpse
put it away
thought of all the things
i didn't say.

are my feet too long?

all night long in my bedroom
thinking about the remainder of the day
but the sun is so low
it's no longer telling me which way
i should go
or how to know
do you love me or are my feet too long?
should i sing you my favorite or my lonely song
or simply part my hair?
well, i'm looking at the nearest chair
but you're no longer there!
is this anyway to keep the sandman at bay?
wondering if i should go or should i stay
looking for my other shoe
while i'm really missing you
and the way you open up with a belly laugh
when i'm walking out to take another cold bath
and in the hallway down the stairs
i'm still burdened with a hundred million cares
hearing the soft steps you once took to the front door,
leaving images of prints on my hardwood floor;
and the scent of your wild perfume,
it lingers
all night long in my bedroom
thinking about the remainder of the day
and the sun is so low
it's no longer telling me which way
i should go
or how to know
do you love me or are my feet too long?

when the doors are open

and when the doors are open
there's a child at play
looking for new worlds,
and new words to toy around with and say;
pushing the envelope;
throwing away the stamp;
running from a single spotlight,
lighting the lamp.
and by the rivers rushing down to the sea
there's music in the breeze,
her voice filling me with wonder,
and i'm on my knees,
ready to grow into one of the tallest trees,
flying like the little sparrow
into the blood red orange sunset
thinking i had all the best answers,
and yet
when i opened my hand it was empty:
reflections of a distant coast;
a mighty mountain trembling;
a silent shimmering of a passing ghost.

you looked at me

you're not the same
because now you look sad;
i remember how
you once looked glad.
we took our kites
to the top of a hill,
watching them fly
became our latest thrill.
you looked at me
and threw a kiss;
it became a moment
i couldn't resist.
we tumbled down,
rolled over the hill;
holding together
became our latest thrill.
your sparkling eyes,
the words said loud;
you might have quit
but you felt so proud!
you're not the same
because now you look sad.
i remember laughing
and how you got mad.
we opened a door;
i took the right,
you went left;
far from my sight
the sun rose;
it became noon
and i went now,
but you went soon.
on separate roads
beyond the town
i went up
and you went down.
you looked at me
and threw a kiss.
it became a moment
i couldn't resist.

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