watching caravans of immigrants

i see new blood on the early winter snow
and lost souls
looking for a better path to follow.
i can't speak the tongue!
am i simply too young
or willfully old?
with my poisoned lungs, perhaps i'm the spy in from the cold,
in a country of all things
constantly bought and sold,
watching caravans of immigrants bringing their young children and tiny sprigs of hope:
not tattooed criminals with illegal bags of dope,
climbing the high wire, scaling the border wall,
seeking answers before their fall,
much like another group once before
seeking justice from shore to shining shore
but the native Indians are mostly dead:
the buffalo soldiers took their land and their horses and i can't remember
what the Great White Father said.
those words are on a page but i can't find the history book!
millions of eyes are searching but where exactly should they look?
a young man is swimming across the Rio Grande river;
in the heat of summer i can see him shiver.

Phnom Penh

Phnom Penh
was hot as hell and filled with the nervous shadows
of dry bones and sick smiles
on the narrow streets of blood and broken glass,
memories of ancient temples
and the smell of escaping elephant shit
floating on the monsoon junk of another endless day
filled with acrid war smoke and sour piss,
as Kissinger sat in his cloistered Washington office
surrounded by his ass-kissing apparatchiks
who demurred when he plotted an invasion across a neutral border
with his tanks and his guns and his bombs and his helicopters
to bring random death and mayhem and marauding murder
to the rice paddies and the huts of peasants
speaking a language Henry never understood,
with power his only purpose.

remembering how i lied

okay miss Mary Lou!
i won the race,
so how about you?
it snowed as i drove hard,
skidded and slide
into your front yard.
you took a cold look;
took another hard sip,
and closed your book.
i handed you my letter.
it simply said
i was finally feeling better.
you gave me a stern gaze
before saying
that crime never pays,
and i knew that
as i sat
by your side,
remembering how i lied.

the boy from Manhattan and Miss Mary Lou

oh, i'm heading uptown;
gonna try keeping my baby bottle down!
feeling so smart,
holding onto my heart;
gonna get me another battery jump start
heading to the next Apprentice show,
onto the nearest street corner where i need to go,
where i heard about the boy from Manhattan.
he came to a party dressed in freshly pressed silks and polished satin;
loved his glittering gold and bought and sold
handsome new Miss Mary Lou
who
talked like a girl from the deepest south,
or was she a foreigner with a slippery tongue swimming inside her mouth?
she walked the straightest line in her latest fashion and sharp high heels,
looking for a sugar daddy to buy all her next meals;
she wanted a fast ride and he had the wheels,
all shiny silver and black;
he had his and wasn't giving any back!
Miss Mary Lou took him by his favorite arm;
he flashed a sullen smile and went looking for some charm.
he called the press and told them the greatest news:
he wanted Miss Mary Lou and she couldn't say no or refuse,
changing all his stripes and his Wharton School underwear;
she eventually said she loved him but in the end he didn't care,
oh, i'm heading uptown;
gonna try keeping my baby bottle down!
feeling so smart,
holding onto my heart;
gonna get me another battery jump start
heading to the next Apprentice show,
onto the nearest street corner where i need to go.

where the hell is the hand to ring the bell?

and maybe you thought you knew
tying strings
pulling on your shoe
that there were no afternoon classes on social intercourse
holding your bridle
riding your horse
but on the city street corner there were smaller protests
about the secret meetings
about the secret beauty contests
and the fake news printing all the momentary truth!
i read every damn page
passing through my local toll booth
paying my fare
hoping for a seat on the crowded town square
with sweet Jane and her bible and her temporary lover
there were plenty of white sheep shouting out in the nearby pasture
and others playing under cover,
fireworks on the 4th of July and a rousing patriotic song
shivers jumping up my spine
i'm holding on to everything that's mine
carrying a military combat assault rifle and loaded magazines
hearing angry older people yelling at angry teens;
so, what could possibly go wrong?
watching the ship of state and Clarabell the Clown
they're both smearing makeup on the famous American Constitution,
while asking their adoring masses to look up while pointing down!
and maybe you once loved the beauty of an orange autumn moon
the setting sun
having a quickie at noon
or wondered to where all the mad insurgent poets have gone
flames in their words
souls of brawn
teeth of steel and sentences ablaze,
trying to make sense of the dangerous maze!
hell yes, you might be wondering, where the hell
is the hand to ring the bell?
the sound is of muffled marching feet,
but the shaking is in the center of main street.
can you hear it?
do you fear it?
hell yes, you might be wondering, where the hell
is the hand to ring the bell?

"Bombs away!"

"Bombs away!"
you heard the mad pilot say,
and there's nothing you can do to stop the fall,
so don't even try to count them all!
it's impossible
to know the final score,
from the high ceiling to the lowest floor;
the angry men are wrapping their favorite gift
when the ground beneath their feet begins to shift!
what can you know about the day after tomorrow?
will it bring happiness or will it bring sorrow?
you're out on the street looking for a clear blue sky
wondering how hard you should try
looking for a safe place to shop?
or wondering how fast you should drop
your bag of groceries to take a dive?
wondering how you can tell if you're dead or still alive?
"Bombs away!"
you heard the mad pilot say,
and there's nothing you can do to stop the fall,
so don't even try to count them all!
It's impossible
to know the final score,
from the high ceiling to the lowest floor;
the angry men are wrapping their favorite gift
the ground underfoot begins to shift!

Mr. Vladimir

so tell me Mr. Vladimir
is another nasty cold war near
or will it turn hot?
tell us everything you've got!
we know your teeth are black
carrying nuclear codes in a secret Russian sack
sipping potato vodka
with comrade Miss Natasha
not far from the Baltic Sea
you've grown up to be everything you never dreamt you could be
murdering the free press on the evening news
wearing spotless Stalin shoes
never crossing a Moscow street
to grab a quick bite of hot borscht to eat
making lots of bloody money
laughing at things that aren't historically funny;
anyone who feels your famous stare
disappears while you're still standing there
talking on your phone
like a king upon his throne:
you're the man in total charge
with balls not big but overly large.
the boys watching you march in Kremlin hall;
the girls don't swoon, they completely fall:
their red lips signifying socially high class,
praying for a chance to kiss your made-in-Lenigrad ass,
and they feel a rush
before they blush!
so tell me Mr. Vladimir
is another nasty cold war near
or will it turn hot?
tell us everything you've got!

after Guadalcanal

the last sea victory of the war
came and went
as ships sank and ships sped
away
but i was long gone,
watching the beautiful blond
at her table
by the street-side window
during happy hour and the crowd was
getting juiced
while loud music jammed
and the high seats where people sat
kept getting shoved around
during epic journeys down memory lane
where the wine was dry,
the beer fresh and cold,
and no one stayed old
wearing bright sneakers, chasing youth
talking about playground bruises
or writing a possible book
about puppy loves
or a loose bra strap
hanging from a high school shoulder
giving some thoughtful boy a wink.
i heard them think
above the cocktail noise,
so many years after Guadalcanal,
and grabbed my paper and wrote
sentimental lines,
too many to be a simple short story,
too few to be a one night stand;
i stuffed that paper in a side pocket,
stood firmly and with much delight
took a lady's hand,
held it tight,
waiting for an evening traffic light
to finally change
into something we knew;
crossing the street,
walking under the rising of a harvest moon,
fresh air on a fresh face,
to see a movie called The Wife
while sitting on a sweet sofa
eating hot popcorn with just one hand
surrounded by
other members of the art house audience
and the faint smell of another quiet night
in Stockholm, Sweden on the screen:
sea breezes and limousines,
a burning cigarette,
crisp champagne,
literary lounges,
and a Nobel Prize ceremony;
she wrote the books but he signed his name,
then died of a heart attack on the hotel bed,
and she told her children everything,
later,
it was said.

donald trump predicts

donald trump predicts
that his penis is bigger than Tweety Bird's
penis and he doesn't need to
provide evidence
because Larry King found a new prostate pill
in France
on Bastille Day
while looking for Meghan Markle's
half-sister
so that proves his point.
but if you can't follow the linear progression,
it's because Melania is in Africa
wearing a colonial sunhat
to help prevent her glossy lipstick from fading
in the sub-Saharan heat.
donald trump predicts
that he'll ball her at least one time in the White House
before he's no longer President,
but she's betting against it.

it ain't working right

it ain't working right
the doctor checked my sight
said there's too much going wrong
well, Tom Petty played his final song
about Bobby Sue
who thinks she's knows just what to do
when the lights go dim
she has her eyes set straight on him
no, she doesn't see me
but i'm holding a sign offering myself for free
i'm in a party trace
can't sing and i can't dance
want to wear a big cowboy hat but it won't fit
saw a passing joint and took a hit
saw a whiskey drink and didn't have time to think
got some courage and got it fast
felt pretty intense but i knew it wouldn't last
said, hey girl, have you heard about Pablo Picasso?
i could tell you about some other things that you don't know
it's another Friday night
it ain't working right
the doctor checked my sight
said there's too much going wrong
well, Tom Petty played his final song
about Bobby Sue
who thinks she knows just what to do
when the lights go dim
she has her eyes set straight on him
no, it's fine, it's perfectly okay
she looked at me but had nothing new to say
and all the other guys stood around
i held firm standing my ground
can't go forward and can't go back
can't surrender and can't attack
i'm in a party trance
can't sing and i can't dance
want to wear a big cowboy hat but it won't fit
saw a passing joint and took a hit
saw a whiskey drink and didn't have time to think
got some courage and got it fast
felt pretty intense but i knew it wouldn't last.

where Picasso went

few people knew where Picasso went
but he certainly had a drink in hand
on his last day in southern France!
by his comfortable bed stood a skinny flower
dressed like a woman,
her hair falling to her shoulders,
her garden smile growing without weeds
near the tall blue mountain
by his old chateaux.
he kept his steady eyes
intense like a Spanish dream
of a brave matador's gaze:
they were full and round and strong
and massively inquisitive,
but they wouldn't reveal any secrets,
and he had a lot of secrets,
including many from inside the small beach front cabana,
where a girl was often down on her knees,
while he was never down on his luck.
the frequent winds there spit salt across the sea;
he watched a small kite aloft in the breeze,
its' string held by a young, soft hand,
a hand he would often use to comfort himself.
if he made a mistake,
cigarette smoke would spiral
around his studio easel,
shaman-like, chanting steadily,
while paint fell on his canvas.
he was always painting,
inside his head and in the still air of a busy room
where lines and colors formed;
a flat breast grew full and voluptuous;
pubic hair vibrating as though gasping for breath.
a penis embracing the large feminine nose,
a green face scowling like a difficult woman in shades of fracture;
a circus clown juggling memories,
a cube without ice melting inside a summer apartment,
a town crying for sanity during the bombing,
lovers looking for love without restraints,
painting over his mistakes,
painting his death mask,
painting his life.
he took a full sip from the glass,
after having cried
at the thought of his mother's funeral.

drink to me, he said.

poblano peppers

he's in the canyon walking with a dog;
she is in front looking for a deer,
but it's too hot for any sensible deer
to be that far from a source of water.
the recent futile, but entertaining chase after a group of young turkeys
is over and out of her mind already.
a few vultures are seen feasting on a very dead hen chicken
that must have strayed from the nearby farm.
the dog doesn't chance the vultures! they
cast a mean glance as she nears.
he remains attentive as he sits on a flat rock trail side.
his ass immediately becomes uncomfortable but his legs are tired
from the three hour walk.
the paper bag is crumbled and almost empty as his hand
gropes inside for whatever food remains.
a few stray clouds momentarily block the bright sun.
he keeps wearing his broad-brimmed hat.
he remembers there was supposed to be a big hullabaloo over the Senate Judiciary
meeting being held in Washington, D.C. that morning!
two people, one woman and one man, are to be cast as the central characters
to deliver testimony, most assuredly of starkly different versions
of a high school party: a he said, she said intrigue.
what would make this compelling is that the guy
was recently nominated by a former reality TV star to become a Supreme Court Justice.
his fate for a successful vote would center on his presumed fitness for that bench.
she would say he assaulted her.  was she lying?
did he thrust his preppy penis towards her body?
did he try to remove her clothes?  Rape her?
did he drink too much beer?  anything?
did he have an accomplice?
would the accomplice remember anything pertinent?
would the verbal battle be sufficient to derail his appointment?
would he still be given the high honor in spite of a woman's recollections
of his youthful misbehavior?  would she be believed?
the dog didn't want to keep hanging around the trail side flat rock,
and he's thinking nothing beyond giving the dog a drink by squirting
a stream from his Camelback water bottle; the dog gets ready with an open mouth.
the water makes the dog cough to clear her throat.
he knows it's time to pick up the pace.
there are flavorful visions of a home cooked meal tapping the glass of his brain wall.
his feet are becoming as sore as his ass,
so he stands and moves off.
he's followed by the dog.  she must be tired.
he wonders is he has any poblano peppers in the pantry.

Miss Natasha and her Golden Showers

they laughed when he spoke
because if it's not broke
he can fix it with a little wink,
full of bells and whistles and the White House kitchen sink
'cause it's open for service 24 hours;
Miss Natasha and her Golden Showers,
a celebrity apprenticeship opening near you;
his Federal Income tax returns long past due,
and at the State dinner wearing fancy tails
going off on fake news heading off the rails.
watching Sean Hannity FOX shows,
believing everything and that's how it goes!
sitting in the audience,
waiting for a glimmer of common sense
all the boastful threats
placing high stakes international bets
playing loose with house money:
it ain't boring and it ain't funny!
and that's how it goes, man,
getting up every morning for an artificial tan,
a medium rare hamburger and a Daffy Duck cartoon;
one quick Mueller story before noon
and here it comes, an outburst and a tweet
heading downtown crossing K street,
into the gutter the wind blown trash
looking for a pussy to grab, looking for cash
and the secret service guards this fancy scene,
a new black Cadillac the hustler's dream;
on the grassy knoll a random puff of smoke
out of their league protecting this piece of joke
and in the city park
passing notes to a stranger in the dark
the guard dogs beginning to bark:
the GOP Lincoln boys
getting out of Dodge with their ethical toys!
all the aisles empty, all the farmers' in a drought
shaking their heads filled with doubt
wondering about free trade
wondering if they'll get laid
wondering if they'll ever get paid
for an honest days' labor;
well, howdy friend, howdy American neighbor.
they laughed when he spoke
because if it's not broke
he can fix it with a little wink,
full of bells and whistles and the White House kitchen sink
'cause it's open for service 24 hours;
Miss Natasha and her Golden Showers,
a celebrity apprenticeship opening near you;
his Federal Income tax returns long past due,
and at the State dinner wearing fancy tails
going off on fake news heading off the rails.
the GOP Lincoln boys
getting out of Dodge with their ethical toys!
all the aisles empty, all the farmers' in a drought
shaking their heads filled with doubt
wondering about free trade
wondering if they'll ever get laid
wondering if they'll ever get paid
for an honest days' labor;
well, howdy friend, howdy American neighbor.

i'm moving away

well,  and you took me by surprise
when i looked into your sweet eyes,
filled with amazing hurtful lies;
but i'm not asking you to apologize
even if you pretended to be nice,
your heart continues to beat as cold as ice.
i asked you once but won't have to ask you twice!
no amount of money will ever pay your price;
long time gone 'cause i'm moving away.
i won't be here tomorrow because i already left yesterday;
well, and there's nothing else we'll need to say.
way down on your knees, it won't help to pray.
i'm the man you tried to bend,
but my wounds are deep and will not mend;
more to my own happiness i must attend;
this is the final page, this is the end.
and you took me by surprise
when i looked into your sweet eyes,
filled with amazing hurtful lies;
but i'm not asking you to apologize
even if you pretended to be nice,
your heart continues to beat as cold as ice
i asked you once but won't have to ask you twice!
no amount of money will ever pay your price.

down to my fingertips

i don't need no doctor,
no harlot with her lips.
i'm shaking from withdraw,
down to my fingertips.
in the summer at night,
you're giving me a shot.
i'm looking for extra;
you gave me all you got.
in the winter at noon,
i'm sipping from your spoon.
if i don't feel alright,
i'll take another bite.
i don't need no doctor,
no artificial high.
i'm shaking from withdraw,
i never wonder why.
i don't need no doctor,
no harlot with her lips.
i'm shaking from withdraw,
down to my fingertips.

out of the shadow

out of the shadow
looking for a popular place to go
maybe Miami or i'll try for Tupelo,
watching out for her new high beams;
and if it's what it seems,
i'll be making another hard turn
trying to relearn
what it takes to make
love burn;
when everything is going fine:
what is hers and what is mine?
i'm trapped inside the cosmic design
where everything is said to be fine.
in her handbag
i found an old sales tag
but my name was missing
and i couldn't brag;
i grabbed a drink,
couldn't find a resting place to really think;
cold nights are moving in;
stayed with my bottle of London gin
for awhile
felt a stupid smile,
all day long
every answer i thought i had was wrong.
out of the shadow
looking for a popular place to go
maybe Miami or i'll try for Tupelo,
watching out for her new high beams;
and if it's what it seems,
i'll be making another hard turn
trying to relearn
what it takes to make
love burn;
when everything is going fine:
what is hers and what is mine?
i'm trapped inside the cosmic design
where everything is said to be fine.

special Cossack charm

gonna get stuck
down on my luck
looking for my Moscow baby
wondering if maybe
she's taking another walk
when all i wanna do is talk
deep into the countryside
where she's trying to hide
but i can see
she's in front of me
throwing her perfume kiss!
nothing suspicious; nothing amiss;
she has that special Cossack charm:
i've already set my alarm.
i'll make amends
if she becomes my new best friend.
nothing suspicious; nothing amiss:
throwing her perfume kiss!
if it's heading for me,
i'll offer myself for free
when the light turns red.
is she tossing me in bed?
well, there's a sign posted on the bathroom wall:
it's her number to call.
feeling good feeling alright.
she'll be with me all night:
caviar and candlelight,
vodka and heat,
whispering on a random street,
she's holding me by the arm.
she has that special Cossack charm.

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.