Awe!

Awe!
ah, shucks
slapping slippery hockey pucks
for the winning points
getting free smokes in all the better hippie joints
while lounging under American skies
eating warm grandma apple pies
just about everything in the great prairie spaces
playing high stakes poker holding all four aces
watching forest trees dance
in an imaginative hallucinogenic trance
well, don't you know
from tip of head to toe
everything tingles
listening on the am radio to Wild Bill Hickok and his partner Jingles
getting lucky on a date
definitely has to rate
pretty high up there
where the rarefied air
is filled with exquisitely scented flowers
counting the seconds, minutes, and the elusive hours
sipping rich wine with a mouth full of poetry
anywhere from sea to shining sea
and much more such,
like a lovely skin to skin sensual touch
or a soft pillow made of comforting breast
give me this and i'll be tempted to give you the rest!
on the point of a needle our brief life pauses
immersing in irony and meaningful causes;
hundreds of millions of years gone by
and still we stand and wonder why.
well, something never to miss:
a soft, warm and lingering kiss;
an exhale and an inhale and an exposure to bliss.
and then this:
deep in the dark woods getting lost,
one toe steps timidly and touches frost.
a deep breath yearning to be free
of the pressing weight of modernity;
Whitman’s wild children fully awake,
singing in the open air by a deep-water mountain lake.
Awe!

Sally found her air

Sally found her air,
sniffing around without a care.
saw me from across the bar room floor;
she liked my smile and thought she wanted more.
there were Friday night men and muscles and uncorked wine!
while she sat at an open table to drink and finely dine
and all around
she heard the polished sound
of lively steel guitars;
she saw sparkling stars,
and heard friendly laughing girls
in their blue bell bottoms wearing fancy shiny pearls.
i was also thinking i hoped to score
and went walking loosely across the bar room floor,
to begin dancing before her dancing eyes.
she watched my music slowly rise
and fell into a momentary swoon:
i could become her morning sun and harvest moon.
Sally found her air;
sniffing around without a care;
she saw me from across the bar room floor;
she liked my smile and thought she wanted more,
as i did, too.

nothing to fear

the woman with the thin high heels
she's telling me everything and how it feels
wearing red when the sun goes down
we met in a better part of town
down an private entrance hall;
i heard her laugh and i heard her call
i saw her stand and i saw her fall
she had a laugh and i had a tear
she gave me an embrace to say there was nothing to fear:
her long brown hair and bright blue eyes
wild prairie grass and endless skies
took my breath away and my lies
packed away and never returned
it's what she said and what i learned!
the woman with the thin high heels
she's telling me everything and how it feels
wearing red when the sun goes down
we met in a better part of town
down a private entrance hall
i heard her laugh and i heard her call
i saw her stand and i heard her fall
she had a laugh and i had a tear
she gave me an embrace saying there was nothing to fear.

if i'm lost or found

strange footsteps in the basement
dark shadows in the closet
a noise of chained animals
and that jungle sound
asking if i'm lost or found
well,  i'm wasting away
in this wasted land
hanging by a silver thread
counting how many words i've said
since the dawn of time
how few of them rhyme
jumping the boat
clearing my throat
swimming against the tide
going for a corvette ride
feeling my heart beat
speeding on the American main street
with a gift package in my hand
there's the Revolutionary War band
and their fife and drum
marching across the sacred parade ground
and that jungle sound
asking if i'm lost or found.

keep your hands to yourself

keep your hands to yourself!

no, don't take my heart off the kitchen shelf

just save me for another day

please, listen to what i have to say:

don't toss me down the hall
expecting me to come running when you want to call
no, you can't be serious when you're acting cute
or i'll be walking down the center aisle in my birthday suit
heading to the airport with a cheap ticket in my name
for a sideline seat to a ceremonial game
there's not much more to hold me back
i've run from you before
if i had my sneakers on
i'd slide across the bedroom floor
there'd be a picture window and a big front door
a distant mountain and a far away shore
you'd hear me shouting as i ran
hide and seek or kick the can
without wearing a stitch of clothes
to somewhere alone that no one knows
so,
keep your hands to yourself!
don't take my heart off the kitchen shelf
just save me for another day
please, listen to what i have to say:
there's not much to hold me back
i've run from you before
if i had my sneakers on
i'd slide across the bedroom floor
there'd be a picture window and a big front door
a distant mountain and a far away shore
you'd hear me shouting as i ran
hide and seek or kick the can
without wearing a stitch of clothes
to somewhere alone that no one knows.

The Ukraine train

The Ukraine
train
rode his
brain drain
all the way to Crimea
all the way to the sea
when he opened his mouth
all the tracks pointed south
or east
where Russian forces ate yeast
and drank warm beer
with their mysterious Cossack cheer
to party and toast
another historically fantastic boast
from the White House toad
taking the low road
to Valhalla.

it's what i hear

it's what i hear
that sends a shiver of fear
down to my nervous feet,
busy crossing the meanest street,
scampering across the coldest floor,
perhaps to escape the next world war,
while i'm waiting for you!
tell me what i should do
when the clock strikes twelve
and i hear children cry?
really, there's no wondering why
the streets of gold are turning brown,
hopeful eyes turn looking down
and i lose my hair,
while sitting comfortably in my upholstered living room chair
cranking up classical music when those cries grow loud,
listening with alarm as distant human hearts growled
and an enormous bag of distracting dope,
opened at my side,
gave me a fleeting sense of hope.
it's what i hear.

we're the lovely dancing pair

wondering
if it's what i see
wondering
where to go to be free
as i look at you
you look at me
inside the rainbow
sweet currents of fresh air
white clouds swirling:
we're the lovely dancing pair.
she with a voice as gentle as a cat's smile
whispering for me to stay awhile,
cruising the open road each day
up every flight of stairs, down mysterious alleyways
dressing in party clothes
to a bum's rush or Hollywood shows
anonymously,
famously
watching how it all goes
under bright spotlights
wide-open skies or quiet nights
picnicking on the beach
everything seems to be within our reach.
wondering
if it's what i see
wondering
where to go to be free
as i look at you
inside the rainbow
sweet currents of fresh air
white clouds swirling:
we're the lovely dancing pair
she with a voice as gentle as a cat's smile
whispering for me to stay awhile

Beware of Mr. Baker

beware of
Mr. Baker
when walking down his lane!
there's wild rumors swirling
everywhere
that he's not well
and could possibly be insane.
the mad drumming in his head
is not all the Cream that he once said:
those fiery needles stuck inside his arm
are from when he was riding on his polo farm
on his speedy horse
but, of course,
there's African sand underneath his wheels,
heroin dealers and cocaine meals,
a desert sun,
black hookers and a British machine gun
ticking off the friends he used to know
before the big time and the Ginger Baker Show
came to town
in a flashy white limousine sporting a red-headed frown.
beware of
Mr. Baker
when walking down his lane!
there's wild rumors swirling
everywhere
that he's not well
and could possibly be insane.

a white dog

in the soft afternoon rain,
summer almost to bed,
a field covered by recently spread
fresh cow manure
mingled
with the sight of young
winter wheat
while a white dog rolled
her eyes in merriment,
licking what she could
without getting her feet muddy.

Jerry Garcia sitting on his stool

Jerry Garcia
sitting on his stool
laughing at himself
when he started to drool
so he asked me to play his guitar
but i'm no fool
i'm just waiting for the moon to fall
or the night to end
and my mom to call
she knows my number and my name
every road we took together looks the same.
there's a girl on my front step
she's still waiting, yet
when i've called, she said yes
but where she lives i'll have to guess:
there's no fortune teller in the band
no tinker bell in my left hand
no simple songs i can't simply understand
when the music rolls into a highway truck stop
i'm slowly eating food that tastes like slop
watching Jerry clean the floors with his famous mop
sitting on my stool
laughing at myself
when i started to droll
so he asked me to play his guitar
but i'm no fool
i'm just waiting for the moon to fall
or the night to end
and my mom to call
she knows my number and my name
every road we took together looks the same.

everything is not what it seems

behind the front wheel
there's so much more
to feel
looking for the easy road
while carrying a curiously heavy load
talking to my best friend
about the disturbing daily news
now asking her to choose
which way to turn
or stay straight?
we don't want to arrive too late!
there's a dangerous hurricane
and biting rain
flooding the center strip field
i can't see beyond the speeding windshield
it's a quarter past four
and an angry petroleum war
on the horizon sinks the ocean floor
all the children slipping off to bed
to read what the green meanies once said
before they packed to leave!
oh, the air is hard to breathe
and our eyes grow sore
it's a quarter past four
i ask her to read some more
heading west or is it east
into the prairie or the belly of the beast?
heading north or is it south
into the highlands or is it the monster's mouth?
the tires are rolling past my hometown
speeding up and slowing down
page three and page five
when the sun sets we're barely alive
each city full of fading lights and whispered dreams:
everything is not what it seems.
it's a quarter past four
playing music on the  hotel room floor
classical and rock
she teased my hair
i removed her sock
it's a quarter past four
when i shut the door.

in the scheme of things

dead pigs in the barnyard
stink,
tossing everything
at their former life but the kitchen sink,
hanging a blackboard on their
bedroom walls,
hearing their captain make his final calls
before the line went dead!
nothing could be remembered of what
was said
or what was done
before the loading of the biggest gun
and all the marching bands stopped,
playing their national notes
while watching the boarding of the immigrant boats,
all setting sail for the new world,
each holding dear to the lucky number seven,
dreaming of a future kingdom of Heaven
and a free fish bowl
from the nearest county fair,
hoping to break even and breathe freedom's air:
i saw a fleeting comet shoot
across the sky
while standing atop a rocky outcrop
with one sure eye
peering into my telescope;
did i see a message from a Roman God,
a prophesy of hope
or simply a shimmering motion in the scheme of things?

long kisses and short near misses

in the backyard pool
she looked at me
and i'm no fool
it was just her and i
underneath an east coast late summer night sky
and that damn high board would be my first chance
to do a mighty swan dive and maybe a triple backflip dance
to land in her waiting arms
full of promising adventure and mysterious jungle charms
i'd be a young Superman and she'd be Wonder Woman
swimming down the waterfalls to where all the mighty rivers meet
drying ourselves with soothing body heat
and i didn't really know what was in store
but we both left wanting more
a special song we'd sing and a movie we both love
long kisses and short near misses
maybe a bite to eat and laughs in the dimly-lit backseat
walking together where the pretty flowers bloom
together each night in our own bedroom
remembering how to swim when the lights turned low
and there was no where else we'd rather go.

evermore

there were helicopters buzzing in the air
and automatic rifle shots,
people scrambling, screaming everywhere;
a fallen child;
a dangerous madman in black armor running wild!
warm blood flooding the hot street;
midnight heat;
slipping feet,
their dreams for the future flailing on the El Paso ground;
an empty exhaling sound
of hopeful promises newly lost that never would be found
over and over again like random pieces of shattered glass
cutting short every sacred Sunday mass;
a reluctant revolving American door
in constant motion sounding evermore
seeming to say there is no end to the endless hate-filled war:
melting pot?
more like soul rot.

in a floating bottle

Blackstar
book of death
fading eyesight
and out of breath;
dreaming at night
while sipping tea;
solitary visions
lost at sea;
in a floating bottle
a yellowed note,
far from the waterfront,
where i once wrote
an off-broadway play
as a parlor game
for the wildly odd
and strangely tame.

i'm taking the family keys

saw my mom

sipping gin

she tried to stand

but couldn't win

out on the floor

she blocked the front door

and it seemed so sad

and then my dad

had his usual fit

when he took another hit

and it all became a mess

so i tried to guess

which way outa town

excuse me, please

i'm taking

the family keys

playing the radio

Billy Joel style

mile after mile

totally top down
beyond the town

volume way high
torching the sky

and the starry night

kept my head right

at ninety five

naturally alive

head lights searching for a destination

one that couldn't be found

driving around and around

thinking of how

i could justify throwing in the towel

when i had dear friends

to change my tires

and put out any emotional fires

with all eyes toward the front

pedal to the floor

listening to the steady engine roar

feeling the breeze

excuse me, please

i'm taking
the family keys
playing the radio
Billy Joel style
mile after mile.

i'm pretty sure it's mine

well, i went to the laundromat
looking for my old Beach Boys hat
and a little bit of this
and a little of that
and in the far right corner on the hardwood floor
i saw a group of lost boys and just one more:
an old friend sat sitting by the dusty coin machine
trying to remember his recent midnight dream
swaying steadily on a cheap three-legged seat
waiting for a passing washer woman to meet
when he asked me how my life has been:
i saw he was wearing my favorite hat underneath his toothy grin;
ah yes, I didn't have to guess,
and thought what did he know about the fateful cycles of life?
do they spin dry from the first husband to the last wife?
and is anything ever truly lint free?
does anybody fold their dirty laundry under the weeping willow tree?
well, in the village square
i no longer know any living person there
and in my Ford truck when the radio blows
i remember all the old vaudeville comedy shows
and at half past five
i'm usually ticking but barely alive
thinking of a quarter buying a pack of menthol cigarettes
and that's about as happy as this young man gets
heading down the road inside my head
dreaming of my cozy unmade bed,
carrying a pocket full of memories and a couple of bucks
thinking, ah, what the hell, aw shucks!
so, crazy as it sounds, I replied to the man that life has been steady and fine
and thanks for the hat because i'm pretty sure it's mine.

your favorite song

it's too soon to want to die
but it's okay to sigh
when the day is long
and your favorite song
is no longer played
and there's a helicopter is the air
full of black ops escaping their lair
ready to pull your hair
for looking good without overhead control.

the mighty algorithm

hearing the sound of sharp screams in the air
but it's only me that i see
falling from the Serengeti monkey tree
onto the fertile African plains
seasonally soaked from the recent rains
and there's my newly heavy brain
watching the overhead stars
long before the advent of fast cars
and electricity and the internet of all things
when my cell phone rings
pointing a finger and with a quick glance
i see myself do a tribal dance
to the tune of the mighty algorithm
when i say "Hello."

rowdy gladiators and all their liberal kills

there was a green goblin glint in his piggy eye
as the global warming sun kept approaching high noon:
his curious crowd came deferentially into view
watching him pretending to know what to do!
and they held a spelling bee but found he wouldn't read,
(a fatal flaw that he simply wouldn't concede).
the next day came slip-sliding in a Fox Mountain time
asking for poetic justice but then he couldn't even rhyme.
Humpty Dumpty said he'd pay for that Mexican wall
or perhaps a social platform from which to take a mighty fall.
and several diplomatic ladies dressed in Siberian shades of pink
heard he was color-blind and couldn't tell the truth or think;
the busy Washington wheels kept spinning and spinning
their tall tales of wine and easy winning
while an enormous coliseum fills
with rowdy gladiators and all their liberal kills.
farm animals in an Orwellian barn continued to boast
that they stoned a hippie coming in from the west coast,
as the nuclear clock keeps inching ahead,
because it's what the Alice-In-Wonderland caterpillar said.
BUT i do solemnly declare
i see citizen soldiers everywhere
marching on the village green:
one light if the British can be seen,
and two if they have to guess
there is extreme peril to our freedom of the press.

fire in my toes

fire in my toes
following the sun
whichever way it goes
and not to be outdone
my slowing walk
breaks into a run
striding to the wild
over the hill
but never enough
for getting my fill.
the babbling brook
playing the part,
an free-flying bird
comforting my heart.

no longer a virgin

and there was his ghost

spreading lies between the woman's legs,

sipping a Mar-a-Lago sour,

eating cheeseburgers and patriotic eggs,

counting down from five to almost six

playing stupid White House tricks,

looking for a safe place to hide:

one for every time he's lied

and 1,984 for the times

he asked his fixer to cover-up crimes.

and at the historic desk he sighs;

when the phone rings he takes her call.

"What do I care?" she says

from her fashionable bedroom down the hall,

counting down from five to almost six

playing stupid White House tricks,

with an accent from the European east,

in her Lincoln bed she tries to sleep
as John Wilkes Booth boldly makes his leap.

and flying turds

Barr, the dog, came to the hill
looking mean
unshaven
wearing a fancy suit
with an alligator cowboy boot
on one foot
while the other foot
stuck in his mouth.
he said he knew
what he was doing
sitting in his testimonial chair
muttering,
bewildered and pooing
words
in the shape of flying turds.