son of Zeus

 when i cut my hair

i swear

i thought about Hercules

leaning on his strong knees

with his tongue on her breasts

his eyes on her face

thinking of the ending 

but it wasn't a race

it was poison in the blood

across the river before the flood

and the death of a centaur;

it would be many an ancient hour

before female jealousy killed the man,

his immortal side getting loose

reuniting on Mount Olympus with his father, Zeus.

after all the successful labours,

countless favors,

and the final funeral pyre:

male lovers and wives,

bows and arrows and stinging knives,

50 women in one night

before the following daylight

and not a single rival in sight.

Elena

"You sons of bitches!"

i'll find you in narrow ditches,

piss on your faces,

cover your eyes with needles and laces

to better blind you like a puppet tile:

it was a mockery of a trial

with no evidence or proof of any kind.

what? you think i've lost my mind?

i'll sneak up on you from behind

and bite off your ears:

of course you won't cry out or shed any tears

while holding machine guns fully loaded.

my husband and i have been railroaded,

but he'll sing 'The Internationale' while i scream

a pledge to forever haunt your every dream;

"You sons of bitches!"

the other seats were taken

 i saw you on the windowsill

big dumb eyes

like black skies

you didn't know where you were going

sitting on the edge of night

holding your skinny flashlight

straining to see a friendly face

on the television screen

making the New York scene

or making out

without a shadow of the doubt

with a shifting wind stirring your hair

you moved to the last velvet chair

to find a dime

but you were running out of time

to make a splash

all the other seats were taken.

cockroaches! Get out!

"cockroaches!

Get out!"

the people shout:

what don't you know about humility

and crushing futility?

the people see your rule

as self-serving and cruel;

the people won't fade away;

the people will make you pay

with your neck.

waiter, please, the check.

the blood on the street

is washing your feet.

the tears flooding the square

are running everywhere.

there's a noose on the loose:

one day the trumpets roar,

the following day,

they're heard from no more.

no sound is heard

after you broke your word,

when you tried to proclaim

your good name.

the people won't fade away;

the people will make you pay

with your neck.

waiter, please, the check.

it's you i adore

 and it was so hot

everything i got

it was all for you

i just never knew

everything we do

and what we've been through

baby, i'm impressed

baby, you're the best

from the sea to shore

you take but give more

it's you i adore

there's so much to miss

it's not just your kiss

your heart and your soul

in part or in whole

we rock and we roll

so fire up the car

follow the North star

it's our beam of light

our wings will take flight

i'll keep loving you

no holes to fall through

i just never knew

everything we do

and what we've been through

baby, i'm impressed

baby, you're the best

from the sea to shore

you take but give more

it's you i adore.

one hand on my pistol

on my face in the middle of the sea

thinking of my other favorite place i'd rather be

with one hand on my pistol and one hand on my gun

i heard cowboys riding their horses toward the setting sun

running from the law while hiding in my backyard,

trying to avoid being seen by the approaching prison guard

who's looking for an orange suit inside a heavy, full metal cage

inflated by an enormous ego according to the latest gauge,

and it seemed to be all the modern rage.

and there was a white ghost seen counting ten thousand bones

last noticed wrapped up inside the thin skin of howling Mister Jones

who was blow drying his hair listening to a morning talk radio:

it wasn't all good news but it was currently his favorite show

full of shouts with flapping lips that flattered 

all the nonsense that he thought mattered

about horses when they soiled the Old Santa Fe trail

and confederate cowboys when they tried to break out of the Union jail

and people down on their knees

their heads exploding when they sneeze

see, it's all front page news! 

there's not much more to gain and nothing else to lose;

walking seriously to visit a church across the desolate street

playing with a smiling lady in her friendly back seat

who's asking for a hundred thousand but only gets offered a single buck

getting out she removes her teeth and mouths her fatal words: "Hey! good luck"

and throwing a kiss and waving a hasty goodbye,

she's looking for an attorney who she knows is living nearby.

while on a battlefield there's a story and a Wanted: Dead or Alive poster on the border wall;

i tried to read the finer print but my hands were much too small.

on my face in the middle of the sea

thinking of my other favorite place i'd rather be

with one hand on my pistol and one hand on my gun

i heard cowboys riding their horses toward the setting sun

running from the law while hiding in my backyard,

trying to avoid being seen by the approaching prison guard

who's looking for an orange suit inside a heavy, full metal cage

inflated by an enormous ego according to the latest gauge,

and it seemed to be all the modern rage.

the later pretenders

Picasso who

penis in or out of his pants

paints and pigments on his tongue

hunger on his fingers

Spanish fire ball eyes

drinking to himself and a self-portrait

hanging inside a beachside cabana

bouncing balls, flying kites, smoking sideways

his wife with her dark Russian accent

but light blonde hairs on his studio chair

French smiles for the small spry guy

in galleries famous or unknown

a cheap room in Montmartre

glasses of inexpensive red wine

bohemian buddies, empty bottles

puffs of passion

poets, photographers and players of

parlor games

costume parties with the bourgeoisie

clowns and jugglers

cubes and cubists

metaphorical flowers and les Demoiselles d'Avignon

hanging on an expansive wall

playing with knives on a cafe table in central Paris

surreal "J'suis!"

in a castle near X

with bullfights and bombast and brilliance,

paving the way for the later Pretenders.

endless blue skies

there's nothing new in my backyard;

my face is soft; the ground is hard,

flowers growing with a rosy smile

i sit and pause for a little while,

looking for some peace and solitude,

hoping to find a more relaxing mood.

and the neighborhood birds sing and dance

i'm in an American trace

remembering how carefree 

solitary life can be

but i miss you being near

maybe magically you'll appear

adding to the garden atmosphere

along with the butterflies

the endless blue skies

and all the songs singing inside my head

dreaming of my special lady and her feather bed

i see you dressed in intelligent red

and here are the first words that i said:

let's plant a kiss on our lips

touching the earth with our fingertips

make it grow blowing on the breeze

and we can have it all, if you please

along with the butterflies

the endless blue skies

and all the songs singing inside my head

dreaming of my special lady and her feather bed.

i see you dressed in intelligent red

and here are the first words that i said:

let's plant a kiss on our lips

touching the earth with our fingertips

make it grow blowing on the breeze

and we can have it all, if you please.

what will i find to do?

 when you showed me the door

it was one i've opened and closed before

no one ever had to tell me how to sweep the floor

or clean my living room

when i stood by your side i was never in a stranger's costume

i always used my own custom-made broom

to clear the dirt away

i woke up every day knowing what i wanted to say

no hastily written script was needed for my play

or ignoring the pain away

if you didn't want any surprise

i recommended using your own eyes

to wash away the confusion and the lies

when the months turned the page to become years

you heard no mindless cheers

i'm not sitting on a bar stool drinking cheap beers

or smoking expensive cigarettes in a cloud of mild regret

and yet

either lonely or in a crowd, i'll never forget

how the changing story goes

whichever way the wind blows

there's anonymous poets writing romantic Broadway shows

where there's always a lady in a white dress

and a well-heeled man who's more than an overnight guest

it's everything i know, i guess

yes, i guess, yes, unless

another clue

points to a different notion of what's true.

then, what will i find to do?

well, i'll have to keep on getting through

it's everything i know, i guess

yes, i guess, 

yes, unless.

daddy's farm

 one pretty star,

but she doesn't know who you are,

ordering a round of drinks from the local cash bar. 

with her cherry colored lips and golden throat,

she took one ride too many in her basement boat:

cold to the bone but she doesn't wear her coat.

a silver wound in her naked arm,

machine gunning herself away from daddy's farm,

away from the evening when memories took flight,

she lost her hearing and couldn't find her sight.

a rosemary kiss and silent shadows on the shifting sand;

treasure islands where only the sleepy natives still get tanned,

one step forward and no where left to go,

lowering the final curtain for the ending of the show.

she didn't realize her promise was a spoken prayer

slipping like seaweed through her salty hair,

it's changing colors under a spacious sky

before anyone watching had a chance to cry.

 one pretty star,

but she doesn't know who you are,

ordering a round of drinks from the local cash bar. 

with her cherry colored lips and golden throat,

she took one ride too many in her basement boat:

cold to the bone but she doesn't wear her coat.

Germany calling! Germany calling!

 Lord Haw-Haw,

who was ultimately not very successful with a microphone

or holding a British passport,

was found hanging by his tongue,

bobbing up and down like a hungry fish on the line,

blowing his own horn before rounding the bend

like a drunken driver looking for his secret pot of gold,

which he never found;

it might still be there,

hiding somewhere below the gallows.

windows closing like a door

our weather is daringly stormy,

like a thundering stallion drunk with drama

in a wide open field,

unfenced, but with a distant wall,

(no small detail!) on the horizon.

and the winds blow my hair like a crazy dream

of hunting uncaged game.

i try to avoid eye contact with the noise

which wants to silence me,

the lashing rains which try to poison

my sense of balance.

there are many sheep running in a nearby pasture,

and a black bull watching the huddled cows leave

for the evening, singing softly as in prayer.

i can hear windows closing like a door,

and see a beautiful rose bleeding from its' thorn.

an Independence Day parade

the bridge at Remagen

is not in the United States,

but it is a bridge too far,

no matter who you are:

what don't you understand?

it is not in Portland.

never has been

and never will,

no matter who you are

or how many you try to kill

with a hammer or an ice pick,

you prick.

the Super Dooper Looper

is a roller coaster

not a super storm trooper

with kevlar vest and thermal eyes,

a black heart of steel and forked tongue of lies.

so, a grieving mother cries

under your cloud of steaming gas:

she's all the way from the fertile underclass

with an academic degree and dirty nails,

disdainful of your modern jails,

scornful of your belly fat

and your constant bragging about this or that!

if it's not a charade,

it's no longer an Independence Day parade

as far as i can see,

morally and intellectually,

it's a battle for the deepest soul

and everyone has a role.

Lilya and Mayakovsky

a futurist collection

similar to Elvis and his shocking thrust,

but drawn like a dagger

with typical Russian swagger

across the entire page,

magically appeared!

but it wasn't yet all the rage,

although there was certainly hope

for this new literary dance

called something like...A Cloud in Pants!

penned in verse

across the sprawling universe

with buckets of poetic awe

at what he saw.

then after traveling miles and miles,

weathering the Moscow Trials

and the Great Terror;

what was the fatal error

that left Lilya Brik homeless?

she, of course, the beautiful seducer:

a lover of talented men, revolutionary music, and language skills,

who climbed seductively over and under artistic hills

but committed suicide

with her mouthful of sleeping pills

at the age of 86,

so no more Cheka tricks!

all the drops of water are equally wet

all the drops of water are

equally wet,

from the surface to the depths

of despair:

it's always in the air

we breathe,

the food we eat,

the smiles that greet,

and the tired hands

of revolutionary bands

playing music overtime for a cent or two,

but only just a few.

nothing new

to the fox

running free, 

outside his box,

hunting for the mice 

who are rolling their own dice

in an orgy of self-love,

to keep the anger in,

as they manufacture a cheesy grin

with a 5 o'clock shadow of doubt,

wondering what the commotion is all about,

with whiskers on the tip of each nose

to show which way the wind blows,

most are hiding from the sounding waves,

squeezing behind the quiet of their graves,

looking for a drop to drink,

hoping not to permanently sink

into a darkness where they no longer think.

Vladimir Lenin's dreams

one moment the door is open

and i'm writing the truth,

scratching an itch

and ain't it a bitch

looking outside my front door

seeing fucking clouds of war

and hearing screams

erupting from Vladimir Lenin's dreams

in which he said

Capitalism would be dead

and it would simply kill itself,

when i notice my empty kitchen shelf

with a deep layer of red dust

and the unpolished bust

of young Miss Liberty quietly reading the Communist Manifesto

by Engles and Marx

as the neighborhood mongrel barks,

reciting in perfect Chinese

"I'll bite you above the knees!"

so i grab a cigarette and my handy lighter,

take a deep drag off my typewriter,

and punch a few random keys

in a half-hearted effort to appease.

but i am dealing with a busted thumb,

an inability to satisfy the countless dumb,

and the comrades who are blind.

ain't life unkind,

one moment the door is open

and i'm writing the truth,

scratching an itch

and ain't it a bitch;

the new car is in a ditch

and i'm sweeping with the broom of a wicked witch.

take a knee

i didn't hear what you just said
it was something about me and bed
but i'm too tired;
i haven't been hired
to mow your grass
'cause i'm running on empty
and you're all wired
i'll need to stop to fill my glass
take a drink
take another moment to really think
about what you're asking me:
should i stay or should i flee?
stand at attention or take a knee?
there was a time when i knew
i always wanted a bite of you
but my teeth are worn
and your dress is torn
we drove off the road into a muddy field
i lost control and cracked my wind shield
i saw snakes and rats,
heard barking dogs and pussycats;
saw myself as a lonely child;
heard you answer the call of the wild.
you saw party dust and colored lights,
jumping jack flash and bar room fights.
and we arrived too late
with nothing on our plate
and the crowds were gone
it was hours before dawn
i guess we had our fun
or so they say
you took a seat
but i didn't want to stay.
i didn't hear what you just said
it was something about me and bed
but i'm too tired;
i haven't been hired
to mow your grass
'cause i'm running on empty
and you're all wired
i'll need to stop to fill my glass
take a drink
take another moment to really think
about what you're asking me:
should i stay or should i flee?
stand at attention or take a knee?

now hear this and hear it now

beware of dinosaurs!
flirty party animals,
drop dead donors and night time moaners!

bright bald heads

and blues and reds

and sirens announcing
from far down the street
policemen wearing combat boots on their feet,
shooting balls of hateful heat:

big time cops walking the beat,

arresting everyone they'd meet!

lawn mowers

dads with leaf blowers

moms from the present tense

jumping the fence

teenage werewolves

totem pole fools

midnight garbage eaters

of course your parking meters

babies in soiled diapers

windshield wipers 

on the prowl

now hear this and hear it now:

they'll gladly arrest a Jersey cow

for utter exposure in the street;

it's not who you are but who you meet.

cross the line or dot the i

writing obituaries in the sky

popping pills to hide the chills.

beware of dinosaurs!

flirty party animals,

drop dead donors and night time moaners!

which way do you go

to find yourself 

in the land of innuendo?

in a cell

without a window.

Night of Broken Glass

Night of Broken Glass,
half filled with fake sympathies
and cracked nordic dreams,

led directly to
sudden clouds of poison gas
inside an oven filled with screams,
shirts and bras scattered over the concrete floor
near a locked brick warehouse door;
sweet blood in jars
and Mercedes cars
racing down the German avenues,
scattering merchants,
throwing shoes,
cracking skulls,
smashing schools,
led by a bellicose belly full of fools:
Reich killers on the loose
cooking the golden goose;
opening the curtain
for a second World War;
never satisfied with enough beer hall laughter
but always wanting more.
feeling mighty brave
digging the premature grave
of anyone writing a decent book

if they have a certain look,
or a doctor in a hospital hallway
kneeling down to pray,

especially the Jewish.

little Putin

little Putin went to bed
with a roll of fat
and a sweet blonde blow-up-doll;
he had burger crumbs on his white shorts
with a tiny wiggle worm hidden inside,
waiting for his absent bride.
in a distant room,
she wore a coat which didn't care
how her husband combed his hair
or tanned his face.
he often said
buried deep inside his head
was pure genius
for global leadership
but only fawning types
playing cheap bagpipes
believed that tune,
and she had no desire
to stroke his fire.
he loved his pressed pants too big
while his orange wig
curled past his ears,
alert for any
random cheers,
regardless from where they might arise
in the early hours before sunrise.
and when the lights turned really low,
he felt his memory grow,
the TV signal become weak,
as he dared one more foxy peek,
but his wife never appeared,
although he thought often of dating his own daughter.

so incredibly weird!

Boris sipped his brew

behind the Kremlin walls
where Boris sipped his brew
millions of ghosts sit and talk
about Putin and his crew
it's impossible to breathe, they say,
at the bottom of the Baltic sea
if no bones come alive
like a jumping circus flea!
their army of dead eyes,
with rage inside each head,
cross the Moskva River
with a loaf of hard black bread,

to piss on pant legs standing guard
in the darkness between drinks,

tossing stones at the tyranny
until the bastard sinks.

off we flew

winter
and
the snow was deep
i saw my tracks
going nowhere
they'd disappear
into thin air
with a goodbye hand
and a fading smile
i stopped to rest
for a little while
watching memories,
more falling snow
there were questions enough
but what did i know?
it seemed so cold
i saw my breath
i heard my laugh
and saw my death
a woman neared
she called my name
but if i froze
who could i blame?
she warmed my heart;
i felt my blood;
it filled my senses
like a rushing flood,
and in her eyes
i saw my fire;
we sang together
in a lover's choir,
and the sun was warm;
the sky postcard blue
we took a leap
and off we flew.

keeping time

Tucson
or thereabouts
i saw a desert rose
and heard her shouts.
my father saw her too!
he said her hair was diamond black;
her eyes were cherry blue.
she mysteriously disappeared from our view

with several members of a Dead road crew
just when we thought we knew

what everyone had to do.
so we talked as we walked
and he told me a tall tale
about when he saw her swallowed by a great white whale
and he swore it was true:
there were crazy men and three bright stars
on a strip of street filled with musical bars;
dancers playing with their rocks,
and old shepherds' with furry flocks
just like Walter Cronkite on the evening news
they acted like they had nothing to lose
so, it was impossible to choose
trying to decide which way to point my finger
and not wanting to linger,
i skipped around the hill
hoping to find another empty hole to fill:
well, there was nothing but infinity and a streetcar named desire,
one man who said he'd try to be truthful but was a complete liar;
and a game show with a presidential host
just like Clarabell clown and Casper the friendly ghost.
it was time to pack my bags,
just a couple of ordinary rags
and punch the clock;
take a stroll around the block;
watch a re-run of the Howdy Doody Show,
listening to my old man shouting "Look out below!"
i'm never going to come this way again,
counting down from a hundred to one to ten;
sipping to the bottom of my glass,
looking for a dime;
giving away all my inhibitions,
but keeping time.

and then King got shot

and then King got shot
asking for a 15 cent raise
watching the garbage fill a back alley can,
hoping to stall the ending of our days.
and the sun was hot
even though the night was near;
there were protests in the streets,
for what exactly wasn't clear.
voices rose and fell
with the ringing of the Liberty bell
in Philadelphia near the square,
raising expectations everywhere!
but it had a crack on one side
as the hammer struck a note.
King held a paper in his hand;
it was a sermon he once wrote,

that one day this nation would rise

to cast off hatred and lies,

to live out the true meaning of its creed

so men no longer need to bleed

for the color of their skin.

he had a dream from the past

that all of God's children would be free at last!

and then King got shot.