the fragrance of cherry blossoms

 it was in Tokyo harbor

sitting on a battleship

under the rising sun

that McArthur had his general's fun;

his pants pressed neat and firm,

he offered surrender documents to confirm

that the Emperor really knew

what he came to realize was true:

the Pacific War was done.

it was August 1945,

after Hiroshima and Nagasaki

but Hirohito sat regally proud

inside the Imperial Palace

with fresh memories of a terrible mushroom cloud

when a moment of sadness brushed his eye

for the way of the samurai,

and the sudden desire for the fragrance of cherry blossoms.

then he spoke on the radio

to his people.

Venus in a giant half shell

too tired to mount the stairs,

i'm heavy with fatigue.

strange new cares

are pushing me down

until i can see

to the bottom of the sea,

and all the creatures trying to make it

are dressing in transsexual costumes

or else trying to fake it;

they're pushing open the revolving door

where a television

is portraying the ongoing civil war,

with battles on city streets and in the public square:

people looking for an escape are lost but discovering Mister Nowhere,

climbing ladders for a better view

to the top of the watch tower and down Fifth Avenue;

stories are thrown into the mix

and everybody wants to be in on the fix,

but the glue holding it all together

easily comes undone during spells of stormy weather:

in case there is some confusion when the music cries at night,

i'm swallowing pharmaceutical medicines to help myself feel alright,

and as part of the gathering crowd, i'm looking for an store front to swallow

or when i spy an anxious protest banner, i'll eagerly follow,

trying to find missing pieces of the broken wall

where the body of Humpty Dumpty one time took his big fall,

remembering that all the King's horses and their frustrated dreams

are not always on my side because nothing is ever like it seems.

there's a red glow on the horizon and choking smoke on the breeze;

people are rising and falling, some down on bending knees

and on the radio above the static from the street,

i hear an excited grumbling from a voice filled with conceit;

and echos rumbling like a company of army tanks

tumble down the main thoroughfare, past the parks, and the Wall Street banks:

loose gypsies are dancing on the spinning carousel,

famous minorities are ringing the front door bell,

and Venus, who's still standing nude in a giant half shell,

still has her secrets but she'll never tell

who is favored to win the big game and what's the final cost

for the gambler who bets it all and never once has lost.

yes, there is a still lot to lose 

and someone has to eventually pick and choose,

but when asked which I prefer, I would rather refuse

since all the answers can only be seen 

in the shooting stars or on the evening news.

Bob Dylan was nearby

i stopped in wonder

at a local bar

just to wet my whistle

and look around,

there wasn't a sound,

and right away i felt

like i was alone 

on a hillside demolished by the sunshine;

the face that i looked at was remarkably like mine.

and she came up to me acting like a piece

of fresh fruit, 

ripe and ready to squeeze,

and i wilted 

like a flowery bloom full of one too many stinging bees

but i had the presence of mind to take my first pure sip

before speaking about the deeper truths of life!

she wondered if i came here often

and, man, did i have a wife?

a brilliant mind, which i possessed,

would have lied like a gentleman

but i confessed

the orange that i was eating was a world on fire,

ah,  i couldn't be a simple liar

since my little bottle of champagne

was used only for silencing my dog

and for watching friends

pray on their knees to the universe and to make amends

for their goodness and their beauty

so i offered her a drink like it was my patriotic duty

to act like the leader of a touring band

writing exactly what i was feeling

while on my back pointing up at the heavenly ceiling!

Bob Dylan was nearby 

singing constantly,

all the while

with his Minnesota accent and a Ginsberg smile

when the lady took the next elevator up to the sky,

looking for her lost horizon and not wondering why

i kept gripping her by the forearm,

blowing my horn while rounding her curve.

but she wondered where i got all my romantic nerve

before everything erupted in flame;

i finally remembered to ask her for her name!

clearer than if it were from the distant past,

i realized my single bottle of champagne would never last.

well, put a cork in it, i heard myself say, 

but the bubbles inside my head already popped

and i knew even with the punishing traffic laws they couldn't be stopped.

the overhead lights flickered and went low

but what happened with the lady i really don't know:

she ran out the front door with a bottle of cheap wine and Michelangelo.

"Hey, Lukashenko! Go away!"

 A sea of people

in Belarus:

thousands of women are 

preparing to cook the head goose

where crowds of voices for independence

are marching on the loose,

waving banners to say

"Hey, Lukashenko! Go away!"

take your security and your forces

for a final exit ride on frightened horses

and that's a natural fact,

so please don't look back.

like a bee without his hive,

can this embattled leader survive?

without a glass of his favorite drink

of Soviet commands and government red ink,

he stares confronting the deep abyss and doesn't seem to think

that hundreds of thousands of people want him to capsize and sink,

and not one protester is willing to blink.

losers and suckers

 he said i was a loser

or was it lopsided lollipop sucker?

well, coming from an angry ladies-of-the-night fucker,

that's quite a thing

but now he fancies himself a modern day king

who once had a suspicious foot problem

which excused him from serving in the Vietnam war;

he's now asking for loyalty and demanding so much more

from his favorite daughter and his personal staff.

it was said to be tiny bone spurs sleeping inside one foot so let's laugh

when he's playing golf and bends to cheat:

it's obvious he's driving down the fairways with two good feet

looking for his tiny white ball,

but it's escaped to the rough and he'll need to crawl

on all fours to find where it timidly hides.

and to my astonishment he now resides

in the infamous American White House

where he wears an 'I Don't Care' blouse

while eating vanilla ice cream with his wife who's on the phone

talking to him from her bedroom in another time zone.

our best plan

i worked with her on an evening plan

before the sunset ran

and the rain drops fell

into her basement stairwell.

we agreed it would be nearly perfect

with just a few changes yet to make:

one idea was a recipe for rice and bean cake

i gave her to bake,

but on second glance

she said she'd rather dance

than cook 

from a simple kitchen book.

so, we stood looking through her small window

at a passing burlesque show

when another novel notion,

like a brown bottle of lavender body lotion,

stuck to our noses,

like a fragrant bouquet of freshly-picked roses:

it was to turn the ticking wall clock

into an image of a busy metropolitan city block

where swift crowds of people rattled and roared,

trying their best not to seem bored

by the futility of another insignificant day,

with not much of importance to say.

yes, we had a hell of time together

as the inclement weather

smacked us between the ears,

but we had our ice-cold beers

and a decent bottle of red wine:

our best plan was that everything would turn out just fine.

Come and See

Come and See

what is left of me

after crawling through the mud

spitting blood

listening for the break of dawn

trying to carry on

wondering where all the other children went

as if my youth has been misspent

reading words from important library books,

grooming myself and worrying about my looks,

when nothing is anymore what it seemed

i try to remember what i once wistfully dreamed

but it's easy to forget when life is being torn away

and everything is more difficult than it was yesterday.

Come and See

an angry soldier suspended in the tree

struggles as he points his rifle directly at me;

i can clearly hear

as his shot comes near

yet strangely i have a moment without fear.

Articles of Confederation

no story can tell the true tale

but sometime late in mid-afternoon

the flapping flag got loose,

and became a flaming balloon,

blocking out the setting sun and the blood-red moon

over the Mexican border and across a tall fence;

it began lighting fires 

and immigrant piles of bilingual incense.

there were caravans of desperate people heading north

weaving carefully across a flooding river

back and forth

to where it seems

it might still be possible to entertain big league dreams,

in spite of all dire warnings and the crazy coughing cries

of advertising cheers and the Mother of all Lies

of when's and how's and ifs and why's;

many Christians thumbing the pages inside their bibles 

looking for parables about how to treat their rivals

and then up the polished steps inside each pious church,

poking around in solemn search

to bridge the holy gap between what is promised and what is real 

and for Porky Pig and all the barnyard animals that scramble and squeal

along with Rocky Raccoon and Jesse James and his criminal gang,

hoping to hear the now-famous songs that they sang

about injustice and the Articles of Confederation:

especially the small print which is hard to read

about the founding of a newly-independent nation

and the rattling of southern chains,

across the cotton plantations and the great, grassy plains.

it might be all that remains,

but there were little puffs of gathering smoke

so it didn't totally resemble a school-yard joke

with moving public discourse

keeping the ship of state on a righteous course,

away from the perilous rocks,

picking away at the prison locks,

remembering that shining city on that distant hill

without a second glass of bourbon or hallucinogenic pill.

no one could wish for any less.

it was said and written in the liberal press,

so it must be true, 

and much like Ulysses S and his famously loyal crew

with salt-spray stinging every abolitionist face,

they prepared for a thrilling chase,

but it wouldn't be a simple foot race;

they stayed buckled up for a wild ride 

across the changing countryside

refusing to run and hide,

just in case

anybody wanted to gather and embrace,

or disappear completely without a trace,

to save personal memories of honor from disgrace.

too proud to kneel for another expensive Western meal

The Yellow River

with its' mighty brown flood,

and the Yangtze

with potent dragon's blood:

millions of buried ghosts,

tears dead and alive!

brave protesters in Hong Kong

finding it hard to thrive

inside Mao's little Red Book,

raising their heads for a gambler's quick look.

See!  there's the Great Wall:

a Terracotta army of the first Emperor

holding swords and shields, standing tall.

Dynasties leading deeply into the historical past,

with echos of great tragedies

which last and last.

fields of plenty and loss

almost too far to walk across;

sprawling cities on the expansive coastal plains;

thunder over the mountains followed by torrential rains,

arriving early or leaving too late,

keen eyes sipping pearl milk tea from a special China dinner plate,

too proud to kneel

for another expensive Western meal!

the No. 4 reactor

you're telling me what to think

you're telling me how to think

you're telling me what to drink

you're telling me your shit don't stink

well, i'm saying watch me wink

'cause you're blowing smoke

blowing smoke

and your pipe is broke

a walking tangerine eating his own bad joke

spitting out the seeds

watching to see what bleeds

'cause you're blowing smoke

blowing smoke

and your pipe is broke

like the No. 4 reactor

you're a deadly, dangerous actor

blowing hot radioactive air

blowing your tuxedo-styled hair

you're blowing smoke

blowing smoke

endangering lives

discarding dirty laundry like former wives

like the No. 4 reactor

you're a deadly, dangerous actor

blowing hot radioactive air

blowing your tuxedo-styled hair

you're blowing smoke

blowing smoke

a walking tangerine eating his own bad joke

spitting out the seeds

watching to see what bleeds.

the path over the cliff

the path over the cliff to Monterey

it would be a tough road to get there, they often say

unforgiving sun and dry desert sand

where i found a beautiful mirage but i don't think it was planned

traveling light

under the stars past midnight

she once gave me a map which i could no longer find

and i had a letter she wrote but it was never signed

i couldn't hear her thunder and i didn't feel any rain

while looking for some relief but i didn't feel any pain

i remember how i used to sing in the choir

how my voice came out softly and easily flew away

i'd give anything to have that voice again

but i've forgotten how to pray

and anyhow there are too many twists and turns

with lots of steep uphills and scary downs

crowds of heavy people hanging heavy heads

hiding natural smiles behind their unnatural frowns

i've walked to the tower and i've seen the wider view

wanted endless happy times but i've only had a few

i can't recall

all the ugly moments that i saw

crossing the river and wading the stream

but in the mirror i see an old man

still chasing his dream:

looking for a sand castle that no tide can destroy

waiting for her laughter to tickle my skin

holding hands with my lover in the middle of the road,

not ready to call it quits but ready to begin

the path over the cliff to Monterey

it would be a tough road to get there, they often say

unforgiving sun and dry desert sand

where i found a beautiful mirage but i don't think it was planned

traveling light

under the stars past midnight

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.