the southern coast of Portugal

sailing 6 miles off the southern coast of Portugal

heading for Gibraltar

and the anxious arms of an urgent Hercules

where the Atlantic and the Mediterranean embrace

in a swelling disturbance

which old salts know so well,

keeping an eye on the shipping lanes,

the ferries splashing north and south.

on the hard, ladies dress in traditional costume

and the Spanish men wear baggy pants and ties,

drinking lunch among the smells and spices

of narrow streets and goat cheese.

Barcelona bound, eventually,

but the lure of a British territory is strong,

if only for a cup of tea,

as the light burns dimly in the west.

if i could listen

we forgot to care,

to remember how to share

in a world torn apart

crying about losing its' loving heart

we're together but can only sit and stare

as though no one else is there,

blowing kisses into thin air,

speaking words that never seem enough

to heal our wounds and smooth the rough:

we're alone and it didn't have to be this way

we didn't know what words to say

in a world filled with angels of the earth

all searching for sensations of self-worth.

we're alone in rooms we've made

fighting feelings that somehow we've been betrayed,

but doors swing both ways and windows open in and out;

if i could listen, i could hear your shout

if you could listen, you could begin to remove your doubt

in a world filled with angels of the earth

all searching for sensations of self-worth.

we're alone in rooms we've made

fighting feelings that we've been betrayed,

but doors swing both ways and windows open in and out

if i could listen, i could hear your shout

if you could listen, you could begin to remove your doubt.

singing folk sings for the remainder of the night

standing on shifting ground

almost afraid to look around

at the noise seeping in thru the floor

almost afraid to open the door

where there's a ghost with a drink

he's emptying his bottle in my kitchen sink

telling me i have no official permission to think

and with a trembling nod of my head

i start filling with dread

there's so much confusion and shouting and hate

i can't even decide what to put on my dinner plate:

should it be sausage and a baked potato with butter?

but like a ship in a storm without a rudder

i crash onto the shore and swallow sand

just before a damsel in distress offers me her hand

in the waning light of the day;

we look into each others' eyes and forget what to say.

she took me to the local chicken shack

where they grill their best meat on hot coals in a steel kettle out back

we had a bite,

singing folk songs for the remainder of the night,

dancing like lovers' when their bodies are feeling the drums,

dreaming like babies in cribs who are sucking their opposing thumbs.

she in glass slippers and i carrying my suitcase

running to our carriage ride for the thin air of outer space

and at the stroke of midnight

we had a bite,

singing folk songs for the remainder of the night,

pretending that hope was eternal and everything would be alright.

his name was Mister Navalny!

his name was Mister Navalny!

and he had me sit on his knee

to listen to the tale of a hot cup of tea

and an airplane ride

when he fell sick and almost died

at the hands of the FSB,

an unscrupulous spy agency

lurking in the eastern shadows

and everybody there knows

which way the Russian wind blows.

so Putin, they say,

always gets his way

and as he grows older

he grows bolder,

killing morning flowers with a stroke of his pen;

killing poets and friendly businessmen.

there are times on a Moscow street,

one recognizes the face of a passing stranger they meet

and it's frightening,

like swallowing a bottle of vodka thunder and lightening

on the birthday of a fresh-faced baby

no if, and, but, or maybe,

simply a sudden spark in the dark

or a swim in a river guaranteed to make one splash and shiver

a final time before a change of the mind,

hearing footsteps scurrying from behind

on the thirteenth floor and the narrow balcony:

two more places for a last breath before checking out of reality.

his name was Mister Navalny,

taking a soft drink while sitting in an aisle seat

listening to his steady heartbeat.

and steady as it goes,

wearing his commoner shoes and clothes

and everybody there knows

which way the Russian wind blows.

the blueberries from Peru

the blueberries from Peru

gave my hunger an early morning wink

as i picked up their plump promise

from my kitchen sink.

i offered up my mouth,

and enjoyed a special lap dance

with sweet young things

and it felt like romance

as they slid down my throat

before tumbling away

into my smiling belly;

it felt like foreplay!

and nothing else that i swallowed

had such an personal impact;

i asked them all

if we could reenact

the first bite of each day?

and i'd applaud their blue beauty,

their dancing moves like operatic ballet,

satisfying my appetite

like a lover at a candle lit cabaret.

i am not among them

there are cities

underground

where dark creatures swim

holding a fake rose in each hand,

mouthing a hateful grin.

and their banners waving overhead,

flapping proudly in the wind,

are enough to catch the crooked eyes

of the frightened dead and their lies.

it is not sufficient to smell the street

and to hear the noise,

to be alarmed of their plans

and their dangerous toys;

it is not enough to feel the heat

and the rushing air,

to taste the scent of harvested hate

on busy corners every where.

those dark creatures might wait for me

as i take another lyric step,

but i am not among them.

my god, they shot him dead

my god,

they shot him dead

along a public thoroughfare

in front of everyone who was standing there

including Cicero

and a roving band of merry pranksters

all holding signs

detailing their nefarious designs,

but forgive my ignorance;

my eyes are balls of flame,

trying to focus all the blame

on the shadow world of conspirators playing in this game:

the motorcycle agents with menacing Israeli guns

and i should admire their handy work,

but am stuffed with a personal quirk:

i want to experience a type of world without endless war

like the moon i see outside my backyard garden door.

but the streets are wet with blood,

little drops like hot grease bouncing inside a frying pan;

and some crowd of crooks saw him as a monster,

not as a human man.

and 

my god,

they shot him dead,

not waiting for a final word that he might have said.

a dog barked at the moon

when i crawled from my hole

a dog barked at the moon

it was a nearly perfect white one

i read my book by the glow of that celestial lamp,

grabbed a bottle filled with ripe red grape,

and shouted to an overhead airplane

it glided down to grab me by the throat

and laughed when it went by

i sat near the shore of a small pond,

under the tree with no leaves.

three gold fish swam nearby,

and headed to the bank.

like criminals that have no money,

they looked at their hands

which were empty.

i often see them when the water is low.

they wear wigs and pray for rain.

i worry about their happiness.

the moon drops and will not get back up.

it is asleep with the dog.

i do not finish my book.

in Tehran sipping tea

all the sad dead

in Tehran sipping tea

remember the CIA

oiling the gears in 1953

when life was hard

and wine was cheap,

stealthy on the street,

digging the knife in deep,

slipping into shadows

concealing their eyes,

employing the language

of powerful lies.

Prime Minister Mosaddegh

was sent to his house

by the crafty Shah

to live like a caged mouse.

and now,

no one knows

about the disappearance of

the fragrant scent from the Iranian rose!

noble Persian aspirations

play to the dramatic music of grief,

written in hot desert sand by

a swift and terrible thief.

still visible to one another

i kicked the can far down the road

you waited for time to stand still

but it only slowed

as the dead,

buried under crosses in the forest across the field,

heard the rattling of our bones,

it saw us share lovely memories

as we sat waiting for the dark river to stop flowing

we swam, resembling each other

resembling the stars when they shimmer and shine

resembling the moon circling in eternal adoration

the eyes of a flower, patiently smiling in fragrant dress,

light up the day

and at the dawn

words come forth

saying again what they know best how to say

and we listen, still visible to one another.

unafraid of the dark

i know what i saw

i know what i heard

counting every vote

respecting every word

and you said the country beneath your feet

once held its' head high

and its' air was sweet.

but what impressed me the most

was the story you often told

of the undying ghost.

it kept repeating inside my head:

the tragic bloodshed

of a civil war;

the battlefields and the untimely dead.

the lusty songs as young men went marching past,

proud of their skills,

but fearing that it wouldn't last.

the final exhale of a deserving breath;

a Union asked to choose between life and death

chose the memory and the Revolutionary deed

of a Republic and the ultimate need

to free ALL men and firmly hold

ideals more important than acts of merely accumulating pieces of gold.

where ALL men have an authentic voice

and the will to spontaneously rejoice.

i walked into my home town

and looked around,

seeing children playing in the park,

in each eye a knowing spark

unafraid of the dark.

between Ethiopia and Senegal

it was election day

in the desert,

between Ethiopia 

and Senegal

when all the bedouins

came 

to give their tribal call,

looking for the wailing wall

under stormy skies with a chill in the air 

and a bout of heavy rains.

i saw crowds of wandering people

and all that remains

of their private wishing well

and what they brought,

hoping to barter or to sell,

and a public place for women to gather,

to laugh and cry,

but what could i really see

when i turned my blind eye?

the sad men, they gambled and all their cards

came up short;

they took their petty grievances

to a higher court.

and i heard the angels preparing a nighttime meal

while cooking up thin excuses

for everything they could steal!

they put their food into a heavy pot

which heated to a quick boil.

they chose to be the first to eat

before anything had a chance to spoil.

i watched their smoking fires

and heard nervous voices 

speaking about roaming free,

riding rapids down the wild Zambezi,

looking for a safe place to pull ashore

devoid of discord and hungry carnivore.

i was hanging by the seat of my pants,

but couldn't shake the trance

of being inside a big circus tent and feeling strange,

wishing i could make amends and rearrange

the nomad  into a well-wisher 

and a passionate lip kisser.

in the small world with big butchers and their raw beef,

i found myself trapped inside a colosseum with a marauding thief

who drew his sword and challenged my belief,

but much to my relief

it was a passing dream and i awoke renewed

near a hilltop village painted with strokes of simple solitude,

wondering if everything i felt was nothing more than prelude

between Ethiopia and Senegal.

Ashgabat

the Gates of Hell

swing open,

not near but not too far, 

when driving in an old Soviet car

away from Ashgabat,

and it's hot

if you can find the spot,

where white marble and the wall

come together five times a day

for the muezzin call.

and seconds pass and years,

but time stands still

on the rise of an ancient foothill.

there are camels in the street,

being butchered in the heat.

horses and sheep

walk the dusty roads,

carrying people and their heavy loads.

and the President for Life

applauds his political skills and knife,

keeping Turkmen under lock and key

who might otherwise choose to be free

but have no voice,

no human rights or choice.

a natural place for the tourist to view

all the animals feeding inside the zoo.

off the foggy coast of wild Peru

how did you survive

when they killed the number five,

and tossed your Father in a cell?

because in Kashmir there is a riot

when Indian troops demand a total quiet

from early dawn until an indefinite tomorrow

like a conquering Spanish Pizarro

off the foggy coast of wild Peru.

what will you do?

a sharp-eared owl heard the softest drums

of an approaching storm:

she saw the clever swarm

of power-hungry mouths

eating the primordial forest nude and bare,

leaving

nothing but thin air:

her tongue could taste the odor

of a menacing nightmare

softly creeping 

into bedrooms where children were safely sleeping,

dreaming of their grand empires

of laughing moons and shooting stars and youthful merriment.

their closed eyes and gentle faces,

wrapped in imaginary blankets of loves' good graces,

rest in peace.

what will they become?

more statues made of gold?

or was it Bangkok?

the imperial family,

buried in St. Petersburg cathedral

or was it Bangkok?

are kick boxing the golden rule,

drinking a Moscow mule

with a revolutionary head,

filling it with the dread

of Chinese schemes

and the unexpected night screams

of the golden Buddha.

in the Ukraine,

black clad mercenaries

with white penis brains

are seen urinating in the harbor,

while stroking their friends,

hoping to make amends

for their complicity

or was it Bangkok?

the foreshadowing grows

and hopefully someone

somewhere knows

the stories that

Churchill might have been a minor drunk

but it was the major battleship Bismarck

that was sunk

in the Atlantic, west of Brest, 

while imagining a Nordic woman's fine breast,

all the way to the bottom of the sea.

and a mysterious Romanian lady,

who never said the word 'maybe',

realized her own desires

were perfectly-formed internal fires

and her eyes were clear.

she placed her wine glass on the small table,

picked up her brush,

tapped a bit of custom-made pigment blush

on the handsome face of a portrait lover,

who did not speak her tongue,

but knew where her closet skeleton was hung.

under cover,

in Indonesia,

Bali, actually,

i went to a knee

to have a better view of the incoming tide

or was it Bangkok?

where all the Russian mobsters

used speed dial to call their mother.

there are stories that they knew Churchill

and drank with him in the bunker underneath

the back streets of London

or was it Bangkok?

perhaps Bucharest?

i once asked a Croat

and a Serb

but they gave conflicting answers:

one a noun and one a verb.

contained in totality

time seemed to vanish,

running from the inside out;

even when i thought i knew,

i felt creeping shadows of doubt.

but a mountain is a mountain,

tall and fine as it stands,

allowing itself to be admired

without making demands.

and the sunlight, 

pouring down like a heavy rain,

makes no excuses for being happy

as it doesn't try to explain.

just everything i see,

especially the emotion of being,

is contained in totality.

when the world is asleep

back down

in my home town

moving slowly through a crowd

being ignored but feeling proud

taking a deep breath

the way a river escapes it's banks

remembering my childhood

and always to give my thanks

like a flower in the park

dressed in nothing but light 

but heading for the dark

around the time i still believed in all the stuff

i was told makes a real man tough,

like how to be angry and how to bleed;

how to make peace with the hazards of greed;

like anything worth doing was worth doing at top speed:

touched in the head

by a creed that misled

all my steps in the face of a sun-soaked storm,

failed to enlighten and failed to inform.

so just sipping my beer

resting my rear

while i'm sitting here

listening to the murmur from a soft wind

lifting its' head to the quiet blue sky:

the world seems asleep and so do i.

i would like to be the moon

when i shot my M-16

for the first time,

it was on a target range

in the state of New Jersey, USA.

and there was very little recoil.

i wore my army uniform while 

adjusting my sights,

and there was gravel underfoot

and the day was hot.

it was my responsibility to be accurate.

i couldn't see my face,

but i probably looked like a judge

who was good at what he did.

it was horrifying to contemplate the purpose

of my training with this weapon,

but i took it with me to South Vietnam in 1969.

eventually, i was awarded a medal.

and now i would like to be memory-free,

simple and one-celled.

i would like to sleep under a warm sun

like a fat house cat.

i would like to be more tender.

i would like to be a wild wood duck, 

flying freely toward the full moon.

i would like to be the moon!

on the path to loneliness

the Giant with five eyes

keeps claiming to have seen the living dead rise

across the open prairies 

underneath crimson skies

where factual truth is ridiculed and compromised,

twisted into pieces and distorted by his lies.

but i'm sipping Kentucky bourbon 

while reading the international news:

it doesn't comfort me but it's simply what i choose

to keep on open mind

on what he plots and what he eats and brews.

his friends are hiding inside a box!

they talk about fake gold inside Fort Knox

and never dare 

to complain of lack of air!

no! he'll rip away their faces and tear away their hair.

they're waiting for the end days,

humming Bible stories and singing Christian praise,

filled with the weight of fear and sunk by a deep despair,

they won't save themselves but only sit and stare,

even when the sign posts proclaim everyone should beware!

the workers in a field who never read a book,

never stood a chance against a machine that only ever took,

when the highest goal was owning all the land, 

the oceans, and all the oil-rich sand.

the giant with five eyes,

much to my surprise,

dressed in a complicated disguise

to which there were never any independent replies,

and all around were murders and mysterious spies

smiling as they pledged their word and said their sly goodbyes.

it was all good until it wasn't fun anymore,

when the counting man couldn't tally the final score,

but on the path to loneliness there are greater mountains to explore.

don't be sad about the horrors of war

i saw her in a corner of my neighborhood bar

sitting on a lonesome chair

with a look both near and far

and her eyes were shooting stars

more upsetting than a shopping mall

full of war damaged vintage Russian cars

and the banana merchants who quietly slipped away

without a word when they were asked to pay

for all the hearts they ever sold without an honest smile,

or the hanging judge they bought before the latest murder trial,

and the several dirty rugs they tossed out on the floor

which they assured would entirely stop the coming holocaust world war

but a savage looking one with ashes in his grey beard

said he knew what it was his ancestors feared

while from around the hidden corner i mechanically peered

i saw her in a corner of my neighborhood bar

dreaming of a future with the sweet taste of desire

like a tune was caressing her rose-colored lips

under the shadow of an impending apocalypse

i looked at her for a long, long time

waiting for my moment to strike

waiting for the bell to chime

but everything was counted and nothing else i saw was mine:

the tracks around her neck and the sad hair on her head

gave me nervous sweats and filled me with dread

so with one leg ready i turned to run out

but i juggled with indecision when i finally heard her shout

"don't be sad about the horrors of war;

beyond this earth everything that happens has happened before!"

and in a far distance i heard gentle voices and saw a growing void

reminding me of what to harvest and what to avoid:

an underground and free spaces overhead,

making room at the local bar for all the phantoms who are acting dead:

but through their bony mouths they were sipping drinks with ice cubes in their teeth

while softly asking "what is my belief?"

but i didn't have to answer much and much to my relief,

i grabbed that girl and tip toed out the back door like a disappearing thief.

looking for a simple meal of something good to eat

 the Edmund Pettus bridge

still standing in its' dress of steel

with memories and nothing more to prove

it's vibrant and oh, so real

with streets full of people marching

holding their signs and their life breath

fighting to stay alive

in the face of unnecessary death

holding hopeful heads up high

wondering all the time why

it has come to this

inside a nursing home without a lover's kiss:

and where is the tall ship of state

willing to serve a hot dinner plate

to a hungry man falling down on his hard luck?

one who wants to work for an honest, hard-earned buck

with no interest in a gilded chair or a first class airplane seat

just looking for a simple meal of something good to eat

far from the confusing shouts coming from far down the street

when the air was cold and there were dark clouds of an impending storm

he was asking for a silent smile and a heart full of kindness and warm,

though his boots were tired and his pants and shirt were torn.

and the wine from Portugal

a few questions remain on my chin

like drops of dark cranberry juice

with a neat twist of lemon,

hijacking my tranquil mood

as i'm returning a container of fresh milk

to the kitchen refrigerator.

a woman is speaking on live tv

to a white haired man with a pancake face

and a soft cream grin, who tries to interrupt

with a house fly on his head,

eating shit and bits of stale popcorn.

and yet another hurricane is approaching the Gulf of Mexico

with a Greek name and one hundred mile an hour

winds, looking for another city to destroy.

California wildfires consuming millions of acres of forests in an

attempt to engorge themselves, are eating like obese ants at a climate change

party, waiting for the chocolate cake which never arrives.

Armenia is failing. Azerbaijan is failing.

Putin is a tragedy.

Trump is a presidential disgrace.

and Pink Floyd is playing a British song about my mother dropping her bomb

over a dusty New Mexican desert.

a border wall is being built from steel plates while a pod

of pilot whales remain stranded on a remote New Zealand beach.

there are children in a prison without lights on at night to make it impossible

for them to find their parents, who are also in a prison without lights on at night.

a public picnic table is empty under the spreading chestnut tree.

the village blacksmith is looking for his lump of coal and a hammer for the anvil blow.

a square-jawed sheriff is looking for his shiny badge when the wall clock strikes high noon;

the nearest saloon is filled with lonely drinkers, all eyeing a table holding the ace of spades.

the Earth is spinning like a busy top playing games as the warm winds blow in

from the southern ice shelf, groaning in a whirling fit of exasperation,

while to the far north Santa Claus sits on his snow sled looking inside a big brown bag,

empty of gifts for the needy and the lost, but filled with voices singing Mozart's Requiem in D Minor. 

and the wine from Portugal is better than you think.

a solitary tree

rough bark lovingly hugged woody arms

around the middle of a solitary tree,

which stood tall with a quiet oak sound.

on the horizon was a young deer chasing its' spots

across a dry autumn corn field, heedless of

the deep blue sky and

the alert archer watching from his stand, anxious for

the first pull of his bow.

Osa, a silly dog, saw the deer

but not the archer and gave an energetic yet brief chase.

the solitary tree remained stoic but dropped everything to

listen, including the remaining few leaves which drifted slowly

to the soft ground, inaudible to human ears.

but she can help you

but she can help you

there's perfume in her hair

flirty whispers thru the air

you've got thumb

don't be so dumb

aye, there's the rub

you're no ticket stub

in the heat of the night

when nothing seems right

but she can help you

tie your shoe

pick your lock

and you've got rock,

and roll,

and a black hole

with no lump of coal.

you've got thumb

don't be so dumb

aye, there's the rub

you're no ticket stub

but she can help you

there's perfume in her hair

flirty whispers thru the air.