you're stuck in my imagination
dancing on a cloud
happy to be a solo star
or busy inside a crowd
with fire in your hair
burning everywhere
you look and you speak
as my knees grow weak
before your beauty
like a fool before i die
gazing skyward from where i lie.
on the road to the center of time
shifting gears from one to four
bouncing across the damn hard floor
landing at your feet
'cause i always knew that someday we'd meet
in the middle of the main street
and it might be midnight
or just about high noon
wouldn't want to be too soon
and wouldn't want to arrive late
hoping to open your front gate
hand you a summer flower like a perfect rose
whatever you propose
well, i'll give it a try
on my heart there's a big bulls-eye
that you can see
it's shaped anyway you want it to be
and we're almost ready for our next meal
moving from almost perfect to just about ideal
on the road to the center of time
shifting gears from one to four
bouncing across the damn hard floor
landing at your feet
'cause i always knew that someday we'd meet
in the middle of the main street
and it might be midnight
or just about high noon
wouldn't want to be too soon
and wouldn't want to arrive late
hoping to open your front gate,
hand you a summer flower like a perfect rose
whatever you propose
well, i'll give it a try
on my heart there's a big bulls-eye
that you can see
it's shaped anyway you want it to be
and we're almost ready for our next meal
moving from almost perfect to just about ideal.
he made them bleed
near the Seine,
far from the left bank,
where a tourist boat sank,
feeling he was alright
for much of an hour.
i'll give him that
wherever he sat,
he drank to it, too.
he made them bleed
due to an overwhelming artistic need
which they all knew,
offering themselves to the sky,
never once asking why,
like the open palms of a repenting priest
wanting more than the least,
asking God for growth.
he was God, he liked to boast,
singing his song
while smoking or sleeping in his bed
with a woman whose lips were painted bright red,
rising up at times to plant a kiss,
digging a hole that couldn't be missed.
he made them bleed
like an ocean watering a rose.
he made them bleed
like a Spanish nose
hungry for a willing companion
and her willing toes.
he made them bleed
like an animal with it's tooth,
at times sensitive,
but mostly talented and uncouth.
he made them bleed.
on the high seas
writing letters to my mom
dipping my quill in thick black ink
trying to make sense of the scene
trying to take an accurate count of the vote
wondering how far I have to travel for an answer
to the mysterious arrangement of ripe apples
in a pure white bowl
resting on a wooden table
inside a small studio
atop a low hill of Aix-en-Provence, France.
in what would become unremarkable,
i wrote to her about the whippings
and the rants
and that much would come of my writing
if the sun continued to shine into my eyes
and the doors remained open to the wild winds
blowing across the ocean in many languages.
and the waves did keep stacking,
towering high, piercing my bow,
matting my hair and spraying my thin face:
and in a dream, i saw summer grasses beaten down by charging calvary
near the village of Waterloo,
where horses cried
for the bodies of
victors and the dead
who forgot their own names
in or out of the saddle.
and i rowed my small boat
during a violent summer storm,
determined to find a safe harbor where none existed.
I was sure i could finish my letter before nightfall,
even as the atmosphere became more threatening,
and my breathing more imprecise.
there was a little bit of poetry in my impressions
of the world,
and a lot of doubt.
so far, not a drop of hot coffee has been spilled on my neat trousers,
nor have I eaten a speeding bullet with my tongue.
that's partly what i wrote to her.
was it Auden who from his den
grabbed a vision and a pen
while on a sailing ship heading east?
who sat at table and ate the least
of all the guests?
he wrote often between rests,
most earnestly to Byron (Lord)
to pass the time he could afford!
with no dragons left to slay,
he soon forgot what he had to say!
they called him the King
but he didn't know what he wanted to B
looking around for a place to sing
he did the Shuffle in C
driving thru town in his red pickup truck
feeling damn good but down on his luck
no holds barred riding out on the range
heading late at night into tiny La Grange
finding country ladies with bright high beams
fingering their fancy Hollywood dreams
feeling damn good but down on their luck
looking for adventure in a red pickup truck
heading to California or by damn bust
leaving behind the dry Texas dust
for, well, just about anything
they called him the King
but he didn't know what he wanted to B
looking around for a place to sing
he did the Shuffle in C.
i can be a contrarian
smoking cigarettes in fresh air
near a city of the north
which is above water with a shoreline
like the door of a house
swinging questions into my mouth.
oh, yes, here i am
answering nothing of importance
with a sparkle in my eye
seemingly open to the sky
but inside a tent at night reading banned books.
i took the wheel to Baltimore
with Bette by my side
looking to shop for boots like hands
which would caress their tiny fingers around her toes,
weaving like soft waves over warm white sand.
at the store, drunken birds ran across the parking lot
without wearing masks below their fire red eyes
while Bette sat on a curb eating grapes,
spiting seeds with a huge blast of air
all the way to Paris,
where it was already evening.
she had a strong urge to fly
because she was beautiful
and in need of a new pair of boots and socks
which were more than white or black
like the keys of her piano.
we both went inside and drank our fill
before the wolf moon rose and the night
became barely visible.
so silently you were gone
all shadow and mist
but i'll remember the smile
and you'll always be missed
with an embrace and lingering kiss
the city lights turned down low
where everyone finds a certain place they go
but i just don't know
now that you're gone
will i see another lovely dawn?
and where is the shine
that once was yours and mine?
the overhead star sparkles like a jewel
but without you i'm just an old fool
looking for his morning shoes
with nothing left to lose
tripping over my heartbroken blues
so silently you were gone
all shadow and mist
but i'll remember the smile
and you'll always be missed
with an embrace and lingering kiss
the city lights turned down low
where everyone finds a certain place they go
but i just don't know
now that you're gone
will i see another lovely dawn?
and where is the shine
that once was yours and mine?
nothing is lost if it can be found
buried on the mall
under hundreds of swarming bodies,
where mystery can spotlight angry cats
frozen in the national headlights
with their fallen flags,
somber slogans,
and conspiracy creations
like hissing jacks in the box.
the feral mob surged in a ritual dance
of unpatriotic assembly,
waving wondrous amounts of misguided prayers
like guided missiles,
and with battering rams and broken glass,
the rotunda of the home of the brave,
was under siege,
with loud exhortations for combat in the streets!
our America's mayor, speaking with a crooked tongue,
revisited Lexington and Concord and met a lying
president.
oh, the land of the free!
oh, hallowed halls!
Whigs and the bald men
comb over memories of
echoes and violent snorts,
finding strange bedfellows in blind alleys.
a single pistol shot
struck a fatal blow,
and the woman
who crawled thru a cracked window,
looking for beauty or the beast,
crumbled
onto the stone cold floor
of the Capitol.
her blood etched a last message of disunity
and out of many, one,
with still-warm lips exhaling themes
of manifest destiny.
above us only sky
no need to sit and wonder why
sipping milk eating warm apple pie
looking for myself
on a back room kitchen shelf
imagining what to say
getting out of bed one day
and leaving the house to play,
polishing my mind
not to be so unkind:
in a certain kind of trance,
i was watching myself learn to dance
arm and arm with the war.
nothing insignificant to ignore,
the bombs fell
and everybody could smell
the burning of human flesh.
I held my arm of flame
and made a tight fist
punched high in the air
pointing out some special blame
to those who dance on fire,
tangling themselves in the shrill barbed wire
near where I reside.
and on the eve of battle,
the wandering people cried
without a shadow of doubt;
they had nothing new to write home about.
their flags and proud banners flew
and love is confused and the color blue
under the shadow of Lincoln and his famous speech:
something to remember but it seems so out of reach.
for right now a sudden knocking on the door
and my hearts skips a beat down on the lower-class floor
and the air seems pure
which might be a possible cure:
at random the tavern poets sing from the front of the stage
while the singers speak their lines
with eyes like giant stars filled with soprano rage,
waiting for a round of applause reading nature's signs;
cracking jokes with God
which could be one of His clever designs.
my back door opens like a playground swing,
and the cold sunlight momentarily blinds my tearless eyes.
there are starving birds outside in the crisp air
walking up and down a barren slope,
eyeing me.
slowly, i find a bag of sunflower seeds and scatter the ashes of my past.
the birds mourn this early hour,
weeping that we will all be gone too soon;
their hunger is a torment.
they pull their swords and battle to the end.
bright spring is hiding behind a nearby tree,
nude with promise.
my smile remains frozen.
my teeth are all unsheathed.
the birds count how many steps i take,
measuring me.
a dog barks, announcing the arrival of a stalking cat.
the birds take quick communion and make their confessions,
flying after the slightest sound of the approaching menace.
a thrown newspaper hits the nearby street,
and the news is spread out across the known universe,
each word becoming a planet and each planet spinning a story,
defying gravity.
i sit to read, stirring memories like sugar in my warm tea.
there is charm in the act of reading the news,
listening to the passing silence as workers head off to work,
slipping down into their rabbit holes,
their brains full of detective stories,
dreaming of caterpillars.
along the eastern horizon, a great cry arises
and i turn on a dime.
my slippers are untied but my wrists are free of scars.
a soft wind blows and my imagination tumbles like a dry leaf;
i become a dreamer,
noble and tragic.
a young child tries to awaken me,
but i'm walking on the greenest grass,
eating the juiciest peach in the world,
sipping wine alongside my lover
with a thirst impossible to quench.
the sea is red.
the edges of the oceans bled
as all the babies cried overnight
in their lonely bed.
their cries were not heard,
and mystery is the final word,
replied
the saints and sinners and their prayers,
opening closed windows,
tossing away their cares
drinking deeply in the view
from the center aisle of the final pew,
watching cities and shooting stars sing,
down on their knees worshiping
for a fire to burn the soul,
before an expansive blackhole
swallows the last passion in a single bite
and devours the heart of purest moonlight.
all rise
see the lying eyes
singing hail to the chief
the devil is descending the stairs
sneaking like a ghostly thief
going down to the crossroads
each passing hour
watching from the top of the tower
each passing hour
hearing the shouting of a boss
under the heavy weight of a hanging cross
out there in the field
under the shadow of a circling crow
the preacher always telling which way to go
"be afraid of the Mississippi air!"
no! please, don't send me there
I won't have a nickel to spare
down on my knees
feeling the hot powder breeze
and the barking of the dogs
I'm hiding underneath the fallen logs
it ain't so bad
carrying everything I ever had
under the shadow of a circling crow
the preacher always telling which way to go
"be afraid of the Mississippi air!"
no! please, don't send me there
I won't have a nickel to spare
down on my knees
feeling the hot powder breeze
and the barking of the dogs
I'm hiding underneath the fallen logs
it ain't so bad
carrying everything I ever had.
leaning up against the old oak tree
singing a simple love song
with my guitar resting on my knee
looking at the horizon
while I'm looking for you
seeing the frost in the air
feeling the chill of the morning dew
so close
but you're so far away
and I can remember the last words I heard you say
come away
come outside and let's play
you know we have the entire day
so give me one last kiss
something special to reminisce
settle down beside my side
there is nothing we have to hide
along the free-flowing river and along the shore
one little kiss and then another one more
it's you that I adore
leaning up against the old oak tree
singing a simple love song
with my guitar resting on my knee
looking at the horizon
while I'm looking for you
seeing the frost in the air
feeling the chill of the morning dew
so close
but you're so far away
and I can remember the last words I heard you say
come away
come outside and let's play.
when she dressed in her Cinderella white
she asked me to dance with her into the night
and when the music began to play
she wondered if I would stay?
and I heard the angels sing
as the morning sky turned blue
she whispered that she hoped
we'd be among the chosen few
and her words rang true
it was me she was talking to
when she dressed in her Cinderella white
I wouldn't let her escape my sight
and when the music began to play
she wondered if I would stay?
and I heard the angels sing
as the morning sky turned blue
she whispered that she hoped
we'd be among the chosen few
and her words rang true
it was me she was talking to
when she dressed in her Cinderella white
I wouldn't let her escape my sight
and her words rang true
it was me she was talking to
as the morning sky turned blue.
"but it's not too late,"
said the magician,
"the future is near
and we are here
gasping for air
wondering foul or fair?
swimming against the current tide
against all the men who lied
hoping to reach the other side
where the grass is greener
the nights wondrous and bright
where the days find small animals at rest and at play
finding comfort in everything they hear and say."
and there is a cloud sitting heavy on the ground
making it impossible to clearly look around
there is a dawn searching for the rising sun
and an ending before the story has truly begun
"but it's not too late,"
said the magician,
"the future is near
and we are here
gasping for air
wondering foul or fair?
swimming against the tide
against all the men who lied
hoping to reach the other side."
stick it up my arm
like a shot dog
i'm running wild
like a feral hog
aiming my nose
where the white wind blows
all the time non-stop
over the big top
preparing to eat
while worshiping at your feet
counting your toes
so everybody knows
the smile on your face
like a nuclear arms race
is expensive but a steal
hiding what you might reveal
beneath your hair
and looking everywhere
with my eyes
i see lipstick and lies.
finally out of bed
with a hole in my head
looking for what you said
about a strange sound
coming from the ground
and i'm still looking around
but there's no one here
so let me make that clear
i'm alone and being sincere
no need to disappear
behind the back door
underneath the living room floor
it's you that i adore
i feel it deeply inside my heart
you're my state of the art
a completely fresh start
i feel it deeply inside my heart
no tearing you and me apart
i feel it deeply inside my heart
songs from yesterday
remind me of what to say
when we take our leave and fly away.
with Somalia on my mind
totally dazed and confused
i'm pinching my temple
as my eyes are closing
to the momentary truth:
the black arts are hiding in deep shadows.
i go shop to shop
with a bag over my head;
a woman sips her tea
with her middle finger extended.
she inspects a hang nail
that's not made for foreplay.
i feel her scratch.
my forehead is bleeding.
what am i?
my face is missing in action
on a public street
near the harbor where huge cargo ships deploy
and the air smells of rotting fish.
the woman opens my bag
and hands me my face,
which is filled with sharp bones.
with Somalia on my mind
totally dazed and confused
i'm admiring Beauty and a major war Lord
wearing a Medusa face
which is filled with sharp bones,
buying food from the poor street vendors,
and i ask them for a simple bite.
i know them well
from all the international news reports
covering atrocities
and of course the woman with a hang nail
sits smiling, trying to light a fire.
they all seem much more dangerous in real life.
walking point
in the heat of the day
almost pointless
as the clown juggles his fate
with his hair pumped tangerine orange
and his shoes pointed, too,
toward cyber space
or perhaps the 18th hole of his perfect golf course,
or his Space Force
where Guardians of the Galaxy
wear the insignia of Doctor Bones.
when sunlight strikes,
he hears traffic noise he cannot see
from inside a room he cannot leave,
while i read the news from the South Pacific:
a volcano threatens with a rumble of smoke
and island natives run with their many bare feet
walking point
in the heat of the day
splashing into a blue lagoon before the sudden tsunami
finally rushes their beach,
swallowing the Whale of a Good Time Bar,
ruining a new year's party,
all foreign tuxedo and tawdry smiles posing from the upper floors,
sipping privilege from big crystal bowls.
the natives glance, briefly,
rushing to escape,
speaking a tongue learned from an early age
when their childish eyes were clear,
their faces alert and bright with hope,
as the clown juggles his fate
with his hair pumped tangerine orange
and his shoes pointed, too,
walking point
in the heat of the day.
whoosh whoosh
thump thump
duck and dodge
lock and load
rock and roll
roll over Beethoven:
like you,
i need a place to stay.
here, beauty is being whipped around in the swirling hot dust
where birds of prey are praying,
reckoning for their reckoning.
my hair feels brittle and dry;
my taste is explosive,
and there are victims everywhere
rattling their bones,
inspecting their scars,
watching the night overcome the day.
and deep into the Mekong,
a wife wore her grief on her face,
her hair a worthless treasure.
her husband had dreams, too,
but straining in violence they tripped
a hidden booby trap,
became inaudible,
as the war moved in and out of Saigon,
barely pausing,
pulsing over the highlands and down to the delta,
taking a stroll in the rice fields,
harvesting drops of blood.
i did what i could to love you
without forgetting myself.
i wore my thousand mile stare
facing the horizon in the distance,
its' edge forming ripples like tiny waves shivering:
whoosh whoosh
thump thump
duck and dodge
lock and load
rock and roll
roll over Beethoven:
like you,
i need a place to stay.
goddess of indecision,
i thought to myself!
she dressed in her dear silk wrap
with huge dark eyes and a
perfumed nose,
sniffing me,
leading me around the Temple
which was filled with mother of pearl
and poignant dreams.
i dreamt mainly of being with her,
sealed mouth to mouth
with my anglicized body,
while she spoke of skilled craftsmanship and
long long years of devoted toil;
she spoke of a King and his royal family,
leading me around the rooms,
and i watched her body.
there was an invitation beneath the unspoken
words but what language was she using?
her shadow
kept urging me onward,
deeper into the Kingdom,
a tour guide on sacred grounds,
and yet i knew she was a public presence
paid for an hour or so of historical description.
she smiled while
her words traveled hundreds of years
into the past,
and i heard birds singing
in the beautiful gardens,
saw a branch tremble.
i trembled, thinking
we could have changed the world
but she was on a tight schedule.
she said she was a dancer in her spare time.
she said goodbye using her good English.
the Golden Buddha sat nearby,
his expression unchanging.
i saw no trace of plaster
but heard a deep spiritual breathing;
the air was humid and the birds became quiet.
