my shiny new Cadillac

i drove my shiny new Cadillac

down the shiny new road

and parked at the shack

way out back

watching you cleaning dishes

counting down time

making your wishes

hanging them on the line

hoping for a more perfect design

and the sun was shining and the air was warm

i was wondering how i'd ever conform

to the dreams you have for me

still running wild and crazy

climbing my wall

acting big but possibly still too small

with my face unwashed and blue jeans torn

looking for love but i've been forewarned

the shiny new road is a two way street

i remember i'll need a better song to compete

sung with honesty and no lies

promising no unwelcome surprise

and there's a lot of traffic

some much too graphic

but i'm parked at the shack

way out back

watching you cleaning dishes

counting down time

making your wishes

hanging them on the line

hoping for a more perfect design

and the sun was shining and the air was warm

i was wondering how i'd ever conform

to the dreams you have for me

still running wild and crazy

climbing my wall

acting big but possibly still too small

with my face unwashed and blue jeans torn

looking for love but i've been forewarned.

leaves had fallen, mostly

the early November leaves had fallen,

mostly.

many were still life shades of orange and yellow and red,

mostly

dead,

as i rode my two-wheeled bicycle down

the long narrow rural trail.

the passing air felt fresh and warm like your breath

often was

when we were close.

a love song filtered into my head

just as the deer appeared on my path,

looking like you

with her large eyes full of wild life.

her sleek frame primed for a mad dash

looked angular and fit.

she stopped to watch me approach.

my song startled her and she quickly looked around

before dashing into the thinning forest,

and you left with her,

mostly,

taking the song,

unfinished,

like my ride.

in the black bayou

i found you

in the black bayou

swimming in a crocodile's arms

setting off fire alarms

in the black bayou

in the black bayou

dancing with a traveling band

under the wet marshland

in the thick of night

where there's no streetlight

i found you

in the black bayou

in the black bayou

list'ning to a repeating beat

sitting in the hot backseat

i found you

in the black bayou

swimming in a crocodile's arms

setting off fire alarms

in the black bayou

in the black bayou

of what was to come

and so 

many days have walked on by

from the heat of a wild west Texas desert

to a Rocky Mountain high,

remembering 

the noise of a baby's first cry

i'm occasionally wondering why

the silver was polished to a mighty sheen,

ashtrays were always kept clean,

and the finest print

never offered a helpful hint

of what was to come 

hidden under the heavy thumb

of a valley queen and her rich real estate king:

they wanted applause but never learned how to sing

and why should she care

with her perfect hair

each strand in place

exhibiting perfect taste

and a frown only when she didn't get her own way

yes, what could he say?

so he refused to care,

with his brightly colored hair

designed to hide imperfections with an exacting flair,

for anything that was pushed up against a border wall

assuming he was big and it was small

unworthy of attention like a poor church mouse

dying in a dark corner of a derelict house

and so 

many days have walked on by

from the heat of a wild west Texas desert

to a Rocky Mountain high,

remembering 

the noise of a baby's first cry

i'm occasionally wondering why

the silver was polished to a mighty sheen,

ashtrays were always kept clean,

and the finest print

never offered a helpful hint

of what was to come

hidden under the heavy thumb

of a valley queen and her rich real estate king:

they wanted applause but never learned how to sing.

it was the nose

it was the nose

much more than a simple rose

enlarged and bulb-like

and smelling sex

on a hot afternoon

when the teenager came home from school

curiously too soon

to pose in an erotically green chair

combing Picasso's thinning hair

with her friendly hips,

taking long satisfied sips

with an innocence beyond her years,

exhibiting minimal fears

if any

about the bouncing balls on a nearby beach

constantly in motion,

but never out of reach.

J. Pascin

i will see you again 

but not yet

my friend 

i whispered 

several years after we met 

and i was dead not he 

or they or all else who came to play 

the many artists and hangers-on drinking and eating and loving till the early dawn 

they might say it was madness in my blood, i wrote 

and merely slit my wrists & hung by throat 

threw a bloody testament on the nearby wall 

before the solo show about Cecile and my downfall 

i knew personal triumph & color 

& whores with fine lines and wit or maybe duller 

but if you slept i was alert at Montmartre always the flirt 

never the overly-serious painter as i wanted to be known

so i fade, 

become fainter & fainter 

and wonder between the many bottles of wine 

if i will ever see you again.

Gertrude Stein in Paris

her straight dark hair cut short & tight 

leaned close toward me,

asking for a light; 

she smoked my name,

exhaled at the start, 

tapped her ashes into my heart. 

we were sitting warm at the best cafe 

on a Paris terrace 

with clear words to say; 

we heard a Piaf song from the boulevard. 

i scribbled je t'aime on a French notecard 

by the Eiffel Tower with a small glass of chilled champagne 

underneath her watchful eyes and 

a soft afternoon rain.

i saw a fine Cezanne 

yet couldn't explain 

why it was hung in a fancy wooden frame? 

while on the Rue de Fleurus 

drinking white wine 

we saw approaching Gertrude Stein,

and she would certainly have the answer.

Room 6 of the Hotel Drouot, 06/13/1921

so i punched the dealer in the head &
would have kicked him more than i did
but was abruptly pulled away, 

in a short-lived fit of loyalty,

by his hysterical brother! 

Leonce was shouting and screaming on the floor
when i kicked him some more

directly in the stomach:
he shrieked again, making me proud of my aim.
we were finally separated by Matisse, 

who said
i was right to beat the poor bastard.
and what a pig!

trying to cheapen cubism with an auction
much too painful to watch. 

"Filthy Pole!"
both Rosenbergs are bastards!!
one was ruining the market for cubism,
while brother Paul connived for a return of classicism,
which he knew he could sell for higher prices.

growing old living a rural life

drinking iced tea

wondering about you and me

watching the movie

about a dune in the middle of the desert

seeing masked people getting hurt

flashing knives

running for their lives

from a large worm heading south

opening wide a menacing mouth

swallowing sand and spice

and we thought it was pleasantly nice

when it seemed no one actually died

so we never cried

drinking iced tea

wondering about you and me

watching the movie

about a cowboy in a confederate hat

who mounted his horse where he sat

writing a short letter

hoping hard times soon get better

when the posse takes a wrong turn

hoping they never learn

he grabbed a hoe and bought a small farm

never intending to do anybody any more harm

raising crops along with a wife

growing old living a rural life

drinking iced tea

wondering about you and me

watching the movie.

lost on the forest floor

so i know i'm old

living where it always feels cold

remembering being bought and sold

thinking all that glitters is not gold

when it seems everything has already been sung

from years gone by 

when i was young

dodging bullets meant to hurt

my hair grown long

in a torn t-shirt

lost on the forest floor

unable to keep the score

of who's winning the latest war:

there was a beginning which i couldn't find

heading to the front while looking behind

not realizing that i was blind

and you could see 

reaching out for me

offering hope but there was no guarantee

that i would remain restless or agree

and those hours were long and now feel short

writing about love may be my final report

so close to living on life support

sitting alone by candle light

counting the days thru another night

when it seems everything has already been sung

from years gone by 

when i was young

dodging bullets meant to hurt

my hair grown long

in a torn t-shirt

lost on the forest floor

unable to keep the score

of who's winning the latest war,

so i know i'm old

living where it always feels cold

remembering being bought and sold

thinking all that glitters is not gold.

moments after the last call

it was about everything i saw

moments after the last call

there was a head with a halo

smiling at me with a soft glow

i thought it was all a tease

but heard myself whispering "please"

it was a lady with a torch

sitting by my side on my back porch

where she said i looked like her dad

which always made her feel glad

and we were alone

like being on top of a king's throne

and the banquet table was all prepared

for anything we might have dared

she told me she wanted something to eat

it wasn't cold but i could feel the heat

starting to rise

and then much to my surprise

she started to laugh

said it was time for her evening bath

it was well-past midnight

and i loved the sight

of nobody around

totally silent except for the sound

of her eating a stolen grape

as we quietly made our escape

all happening before the break of dawn

with all the heavy curtains drawn

in my room

where all the special flowers bloom:

it was about everything i saw

moments after the last call

there was a head with a halo

smiling at me with a soft glow

i thought it was all a tease

but heard myself whispering "please"

it was a lady with a torch

sitting by my side on my back porch.

reading between your lines

Zelda

what you got

it's what i want

reading between your lines

polishing a penny until it shines

on an empty dance floor

hearing the noise of a skeleton key

scampering into a widows' door

your smile leading me astray

every time you had your own way

i was dying embarrassed 

by the things that you said

while painting my body red

when it should have been blue

instead

what will you do

as the madness grows inside your head?

Zelda

what you got

it's what i want

reading between your lines

polishing a penny until it shines

never fake it

so was Al Jolson greater than Jesus

or just another pretender?

perhaps a crazy dead-ender

like a comic book character

with hair down to his knees?

oh, please

don't be insane:

if you find a way to win,

take it

never fake it

with a diamond pinned to one side of your nose

running 

when the wild wind blows.

there might be a call saying "It's for you!"

but how can it be

if you're not being true?

does Authority always win

or is that only in a Mellencamp song

where everything seems right 

but it's always wrong?

oh, no!

even Hemingway looked back in

'A Moveable Feast'

but eventually lost his way to a savage beast

hanging around,

listening for a well-timed shotgun sound

and then...

there it was!

so was Al Jolson greater than Jesus

or just another pretender?

perhaps a crazy dead-ender

like a comic book character

with hair down to his knees?

oh, please

don't be insane:

if you find a way to win,

take it

never fake it

with that gun in your hand

eyeing people across the land.

who can't see who you are:

they have no car

they have no shoes

they sing the southern blues

in the land of the free

the home of the brave

imagining life as a former slave

heroes and bums and lovers at night

eyeing almost everything in sight

and what do they see?

so was Al Jolson greater than Jesus

or just another pretender?

someone somewhere

someone

somewhere

stopped in at 27 rue de Fleurus

late in the afternoon

after a short walk

before a long talk

and a quiet laugh about Germans

or the gay part of the world,

just never the bad

or whatever seemed sad.

he was tired after a morning writing

and needed the fresh Paris air,

then went inside listening to her French

but never reading in that language

which seemed much too hard,

while sitting on an easy chair in her salon.

they both liked to read,

especially stuff by Scott Fitzgerald

and of course their own work,

and talked often about other people,

but never more than once 

did she speak about Joyce.

and if he did,

he wouldn't be invited back.

nothing was simple there.

everything seems to fade away

shuffling the cards

cutting the deck

looking for fives aces

and my disability check

pouring a drink

grabbing a smoke

wondering why 

i'm always close to broke

near the end of the day

how many times do i have to pray?

watching everything as it seems to fade away

i've got no new games to play:

there's the old dance floor

where i once used to explore

with a woman in my arms

and all her youthful charms:

a forehead kiss

something not to miss

when the lights turn low

near the end of the all-night show

i've no place else to go

no spare life left to borrow.

dreaming alone

blowing some smoke

listening to old friends

tell another old joke

walking a mile

paying my fines

dreaming of days

without any deadlines.

shuffling the cards

cutting the deck

looking for fives aces

and my disability check

pouring a drink

grabbing a smoke

wondering why 

i'm always close to broke

near the end of the day

how many times do i have to pray?

watching everything as it seems to fade away

i've got no new games to play:

walking a mile

paying my fines

dreaming of days

without any deadlines.

the hole in my heart

finding graves

counting all the people who were slaves

never knowing when the end will come

hitching a ride with my corporate thumb

wondering where the road will lead

trying not to bleed

out the hole in my heart

there's never an easy way to restart

and no way to avoid the fall

no one to reach me when i call

an engine noise metallic with spinning gears

the grinding sound as it nears

around the bend and on the long straightaway

gathering speed with nothing new to say

blowing past in a swirl of dust

challenging me to move aside if i must

finding graves

counting all the people who were slaves

never knowing when the end will come

hitching a ride with my corporate thumb

wondering where the road will lead

trying not to bleed

out the hole in my heart.

I almost forgot

I almost forgot

On The Road 

was written a long time ago

but Jack K is still here in memory,

hunting for Old Bull Lee

who is somewhere shooting bullets and drugs,

lots of drugs.

Jack K drove to Boulder on the hunt,

but the Institute wouldn't admit him,

so on their Buddhist front steps, he started to read an important poem,

Howl,

and the pages still held power,

although the original author was a former mental patient from New York City.

a listener standing on the top step said she didn't understand the words or the work!

and to "Please return tomorrow or never."

Jack said, in his courteous Catholic way, that he used to hang out at Columbia University,

when the poem's writer was once a student,

but the comment dropped on her like an unwelcome flash of insight.

Picking up the insight idea was Cassady,

who threw it into his car,

along with Jack, driving off with great haste,

listening to jazz played at the highest volume,

and began yelling that he'd fuck everybody if he had the time,

though he seldom stopped speeding,

and took every turn he found,

looking for adventure.

Jack said he'd write about it

as soon as he found a working typewriter and a long

scroll of paper.

maybe he didn't need Old Bull Lee after all.

But Cassady didn't hear none of it.

you are a God

and tonight
you are a God
or a Roman Catholic priest
with a small dog on your lap

instead of an innocent child waiting for a father-figure.
you dream of riding a white horse in
the woodlands of upstate New York,
having fled the midtown scene
because you were down on your cultural luck.
you are NOT a naked Allen Ginsberg
descending an ornate stairway with Peter
to greet an irate Gordon Liddy,
who would soon leave empty-handed,
laughing all the way to the bank.
in the morning, you are noticed:
wearing a new psychedelic beret
with slender, sparkling strings of golden beads
dangling from your neck,

smiling like a Cherokee with wise eyes and an insomniac heart,

resembling the most dangerous man in America
surfing chaos
marveling at grains of sand on a fantastic beach,

running for governor of California,
singing autographs for the unclothed members of a lost Berkeley tribe
and praying with your alter ego friend, Jim,
who said his real name is Timothy Leary.
he would soon donate his brain to medical science,
which he did.

you moved quietly to the Taos Pueblo,

married Juanita, a native Indian woman

and tonight

you are a God.

nothing was going my way

went downtown

hoping to fool around

with a bottle of wine and a couple of smokes

found a joint where they told party jokes

but still felt blue

wondering what to think and what to do

but nothing seemed right

spent too many hours watching the night

turn into day

what else should i say?

nothing was going my way

people stood up and looked around

wondering how to stand their ground

and soul music played

but no one got excited and no one got laid

on the ground

the Salvation Army lost and found

little bits of this and some of that

collecting memories in an old top hat

no one can say if the winds will blow away

all the negative things that people say

and it's so quiet there's no other sound 

hoping to fool around

and soul music played

no one got excited and no one got laid

on the ground

the Salvation Army lost and found

little bits of this and some of that

collecting memories in an old top hat.

rolled a joint on Friday night

rolled a joint on Friday night

it was so scary it gave me a terrible fright

like at a Halloween party with a circus clown

dipping for a bobbing Adams apple and i almost drowned

thinking of the weekend and the local rodeo

singing cowboy songs for the country radio

station and all the girls looking for a wild time in the saddle

playing table tennis with a hard wooden paddle

bouncing that little white ball over the sagging net

and i'd gladly take whatever score i could get

but it was Christmas time without a foot of snow

so naturally i had no idea which way to go

when the ballroom door swung open with a rush of cold air

and Cinderella was the prettiest princess i saw standing there

in a slim rainbow dress and wearing shiny glass shoes

she was the spitting image of a bottle of booze

i was like a meek mouse with nothing to lose

said to her i'd like to be her driver before midnight

but now thinking in hindsight

that was a silly thing to propose

or so i suppose

'cause i read the book and knew the ending was fine

and my editor kept reminding me of a deadly deadline

which i completely forgot about

but when the clock stuck twelve i could hear her shout.

with most of the pieces missing

it was on Tu Do street

where i went to meet

someone who i didn't know

for a simple bite to eat

it was long after first light

but before Friday's Follies

and i'm listening to the Hollies

Long Cool Woman In a Black Dress

with too many questions unanswered

so i could only guess

when she would eventually stop to rest

to take my pulse or steal my heart

but i never got her name and we would shortly part

she staying east and i flying west

no more than a temporary visitor and destructive guest

failing every morality test

digging the tunnel where a white rabbit

sat shooting up with a destructive habit

some roads heading north or south

i felt the blood in my mouth

read newspapers which told of savage indifference

and it suddenly made no sense

standing on the wrong side of the fence

but there were shooting stars and the moon kept spinning

even when the losers claimed they were the ones' winning

and i thought i remembered her name

but it was only a memory from an old board game

with most of the pieces missing:

it's only shadows now that i'm kissing.

at the intersection of five and dime

hey Lou

what was that sound?

is it you digging deeper underground

looking for an exciting place to go

but you still don't know,

as you've said many times in your song,

trying to understand where you went wrong

on a dirty New York City street

moments before we were supposed to meet

at the intersection of five and dime:

maybe you'll come around some other time

drifting inside your mind like softly falling snow

looking for an exciting place to go

maybe Paris on the famous left bank

sailing your vanilla vessel before it sank

and you'll have no one left to thank

wishing you were born a long time ago

looking for an exciting place to go

maybe with a poison spike in your hand

dripping blood onto a beach of white washed sand

playing electric guitar with a massive echo

listening to the haunting voice of beautiful Nico

blonde and slim and dark-eyed

I heard you broke-down and cried

looking for an exciting place to go

as you've said many times in your song,

trying to understand where you went wrong

on a dirty New York City street

moments before we were supposed to meet

at the intersection of five and dime:

maybe you'll come around some other time

drifting inside your mind like softly falling snow

looking for an exciting place to go

but you still don't know.

Pascin's Funeral Day: June 7, 1930

at 36 boulevard de Clichy, 
the walls of his studio were sticky red
with an explosion of ultimate sadness 
when he drew a final kiss for his mistress, 
and drew a final breath
for himself.
on the day of his funeral, she dressed in black.

his wife in black.
waiters and bartenders in black.

saloons in black.

black was the cloud and black was Paris.

those streets, preoccupied with their special mourning, 
allowed only the walkers to follow behind his coffin
to a simple grave site.

their shoes were black. 

their grief was black.

but there, the turned Earth was a fertile brown.  

the near grass brilliant green.

the sky a Matisse blue.  

colorful birds sang and flew 

into the air, a sweetly poetic painted still life. 

windows were flung open.
fragrant wine was poured into buckets of remembrance,
where thoughts like flights of gaiety lifted and blew away as tiny bubbles.
later, his family moved his body to Cimetiere de Montparnasse,
where today he still turns inside that hole.

the sly head of Apollinaire

after the exploding shells

targeting the trenches

of the western front,

a shrapnel wound

wrapped by a large bandage 

walked a side street of Paris,

retreating with a handheld bouquet of field poppies,

watching horses making their early rounds,

gaining insight into the educated mind of

modern man.

it was the sly head of Apollinaire,

crafting written lines like a fisherman casting bait

before the hungry eyes of curious fish,

remembering the recent war,

dabbling in the moods of philosophy.

an Italian by birth,

he kissed the French battleground 

with a faint cubist mouth,

licking his wound with a deep introspection.

in his Paris scene, the wooden entrance doors,

opening and closing at all hours,

were painted in different colors,

but he always knew which were the more expensive,

accurately guessing prices with a practiced eye.

what seemed unimportant, he knew otherwise.

and his friends knew where to knock and when to embrace,

and how to count the cost

of remaining silent.

they were artists and poetic lovers and

he loved them all in still life and 

when candle flames went dancing across skin,

creating the world that he saw,

and the one he imagined.

he lived in both.

when he died, a myth was born along

with the man.

the door colors have now faded.

while his poems remain eternal.