Maxime de la Falais

the death of Maxime was of natural causes: 

at 86 it wasn't considered extreme 

her life was colorful artful in fashion and exquisite 

with really good friends and food 

she fed the Warhol brood 

in her loft apartment 

she lent 

Mapplethorpe encouragement in New York City 

she was a rare English beauty 

and silent lover 

lived her life proudly without unnecessary cover 

worked for Vogue magazine where she was often seen 

writing long lines for columns 

she moved to France to dance 

to write her memoirs in her golden hours 

when she died 

high society sighed 

in Provence where she was buried 

in rhythm and completely unhurried.

Pavarotti knew none of this

Pavarotti,

dressed like the bass player in Pink Floyd,

sang for his breakfast

in a deeply melodious tenor voice

and was given a plate of eggs and German sausage

along with a grande cup of foamy espresso.

there were originally three singers on stage

when the audience applauded,

but a famous magician made two disappear.

when the Greek diva rose from her box seat,

all eyes watched her grab the arm 

of a small in stature shipping tycoon

who had another First Lady in mind.

Pavarotti knew none of this,

so finished his breakfast and asked for a second,

which was served immediately.

he said life was a miracle!

the cabbage rolls

in a year of magical thinking,

when music from the 1960's

kept sinking

into the past along with Elvis and his slicked-back

Mississippi hair,

children looked up at the stars

and wondered what was there?

as do i.

the land upon which i walk,

the oceans and the sky

remain intriguing,

as do you!

and the grey owl

on her perch listening,

eyes glistening,

sat wondering why new houses were sprouting

high on her hillside 

above the free-flowing mountain stream.

and as if in a dream,

at high noon,

the Maasai danced in a colorful circle,

holding sticks and jumping to the moon,

imagining the black rhino in herds

of incomprehensible numbers

near the heights of Kilimanjaro.

and the Japanese,

in their ancient heroic voice

sang lustily to the Emperor,

like wrestlers undiminished by an opponent's 

relentless advance,

gaining advantage by giving ground.

and as the cabbage rolls

rolled across the enormous dinner tables

like lucky gypsy coins

and were caught by the smiling mouths

of ten thousand spirited Romanian dancers, 

the holiday music began to play,

in a year of magical thinking.

that old man son of a gun

when my daddy chased me

i used to run

and when he caught me

i used my gun

well, my aim was poor

but he's not living anymore

he joined the navy

and fought a second world war

but he's not living anymore

he's hauling ice

or digging coal

drinking two shots of whiskey

looking for a soul

living down near the tracks

inside an empty hole

while i went fishing for a bite

and it never felt right

tossing a line to wait

using childhood memories

for bait

when my daddy chased me

i used to run

and when he caught me

i used my gun

well, my aim was poor

but he's not living anymore

he joined the navy

and fought a second world war

but he's not living anymore

he's hauling ice

or digging coal

drinking two shots of whiskey

looking for a soul

and i hope he finds one,

that old man son of a gun.

brown eyes watching you

welcome back

to the family room with resting dog and cats

a warming fire

sitting in an easy chair

giving your lover a tender look

reading a book

reflecting on things

at how it all spins around

feet planted firmly on the ground

pine trees

swaying in an overnight breeze

turning the pages

to the old familiar faces

new personalities

vibrant traces

of childhood

the seconds ticking into hours

cooking aromas mixed with gentle laughs

one tablespoon or two

and a cup and a half

a hot bubbling bath

in a candled private room

lights are soft and glow

music and the nearby river flow

and changes come along

you write your own song

skipping a beat

skipping a stone

watching the ripples fade and the sun slowly setting

no hurry to be giving or getting

time enough to breathe

time enough to pause

to pet the just-fed dog

with her brown eyes watching you

giving your lover a tender look

reading a book

reflecting on things

at how it all spins around

feet planted firmly on the ground.

congratulations, your diet is over!

congratulations,

your diet is over!

the sun is rising in the east

and your eyesight is keen.

there are no shadows on the wall

and your dinner plate is clean.

your lover has your best interests at heart;

each new day promising a new start.

there's a whisper on the breeze

scented like a perfect rose.

your face is gently smiling

like in a perfect pose.

there's light shining throughout the day,

even in the darkest hole,

reaching the deepest depths

of your individual soul.

and the overhead stars show you the way

over land and the windy seas,

asking you with welcoming arms

to stay awhile, please.

congratulations,

your diet is over!

without bullshit or insults

there were village raids

but you can't kill all the niggers,

he said,

returning fire

running from the tunnel

into the next tunnel.

the white man with the mad mouth,

probing the coast

dispensing weaponry

squeezing the Mormon ghost,

dug up the golden tablets

and a teamster's ticket to the greater kingdom

where the saints shagged good guns

without serial numbers,

waiting in ambush for the settlers 

heading west

across a mountain meadow

where Indians prowled

to make their dope connections

hoping for a couple head of cattle or a horse

without bullshit or insults

holding history in their red hands

before the lynchings began in earnest.

Plath, keep your head out of that gas oven

Plath, keep your head out of that gas oven 

no matter the time of day!

it won't help you choose, 

Mrs. Hughes,

between Ted or yourself or the children

fitfully sleeping in an adjacent room 

while you fancy some sort of doom. 

your wet towels were a slap in their face 

although stuffed under the doors in no apparent haste,

as part of the scheming.

you became the turkey dreaming 

of her Sunday roast. 

whatever happened to the ghost 

last seen writing on her kitchen floor? 

shouldn't she have arisen and opened the door 

for the au pair at nine? 

the painters with a key on time 

might have been out of breath, 

but it was your death.

after the rapes

in thru the bedroom window

the knife cut screen hanging by a thread

the young blonde girl taken captive

straight from the safety of her bed

sliding quietly on the living room floor

and out the front door

under the banner of Heaven

whispering songs of religious war

a madman with conviction in his eyes

wearing a white robe at night

without any pretense or surprise

His God believed in everything precisely written

no possibility of Joseph Smith lies

and the captive to be held as a wife

at the age of 14,

to become the bearer of a new life

after the repeated rapes.

a post-it note before walking off an empty stage

sun is dumb or dumber

it keeps on shining regardless of the horse

kicking in a small barnyard;

chicken feces and cow dung scattered in the straw

with thick mud,

broken rows of corn.

footprints of the Anasazi point away from a remote cliff dwelling

pinching an inch,

but the inch searching for a destiny

or a worm hole 

and the worm 

tight inside a conical tunnel

surfing the net with a terabyte instead of an overbite.

i saw the rooster on his fence post sipping a glass of Irish whiskey

reading the Atlantic magazine,

a story about Christopher Hitchens reflecting in his eye,

a smudge of ruby lipstick on his cheek.

a gray squirrel was seen scratching hard dirt for a last bit of seed in an eastern

Pennsylvania late afternoon

in the cold air of a snowless winter.

a hungry Cooper's hawk using her GPS

wearing aviator glasses

looking for a hero for just one day;

and a dead rabbit on a well-traveled rural road.

a medium-sized herd of black Angus cattle

puzzled-looking black eyes 

wondering about their evening class in English literature.

across the wide open field

a yellow glow of a fast food restaurant and the smell of French fries cooked in hot oil.

green grass

and cars whizzing

looking for America

where the Cheshire Cat

with a jacket so casually tossed across her right shoulder

was holding nine lives and two aces up her sleeve

listening to The Bee Gees,

grinning,

while three chipmunks,

leaving a post-it note before walking off an empty stage,

waved to a singer sitting behind the theater curtain, sound asleep.

we all need a warm embrace

i've been thinking about a strong man

who has been feeling weak,

doing what he can to keep his three dogs occupied.

but his youngest son is struggling

with personal issues;

his aged mother is widowed and unsteady on her feet;

his wife is busy with her corporate work;

his mind is overwhelmed and

the bathroom mirror doesn't have all the answers.

like, who's the fairest of them all?

and clouds are piling up in the sky,

hiding the sun.

the air remains chilled, even as a backyard campfire

spits sparks into the night air.

what don't we know about ourselves?

is balance only found in the gym on a narrow beam?

if you're not who you are, then who?  or whom?

i heard that he cried this recent Monday night,

the first time since his sister died.

he said he feels he doesn't need any help,

but the window to his soul is open.

a breeze is coming down from the north,

and we all need a warm embrace.

far from Monmartre

so Picasso

didn't know

James Madison

but he knew quite well

Dora and her magic spell.

he often wore a dandy hat

going to a fancy Paris ball. 

Olga wrapped an ankle

because of her opera fall.

their marriage took a turn for the worse,

but there was no Spanish curse.

he simply decided he deserved what he wanted

and vows be damned,

and how the wind doth ramm!

like the unholy penis in his skillful hand,

he felt great and had the EYE:

short and spry,

full of himself while painting the female breast.

yes, who could have guessed?

he stroked and poked and painted,

grabbed Jacqueline by the neck until she fainted.

later-in-life ceramics on the shelf and red clay on the floor;

a favorite brush on a small table by his studio door,

far from Montmartre and his room with Fernande and being poor.

the young boy with a gift

on the world stage as an adult like an untethered skiff, 

adrift,

clutching his genius.

Springtime smells like honey

 

Springtime smells like honey

driving bees crazy

wasting away their money

inside a local five and dime

making up for lost time

shopping for genuine smiles

are a mom and her kid shuffling thru the aisles

wearing imitation ten dollar shoes 

looking for something important to choose

but they're walking blind

to how they've been defined

and it doesn't seem to matter any more

the sunlight in their eyes offers a natural surprise

and they blink;

they watch the evening sun sink

and the clouds hanging low

becoming a deep shadow:

there's a garden path and a bright primrose;

wandering footprints filled with wandering toes;

and there's a high hill to climb

inside a local five and dime

making up for lost time

shopping for genuine smiles

are a mom and her kid shuffling thru the aisles

wearing imitation ten dollar shoes 

looking for something important to choose

but they're walking blind

to how they've been defined

and it doesn't seem to matter any more.

south of Porto

she was with the invisible man on the sidewalk,

south of Porto, 

talking a lot of bull

about the rise in the cost of living

like an over-inflated zeppelin 

looking for lost lines and helium loves.

the much weathered fishermen of Aveiro

sat nonchalantly

on their salty chairs,

tongues clucking on and on

about foreign tourists asking about the latest catch.

nearby, a middle-aged woman tossed her bow rope but it missed

everything it was intended to hit,

and she lost her balance listening to the fishermen.

a loud splash was her body hitting the water between the floating dock

and the starboard side of her untethered sailboat.

as the woman was flailing in the brisk tidal current,

in danger of being injured or worse,

the fishermen kept talking about the old days, 

captains of their chairs,

pointing smoothly to the Portuguese sun, which was August hot.

they laughed softly about foreign tourists who kept asking about their catch,

but no one could find the invisible man on the sidewalk,

south of Porto.

and when the wet woman eventually climbed exhausted from the water,

she walked past the fishermen without taking notice of their smiles.

Walden Pond redux

the stage is where you play

there's no curtain 

the audience is intense

you believe you know which way to go

but you're not making sense

the kingdoms old and gray

poetry sighs

the Surrealists barely alive

and parties of God hold the veto

and you might not survive

with fire on your fingertips

traffic in haze

Walden Pond on a heat wave

with fall leaves shimmering over grass

there's no one left to save

spinning around the sun

fishing for life

dinosaurs and human death

clinging to a piece of day-old bread

sipping a final breath.

when the cheering fades

when the cheering fades

she turned her back and walked into the quiet night

paying her final bill

telling me everything would be alright

but i found myself alone

in parts wild and unknown

with excuses which tasted like regret

don't think i will ever forget

spilling her memories on the floor

asking the bartender for just one more

and his drink felt especially tall

setting me up for a hard-earned fall

ready to take my final curtain call

which i paid in full

when on the hill i saw the fool

on bended knee

and he looked a lot like me

when the cheering fades.

Le Coeur a gaz, (1923, Tristan Tzara)

it was three short acts
& the last spectacle on the program
was a complete dada farce,
with a trumpet in front of the infuriated audience
playing the Marseillaise!
this time around, there were no professional
actors to storm out singing
about the utter pointlessness
of playing body parts while wearing cubist costumes
made of stiff tubing
which reduced their walking to a geriatric shuffle.
out front, the police heard the angry voices and stormed inside
where fist fights between the dadaists and the future
surrealists began in earnest, with several badly beaten
and in no mood to be mollified.
shouts for order bounced off walls, hitting no one,
but damage to the theater was considerable.
seats were smashed and faces bloodied.
Aragon tried to rescue Eluard while
the police arrested the entire audience,
but later concluded it was all a big misunderstanding.

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.