sweet melodies

we're all alone, 

sometimes talking on the phone

with everybody else

marching on the parade ground, 

listening to the sound

of time passing away.

there's always more to say!

for when i saw you singing to the trees,

hair blowing in the breeze,

perfectly at ease,

welcoming me to the picnic table 

like in a legendary fable

happening in real life,

i felt harmony everywhere

and sweet melodies

drifting thru the air,

whispering my name:

this is not a game.

Christopher Reeve as Superman

the total eclipse,

as i walked the sidewalks near Central Park with a friend

discussing the virtues of obsession,

was a Tea Party surprise.

it rushed towards us like an angry earthquake

formed in six dimensions,

like a blizzard of Lou Reed New York craziness,

blasting our faces,

our small faces,

like a bold print headline in jazzy neon colors

broadcast live from a giant billboard

mounted on one wall of a 5th Avenue skyscraper.

masked and unmasked goblins were scurrying on and off

the adjacent streets, dodging taxis and ignoring traffic lights,

parading smartly by radiation detectors and the steely eye of 

security cameras.

they went searching for fading high school memories of

acne and heartache,

of fall football games and loose sweaters filled with varsity hands.

and the total eclipse faded as quickly as it appeared,

which was disappointing.

one small girl passed us dressed as a witch,

seemingly channeling Alice in Wonderland,

while holding aloft a green caterpillar smoking from a hookah.

she went snickering as though she was in La La Land, although

she was barely at 42nd street.

i stopped my friend when he began to dabble with finger paints,

pushing passing goblins as he did so,

smearing his private paints onto their private parts.

it was all for fun, he said, when i asked

"What the hell are you doing that for?"

and to get him away from the crowds, i suggested a movie,

maybe with hot buttered pop corn and a cold coke.

we had to have coke!

especially to see Christopher Reeve as Superman, i thought.

since Chris was a friend of mine from the early days of the Actor's Studio,

i enthusiastically said "Let's see Superman!"

but my friend said Superman was dead, and in a way he was right.

Chris had a terrible fall off a jumping horse and became paralyzed;

he often publicly stated that he'd walk unaided again some day,

maybe to join in finger painting on city streets or to act on television

or in another movie where he'd wear a red cape and fly faster than a 

speeding bullet, without special effects.

well, sadly that won't happen, and i never got to see the movie that day, either,

because my friend pulled me into a book store where a small 

gathering was taking place for the hearing impaired.

and everybody was dabbling with finger paints.

without keeping score

but i can't remember your name

or if we once lived together

or if you'd visit me

regardless of the afternoon weather

carry my heavy school book

give me a second look

i can't remember what you took

but it seems

you often appear in my dreams

and i got a crush on you

baby, i'm not sure what it is you do

but the daylight is brighter than it ever was before

and i'm winning every game without keeping score

you comb my unruly hair 

when i don't even know you're there

and it sure looks great

like i'm the master of the universe

it must be fate

'cause it could be so much worse

but i can't remember your name

or if we once lived together

or if you'd visit me

regardless of the afternoon weather

carry my heavy school book

give me a second look

i can't remember what you took

but it seems

you often appear in my dreams

and i got a crush on you

baby, i'm not sure what it is you do

but the daylight is brighter than it ever was before

and i'm winning every game without keeping score.

we'd dance forever

we can sit and jump,

watching the moon shadow move

perfectly at peace.

all movement is rest,

a poet keeps reminding,

little by little.

outside the windows,

what do we notice is there

when we look away,

when we see ourselves

walking on a quiet road

as the hard winds blow?

and steady we go,

like a tree with fine branches

that stretch out for life.

what i love the most,

when we catch each other's eye,

is our connection.

our breathing steady,

we can laugh without laughter

and cry without tears.

sipping our coffee,

we share tales of adventure

while doing nothing.

some cream and sugar?

we hear the questions arise

while we stay grounded.

i tell you so much

but my silence also speaks

with a deeper voice.

and your voice is song,

rising above the shouting

as it saves itself.

and who you now are

is what i hear you tell me

what you want to be.

if our walls could sing,

and we held hands together,

we'd dance forever.

what was lost

and all this up and down

makes it hard to get rid of this frown

it sometimes appears to be rich

and i feel a certain calm

but life can be a raging bitch

i can hold it in my palm

it looks at me and winks and gives a little laugh

am i here for myself? or on someone else's behalf?

well, i take a deep breath and stick out my thumb

hoping to feel the breeze

but i'm simply too numb

sitting on my shadow down on my knees

there's a man or a woman flashing smiles on the tv

asking their audience whatever they might want to be

and it's available for free:

no need to search into deeper space

no need to go forward or to retrace

there are lines to follow and they'll point the way

asking for your memories before they take them away

and in the end instead of asking each other

there's only a momentary shudder

and a flicker when the big screen goes blank

and there's no one to blame and no one to thank

you'll never wonder

what you drank

or what was lost 

or what was the ultimate cost

and all this up and down

makes it hard to get rid of this frown

it sometimes appears to be rich

and i feel a certain calm

but life can be a raging bitch

i can hold it in my palm

it looks at me and winks and gives a little laugh

am i here for myself? or on someone else's behalf?

well, i take a deep breath and stick out my thumb

hoping to feel the breeze

but i'm simply too numb.

I heard Maria Callas singing

when she said it was evolution 

i was too damn small 

i heard Maria Callas singing in the Milano opera hall 

she was absolutely divine 

so i thought i'd take a chance 

i wore my evening jacket without my underpants.

i heard Keith Richards play when i was seventeen

he was absolutely wildly crazy touching the obscene. 

when she said it was evolution 

i was too damn dumb

i protested with long hair and my opposition thumb. 

i watched Ari Onassis wear his glasses in the shade 

he accumulated people and i knew he had it made.

i watched Mick Jagger wear his penis on his nose

he accumulated people in the evening without clothes.

when she said it was evolution

i was too damn blind

i wrote a note to Santa Claus

the one he could not find.

when she commented on gravity

i told her i could defy it,

but she said i couldn't deny it, 

so what did i really know

sucking my injured big toe?

i heard Maria Callas singing with a butterfly in her hair

her voice like angel flowers vocal passion everywhere!

when she said it was evolution

i was too damn naive

i heard Maria Callas singing 

it became impossible to leave!!

when i talked with Picasso

when i talked with Picasso, 

it was an early evening near central Paris

and he was flush with Spanish wine,

laughing with artistic friends already feeling fine,

splashing paints on the nearest cobbled street.

and he told me his life would never be complete

until he was known everywhere

for his prodigious talent and his famous penetrating stare!

well, he had an brilliant eye, that's for certain:

he said he painted more than one Russian ballet curtain,

and when he saw the many young ladies swoon

he'd immediately take them to his special room

where he'd teach them French or as much as he knew

while they kneeled before his greatness, admiring the local view.

and when i told him i was also fond of Gertrude Stein,

he said quite forcefully that she couldn't be a friend of mine;

she had her hands full of more important things to do,

and no time to waste screwing around with another old shrew!

i asked inquiringly about his relationship with Matisse

but he looked away and somehow seemed at peace.

when a gallery owner said his Opening sales were beyond belief

"like stealing money without being an actual thief!"

the drinks flowed and everyone partied the night away,

without pretensions or any interest in becoming a gourmet.

when i talked with Picasso,

he refused to let me go

until i promised to give him the best press,

and there's more, a lot more,

but i digress.

sitting on a bench

you are 

sitting on a bench

polishing your perfect nails.

it might be too hard for me to remember

my heads from my tails,

but i approach anyway,

wondering as i study your face

what i might have to do or say.

you smile and offer me a timid joke.

i take a deep breath and offer you a pleasant toke.

but i wasn't trying to score;

i didn't have time for that anymore:

too many days have fallen over my head

and i look like i've just tumbled out of an untidy bed.

i can't even remember what i'm doing here:

memories of childhood keep trying to reappear

and i know i've traveled with heavy loads on my back;

all the passing white clouds have turned into coal black.

behind me all the pain of failures and interesting lies!

but i keep sailing my ship when all it wants to do is capsize,

wondering if i can be the first mate,

standing my watch at the helm like i'm on a first date,

not ready to drop anchor and head into the nearest port.

maybe there's one more chance to be the gentleman and find a fine woman to court

while i am still standing and 

you are

sitting on a bench

polishing your perfect nails.

it might be too hard for me to remember

my heads from my tails,

but i approach anyway,

wondering as i study your face

what i might have to do or say.

what it is to be alive!

i'm not pulling any punches

rolling along 

carrying a bag full of morning hunches

and you're watching me from under cover

pausing

hoping to discover

what it is to be alive!

and we're out for a freeway drive

watching all the singers and dancers

holding hands 

while looking for questions and answers.

there's a lot to unfold

or so we're being told,

marching in a band or sitting on a side street,

always running lightly on our feet.

it's me on the radio

listening for directions for which way to go

maybe to Fifth Avenue 

or to stay home with you?

but another turn and more keep coming,

dancers dancing and singers humming,

there's music in our dreams and angels in our head,

so many words silently on the floor being unsaid:

it's always time to keep steering

there's a horizon and yet it keeps disappearing

and that's where we want to go.

i'm not pulling any punches

rolling along 

carrying a bag full of morning hunches

and you're watching me from under cover

pausing

hoping to discover

what it is to be alive!

and we're out for a freeway drive

watching all the singers and dancers

holding hands 

while looking for questions and answers.

there's a lot to unfold

or so we're being told,

marching in a band or sitting on a side street,

always running lightly on our feet.

kill them all, but

Poland,

said the German man,

should be mine!

Poland,

said the Soviet guy,

will be mine!

not exactly friendly,

but they decided to share.

tasty treats;

blood in the streets.

they didn't have to choose.

kill them all, but

especially the Jews.

expose a breast,

then line up the rest.

pa and ma;

steamrolling toward Warsaw.

don't ask & don't tell:

simply blitzkrieg them to hell.

swallowing pills over the eastern hills.

no time to shiver crossing the river!

3 days with no sleep;

rounding up the sheep.

wrong or right?

not considered in this fight.

two madmen on the move!

and who will disapprove?

two madmen on the loose!

and they'll escape the noose.

Poland,

said the German man,

should be mine!

Poland,

said the Soviet guy,

will be mine!

not exactly friendly,

but they decided to share.

tasty treats;

blood in the streets.

they didn't have to choose.

kill them all, but

especially the Jews.

Pascin will see you now

i will see you again,

but not yet, my friend,

i whispered several years after 

we had met,

but now i was dead:

not he or she or they or all else who came to play,

(the many artists and hangers-on),

drinking and eating and loving till the earliest dawn.

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

but i calmly slit my wrists and hung by throat,

tossing a bloody testament on the nearby gallery wall,

before my solo show about Cecile and my personal downfall:

oh, yes, i knew triumph and despair,

dabbled in color! 

and whores with fine lines and wit

or maybe duller;

but if you slept, i was alert

at Montparnasse,

always the flirt,

never considered the serious painter

as i wanted to be known.

so i fade,

become fainter,

and wonder between bottles of red and white wines,

will i see you again, my friend?

near San Barbara, California, USA

Ronald Reagan played with his radio,

spinning dials and whispering scores,

tuning in to happy hour

with an "Aw shucks" and a dime

bagging a governor gig in the process,

wooing Nancy with his swimming smile

out of the pool

onto the big screen

with a big hat 

and bigger friends

like a Director's cut

surfing onwards to the national spotlight

to the White House with a burning Bush

winning a Cold War

with patriotically hot breath 

to Infinity and Beyond

believing in great deeds,

then riding his favorite horse into the sunset

close to Hollywood Boulevard

but more northerly,

on his ranch 

under the big sky

near Santa Barbara, California, USA,

USA. USA. USA. USA!

standing hopeful

no where do i see

sitting on a park bench

you eagerly reading

while waiting to be with me.

but we'd be eating chocolates

thumbing our noses at the sky,

playing with our imaginations

using a little leg and an inviting thigh.

of course i'd be broke

and you'd still be attached,

fumbling with trembling hands

at my front door latch.

and there'd be children on the playground

watching for the man,

laughing at our antics

from behind a nearby garbage can.

and i'd be standing hopeful,

never growing tired,

waiting for you to settle down

but you're always wired.

speaking in tongues,

you never know who's on first,

showing off your batter's box

with an insatiable thirst.

and you'd give me a hard time

but i'd rather hear a song,

waiting on a park bench

and i'll sit here all day long,

tasting the air

if that's what it takes

to watch you go speeding past

without using your brakes.

well, there's never been a question

that i'm always up for a ride,

listening for an answer

that you're completely satisfied.

no where do i see

sitting on a park bench

you eagerly reading

while waiting to be with me.

but we'd be eating chocolates

thumbing our noses at the sky,

playing with our imaginations

using a little leg and an inviting thigh.

of course i'd be broke

and you'd still be attached,

fumbling with trembling hands

at my front door latch.

well, there's never been a question

that i'm always up for a ride,

listening for an answer

that you're completely satisfied.

my first big change

my change came in on soft footsteps,

surprising my classic Lancaster County blond hair

with a stirring blast of tropical wind. 

it was a warm Vietnamese war wind, but little did i know

how hot it would become,

or i might have worn several hats.

as it was, the hat i came in with was

white skinned and speaking plain English

with a working class accent.

and it was a fine hat and i used to feel comfortable

wearing it while riding my bike to a

little league ball game on a Saturday afternoon and

everyone i knew wore a similar hat,

even without playing ball.  they had their games, too.

and everyone i knew spoke alike and, yes, almost looked alike,

playing by acknowledged rules on our simple public streets,

or telling simple secrets on simple bedroom sheets.

the only changes i noticed among my friends and their

parents and local shopkeepers and the milk delivery man

were when a new puppy or kitten were shown off or when it was Sunday morning

and someone wore a fine new suit or a newer dress, with the hem line

customarily long even if the shoes were polished and short.

i remember it was easy to float from day to day; it was never difficult to

tell a tall tale or listen to a silly joke about a bathing suit that tore

at a certain seam during a summer co-ed swim.

the seasons changed-not much else, it seemed.

my change was not subtle, no, hammering at me harder and more

directly then a book about carpentry might have.

the change was abrupt, as though my caterpillar shell was torn apart

before i became a skittish butterfly.  

I had traveled from relatively sheltered living to distress and loss and

aloneness with the assistance of an overnight military flight.

to where, i wondered?  for what purpose, i wondered?

why me, i wondered?  who was i, i wondered?

i was naive.  i didn't know about wisdom.  i had not known real love.

i had not felt grief.  i had not experienced anguish or true loss; you know, the kind

of loss that digs deeply and refuses to unclamp your heart

from its' terrible grip.

the songs of the 60's didn't change me.

the books by Vonnegut, Asimov, Tolstoi, Dostoevsky and others,

didn't change me.  

i was drowning without a genuine self-respect but wondered dimly where would i find any in an ocean

of organized cruelty?

i looked around more closely, moving with all senses aware.

i was somewhere, that much was certain.  but where?  on the path of life, where?

i felt singular in an alien world of unfamiliar faces and unexpected

demands; believed i was unrecognized as a unique person; was ignored for

any characteristic other than the performance of a special skill which total strangers 

wanted me to perform for their benefit.  or for the benefit of someone else somewhere else!

i remember being unable to see the meaning of who i was.

i remember being unable to remember much of anything.

i remember touching a white flower to see if it was real.

i remember looking around at a torn countryside and seeing the pointlessness of life.

i remember feeling there was no point.

and then, suddenly, as though inside a spring rain, I remember I remembered what it is to be ME.

i was a flower, too!

and that is always the point:

remembering what it is to be ME.

and that was my first big change.

Sergei Diaghilev (died: August 19, 1929)

he died in Venice:

before the floods swept away the chairs,
but the perfume princess brought her broom
to sweep away his cares.
she was on a yacht
cruising the Adriatic with a friend
when his telegram arrived from across the sea
to suggest this was the end.
he had eaten too well,
with rich food and sugary dessert,
and diabetic pain exhausted him,
yet he claimed it didn't hurt!
on the Isola de San Michele,
his grave site sadly
had only four mourners by the muddy hole:
two were Misia Sert and Coco Chanel;
then Lifar the clown and Kochno the troll,
while Massine was hastily trying
to persuade Beaumont to keep the company afloat.
but he said no,
and Picasso refused to gloat.

his Johnny Cash smile

well, he don't sing too good

but he tried

as only he knew he could

siting in his easy chair

reciting a musical prayer

strumming tunes wide awake

holding his cards closely, increasing his stake

with his Johnny Cash smile

doing what he could in simple style

and he saw where he stopped and where he had to go

to find June Carter before her final show

in a burning ring of fire

with a love they would both admire

each other was all they'd ever require

well, he don't sing too good

but he tried

as only he knew he could.

Vietnam...then

In ’69 I went to war while Nixon was in charge

And Kissinger his famous brain was Ambassador-at-large

Vietnam seemed so far away but a flight across the sea

United us in strange embrace, both yearning to be free

Many men of different stripes with duffle bag in hand

Saw this Orient in great divide, a sacrificial land

The sun was hot, the soil was hard but our duty call was heard

The officers had our full respect, we took them at their word

Modern cavalry soon was marching, it mounted a high horse

Artillery guns were sounding, the war marched on its’ course

So off I went to guard my post of concrete, sand, and wire

At night the sky a show of bursting flares and fire

I had this Ranger background, ate snakes with my bare teeth

Bled red American Marlboro blood, Uncle Sam was my new chief

Overhead the choppers ripped the air, twin 60s at their doors

They searched the land for Viet Cong, rice paddy killer whores

The DMZ was really not all peacefulness and calm

The flowers there were buried by the smell of fresh napalm

Tet was a bitch for all involved, a bloody New Years truce

When General Giap knifed public Peace & hoped to cook that goose

We had marines in ol’Khe Sanh, six thousand in flat Hell

Unlike a real world title fight, no friendly-sounding bell

Then Abrams tried to save the day; he came in to help us out

But Charlie boy still had his guns and fought without a doubt

It started with a Friday rain and ran for months straight through

I hopped a jeep and left Saigon and drove mountains to Pleiku

The strawberry fields and rubber trees, red dust cloud in my head

I felt the weight of loyalty, machine gun in my bed

I heard Mike Leonard give his brief behind an army door

A peace sign hanging from his neck, he spoke about the war

What he had to say you had to hear, he said about midnight

The tanks would come down highway One and everyone’d take flight

The statues in this country, fighting soldiers under arms

Have weapons in poor peasant hands when all they want are farms

I left for home in a Freedom Bird from a world the French forgot

Knew a RED flag rose in victory and wondered, “Was it all for naught?”

I thought you had to love me, a steel warrior from your past

But when I walked your chilly roads those notions faded fast

Another war became another war, as conquest dreams were planned

While Nam guys keep a watchful eye, old battlements still manned

Come on America, give me Hell then give me precious bread

Tell me all I need to hear, pump love songs thru my head

Come on America, do it now while I am still near

Tell me all I need to know, softly whisper in my ear.

At the Arc de Triomphe

At the Arc de Triomphe:

the sun was streaming
early one morning
when Massine could be seen dancing under
the arch.
he was looking for Vera Savina, with whom
he had recently fallen in love.
Sergei Diaghilev was furious, and went racing down
a nearby flight of stairs determined to keep them from meeting.
Picasso kept quiet, as though he knew nothing of ballet.
And soon, Vera found and took Massine by his hand to her bedroom.
Again, Diaghilev was furious, and said "Hadn't [I] made him?
What had Massine...been?  Nothing but a good-looking face
and poor legs!"
But soon a young refugee from Moscow arrived in Paris and visited
unannounced in Diaghilev's suite at the Continental.  He was a
seventeen-year-old Russian known as Boris and
Diaghilev instantly became intrigued.
This all happened before his Ballets Russes traveled to Madrid, where the gypsies poured in to dance.

Bridge School fund raiser

she took me to the Bridge School fund raiser:

inside, a band played soft rock in the aisles.

i dug the music!

it nosed my mental shoreline above tree line and foamed

the entire auditorium with leafy autumn cheers,

and the kids loved it.

noise was everywhere.  rules were being broken as the children 

stood on their seats and

the parents danced to

a suspected Neil Young song and attempted to sing

A Horse with No Name, but that was simply America.

then, wearing his customary high-collared jacket,

the invited special guest was introduced to energetic applause.

David Bowie broadly smiled as he sat on a bare stage with his acoustic guitar,

Major Tom commencing countdown by his side;

they both said they really wanted to make the grade.

we were all waiting for the trip into outer space,

but stayed grounded for the entire performance.

we pledged to heal our sacred inner space

without wearing excessive makeup, except for Bowie.

he repeatedly assured us that 

above us were only skies

and we’d soon know which way to go.

he kept laying it down for the planet Earth,

which was blue.

we raised a good deal of money for the Bridge School that night.

later, i heard Bowie was invited to return and has already accepted.

It’s time to thank him.

Zelda overheard the question

Celebration beer in hand, 

the stranger sat next to Scott and asked about the Paris weather.

Zelda overheard the question and threw her drink

at the face of the questioner.

"How dare you?" she demanded,

"Who ever cares!"

as soon as she finished her last word, she went

to replace her drink.

the weather improved in her absence.

but just as soon as she left, she returned,

drink in hand.  

Scott had a drink in hand, too,  and one resting on 

an adjacent table.  

he liked having a simple choice. 

Scott saw Duncan walk in with a young man who

was half her age and decided to introduce himself.

when Zelda saw him knell before the aging dancer, she yelled,

"How dare you?"

"Who ever cares!"

and she ran from the room, drink in hand, and threw herself from

the nearest balcony.  

the weather improved in her absence.

instead of working nine to five

turn off the lights

and let them freeze,

and in the cold morning air

when they finally say please,

fly my drones into their dreams!

death to man brought by my machines!

it's only my way of feeling alive

instead of working nine to five,

i toss children in the fire

and there's so much more that i require:

polishing my shoes while i adjust my tie.

day or night there's millions more to pacify,

don't let them tell you otherwise!

i can rain death down from the skies,

sipping coffee with a notebook by my hand;

there's nothing i need to understand.

don't let them steal you blind.

i'm the genius mastermind

who paints the pale moon blue,

wrecks the house, attacks the avenue. 

i'm so good i'm bad!

i'm your mother i'm your dad!

don't let them tell you otherwise!

i can rain death down from the skies,

sipping coffee with a notebook by my hand;

there's nothing i need to understand.

i'm the man in total command!

you're the tool;

you're the complete fool

while i'm playing it cool.

it's only my way of feeling alive

instead of working nine to five,

i toss children in the fire

and there's so much more that I require:

polishing my shoes while i adjust my tie,

day or night there's millions more to pacify.

on the path of courage

it's not always the one

that the greater society flatters

that in the short or long run

matters

on the path of courage:

there's the city tax collector and the forest bridge troll

collecting a toll

in relative obscurity

but at a steady pace

sometimes dressed modestly or all crimson and lace;

and there's the unheralded stage hands

preparing a venue for various bands

watching an early audience file in and take their seats

in anticipation of musical beats

which might help them make it through another day,

and some self-question if they'll stay

as the going seems personally rough,

yet they rally, dig deeper, stay tough

like the musical King

or Queen

or Prince

partaking in our great moveable feast

that passes from the most important among us

to the mouths of the very least;

and into the hallway mirror we often gaze and wonder:

does it matter if the world is silent or howling like thunder?

can we stay simple and recognize the magic of an overhead sky?

can we listen with our hearts to hear the world's brave babies cry?

and we cry as well 

and we laugh and we succeed and we fail

looking into our palm and seeing the nail

but knowing it's not bent

and it won't be bent

and we're spending our lives together, 

but we're not spent

on the path of courage,

where the handmade mozzarella melts 

and we tighten our memory of leather belts

searching for that perfect hole to fasten and hold,

being curious in spite of it all

as we're growing old

on the path of courage.

save the baby!

save the baby!

that was a cry from the next room

and i had to assume

it was for me but it could have been for you

we went together looking for a clue

we saw rusted tanks and bombed out cribs

skinny men with exposed ribs

and old men with the saddest eyes

consumed by the constant lies

their tears flooded the street

we felt the dead heat

like an immense weight in our hands

everywhere we looked we saw badlands

everything was being taken

chewed up and forsaken...

in our heads we saw dark clouds and felt the stinging hail

in the palm of our hands we felt the nail

and the cold freezing our skin 

you looked without while i looked within

and it slowly dawned on me that the sky would remain blood red

all the babies had fled

into a story book where another ending would be penned

make-believe and the terrible world of pretend

and the fog soon to descend:

save the baby!

you took a temporary seat and sat

no where in the pouring rain

is there an answer for the way you look.

there's no happy ending inside your pocket book,

so when you turned out your cat,

you took a temporary seat and sat.

you saw the town square was full of sharks and clowns

who took advantage of summer weddings and bridal gowns,

and the game wasn't fair;

there was no innocent playground there!

no real news for the online shoppers' blues

when they drop their pants, 

imagining an hour of private romance.

when the lights are dimmed and the drinks seem free,

you walk into a busy room and immediately agree

with whatever you're told;

you're acting young but you're growing old

with hair in your nose and gray, colorless eyes,

spending all your money on the latest and the newest disguise.

you've seen it all;

up and down the temperance hall,

on the lowest level or up on the roof,

everybody you meet is drinking from a bottle of 100 percent proof

but you've never tried a sip

until someone offered you a piece of lip;

and you knew you were cursed

when you fell into the wishing well headfirst

and found it bone dry!

there was no need to apply

for a job on the unemployment line;

no new words for you to define.

you've come a long way to find yourself,

watching the late show from an empty library shelf

and nobody came to lend you a hand

'cause reading between the lines had been permanently banned,

and the game wasn't fair;

there was no innocent playground there!