Chester

the man made people laugh
when he put himself into sharp focus,
cracking open his head for all to see
the eerie serenity of which he's so proud.

but he much preferred to cook,
visiting the Tuesday Farmer's Market
where the local Amish came in their horse-drawn
buggies and plain clothing with their produce:
shoo-fly pies, fruit pies, candied yams, fresh hams,
donuts, popcorn, chicken, cheese, steak, vegetables,and so much more.

and with a little money and a smiling please,
all the ingredients for a great meal could easily be carried
to his car in just one bag, or two.  No one would wave as he drove away,
but he always drove off, urging his own secret horses to run.

and he liked the road to Golgotha, where a campfire was always ready
for his evening meal, and the plates were always clean.

There, the black dog he bought from a farmer in Brownstown recently died
of old age and even stranger tumors and he was cradling the dog when Doctor
Delaney injected that thirsty liquid which stopped the beating heart, relieving any
suffering for the dog, for Chester the dog.
Chester didn't like Amish food, that much was certain,
and he couldn't speak a word of Dutch, but he might have had a vision of the Virgin.

There is a market tomorrow and the man will go to shop, putting himself
into sharp focus, with his head cracked open,
looking for another dog.

shark

there is blood only for a little while
a small stain on my shirt
i watch the dampness spreading

but it doesn't really hurt

it doesn't really know your name
or where you've been before

this feeling hasn't knocked me down
in fact i'll ask for more

and when you bite me once again
while hiding in the dark
i'll bring my little fish along

to chase away your shark.

spend the night together

okay,

if that's what you say

i'll be on my way

running until the middle of next week

looking for permission to speak

what's really on my mind.

and when i finally find

the proper verb and that elusive noun

i hope i'm already uptown

where all the factory girls are waiting

ice skating

while sipping cherry cokes

just like common folks

and if it's not a hoax

the writing will still be on the wall:

everything happening now is just before the final fall.

my escape was a close call;

no one is answering the phone.

i'm wore down to the bone,

almost arrested for speeding,

dazed by the lights and bleeding

near the warehouse where Andy Warhol painted.

and i finally fainted,

unfortunately,

before we had a chance to spend the night together.

I found myself with a smile

to save my life

i bought a ticket

and tossed my knife

watched it spinning into the air

seven times for good luck

but i didn't have a prayer;

boarded the train.

looked out the window

saw the rain

and heard the tracks;

tried to get some shuteye

but fell through all the cracks.

the night was long;

the train whistle blew;

i recognized the song:

the only one i knew.

it started black;

i hummed the tune.

stayed in my sack;

the stars came out!

when i found myself with a morning smile,

i lost all doubt

about something.

we can not live without our land

"you speak the absolute truth,"

said Mr. Hamas,

leading his group of tourists to a refugee camp.

"there is a bias, he said, "and we blame the other side

for having one."

"As you can see", he said, "there is no tunnel here

and no command center;

we have simple tents and donated foodstuffs

along with enough water to last several weeks.

I tell you, that's what your eyes should see!

our hospitals are understaffed, with few medicines."

"I want to emphasis", he said,

"we are a peaceful people who have had our

ancestral homeland taken from us by the United Nations.

they made an historical mistake on November 29, 1947,

with Resolution 181,

for which the consequences

will forever be grave.

and there will be graves, thousands of graves!

we will go on killing our oppressors for centuries to come.

and they will kill us, too."

"Yasser Arafat once said it well, when he said

we can not live without our dignity.

we also can not live without our land.

And this has nothing to do with our religions!"

in a while, they all sat down for a short lunch break,

hearing the afternoon call to prayer

recited in Arabic.

there was distance gun fire, too.

hands like ice

just like Mao

when somehow

he chased Peanut across the strait

to the island

and thus began a purge

(a Long March of conquest)

which today has consolidated all power

every Chinese hour

into the hands

of a small band

of controllers,

the bombs again fall and the tanks rumble

over fallen buildings, the crumble

of bones,

near the river and to the sea.

a distant land

in Mediterranean history

with the same result:

loss of innocent life and tumult!

what is the point?

to own the joint?

kissing the land 

with cold lips and hands like ice;

black eyes without sparkle

pay the price,

using other people's dreams

as currency.

Where was Einstein?

When Daniel Ellsberg
went looking for his bus,
he saw the war,
felt the sun turn cold 

and ugly 

with political lies
falling from a deceitful sky
like incendiary bombs over North Vietnam,
spilling onto the streets in front of the White House.

near central Saigon on Tu Do street,
a flow of blood dripped constantly from the sharp teeth
of slippery men wearing their helicopter smiles,
trafficking dope 

from a railroad town in Laos
down the trail 

under a heart of darkness:
their American machine guns shooting up
the hard thin arms of Oriental hunger.

On a plutonium pathway the buffalo grass turned shit brown
with the CIA and Agent Orange
locked in a fatal embrace 

from the Plain of Jars
to the Central Highlands,

to the DMZ,
picking pure white daisy petals
while counting down from twelve 

to four and finally closer to zero:
under a cloudy mushroom afternoon,
Nixon was inaugurated to deliver
PEACE 

while fighting for his golden Crown
in the slaughter hallways of Pennsylvania Avenue.

Where was Einstein?
when Daniel Ellsberg
said there were no winnable options
for a WAR 

in jungle thick with sudden death
and monsoon confusion?

A thousand western schemes floated beguilingly,
mingled with autumn flower petals 

on the Perfume River,
past the starving bones of an angry Imperial ghost,
to their lonely grave 

in the South China Sea.

overlooking the park

there's a simple fact

you'll need to know

i once played guitar

with my little left toe

i thought i was perfect

i thought i could strum

i thought i was singing

but barely could hum

like a fashion designer

perfecting my art

there's nothing authentic

if not from the heart

i shifted my body

adjusted my mind

looking for answers

i couldn't quite find

a new age kept coming

and tastes rearranged

i sat on my sofa

and nothing was changed

the curtains were hung

the music was played

the times were a'changing

but i simply stayed

in my flat with a window

overlooking the park

looking for flowers

while everything's dark.

but there's no answer

Spain

inflicted some pain

and Portugal, too,

but what could they do?

somebody told them

England and France

were both at the dance

to colonize.

it would be an amazing prize!

new lands from sea to shore;

everything to gain and so much more.

and there was abundant silver and gold;

everybody was told

it was for free.

natives could be forced into captivity.

Belgium wanted in on the game

and the Dutch, too, sought fame.

it was how they thought:

everything could be bought

for the least amount of grief.

sail in like a thief

and take and steal and rob and burn

the natives will learn

or they'll die

or remain uncivilized and die

their Gods or Great Spirits might ask why

but there's no answer.

handful of dirt

with a simple handful of dirt

i'm tossing it into my bag

hoping to avoid the hurt

of your loss;

and i thought

at what cost?

i'm already suffering the blues

remembering all i can lose

when you depart.

the pain in my heart

takes me to bed

turns out my light

whispers sweet words

but nothing feels right.

am i in Paris

or buried in Berlin,

with a handful of poppies

and a bottle of gin?

a killer takes aim,

but my driver knows the score,

running all the red lights

to the next World War

with a simple handful of dirt

i'm tossing it into my bag

hoping to avoid the hurt

of your loss;

and i thought

at what cost?

i'm already suffering the blues

remembering all i can lose

when you depart.

the pain in my heart

takes me to bed

turns out my light

whispers sweet words

but nothing feels right.

crossing the muddy waters

crossing the muddy waters

in a hail storm in the night,

filled with foolishness

and filled with fright;

a lady tried to teach me

while my back was turned;

i tried to escape,

using all the tricks i learned.

she was a hungry woman;

excitement was in those eyes.

i asked for forgiveness!

i confessed all of my lies!

but she said it was simple:

i lost my way on the track.

beware or i'd find myself

kicked out of the sack;

and i'd be sad and lonesome

with no way to find my path!

there'd be no special woman

to heat water for my bath!

crossing the muddy waters

in a hail storm in the night,

filled with foolishness

and filled with fright;

a lady tried to teach me

while my back was turned;

i tried to escape

using all the tricks i learned.

Erich Priebke

Priebke died in his ripe old age 

but

as a younger man, 

he was a captain wearing a fancy SS uniform

with God on his side, 

a holster with Lugar inside,
and a fierce Nazi salute in the streets of Rome.

years after the 1936 Olympics,

where a black man in Berlin
silenced the adoring crowds of
blond smiles and white teeth
with his flashes of muscular brilliance,

Priebke participated in his own ceremony:

the 1944 massacre
of Italian civilians in the Ardeatine caves
near Rome.

it might have been the highlight of Priebke's career!

but he never shied away
from his enjoyment of
hating minorities and other gypsies,
who sang and danced and drank pure German beer

with the pretty flower vendors in the streets of Munich,
in halls far from Der Marienplatz.

he took a big bite

there hopped the rabbit

with a carrot in his hand;

he took a big bite

before finding it hard to stand.

on the street corner

with his eyes open wide,

he watched the passing traffic

looking for a ride.

the traffic was fast,

spinning way out of control;

he looked for a safe spot

to dig himself a new hole.

it took a long time!

he kept digging all alone;

he was looking for love,

but he only found a bone.

and the bone was old;

it smiled and sang him a song:

it was about a rabbit

that was always wrong.

he stopped his digging!

found and lit a cigarette.

thought about destiny

and broke out in a cold sweat.

there hopped the rabbit

with a carrot in his hand;

he took a big bite

before finding it hard to stand.

underneath a railroad coal car

in the backcountry 

thinking backwards

to the devastating Marietta flood 

all the way to the 20's

the 1920's

with Susquehanna river water crossing over the railroad tracks

so people were rescued from their

second floor windows,

boats in the swift brown flow

and residents with no where to go;

and later my grandfather and my dad

carrying heavy coal sacks

back home,

a different home

near Front street

to provide a little heat

because wood was scarce

and the freight train stopped

without a watchman or a guard

nothing easy! 

mostly resignation for anything toohard

acceptance

improvisation 

without a moments hesitation

acting soberly

wearing blacks and white

every day and every night

working dawn to dusk

in the summer months 

delivering ice

when the roads were dry

and the air was hot

laboring for everything they ever got

the outhouse sagging in the back yard

one seat for every butt

hinges that didn't operate

so the old door couldn't shut

pages torn from newspapers

most old and torn

sitting happily or forlorn

eating a simple small town diet

no tv but a contented overnight quiet

with kerosene lamps, conversations and playing cards

three to a room or sometimes four

two sons going off to the Second World War

then, after and later 

sunning on the Jersey shore

with a shovel and small pail

no one sentenced to jail

i heard them say

that that's not the American Way:

no, climb the ladder from the shack

there's no glory in continuously looking back

prepare an adequate garden for your food

no time for being in a sour mood

stay in your own sweet lane

connected to each other

with an unbroken family chain

and with every sentence that one might write

make it short and tight

remembering how to crawl underneath a railroad coal car

where the spillage doesn't have to travel very far

to find it's way into your bag,

even if there's no money to be found

on the ground,

there's always love in the heart.

thousand of years ago

the pine and the downy birch

also the larch tree

all marching 

across the land

up hills and across the tundra

over the mountains

into the softening soils

toward the North Star

where reindeer herds look for solid ice

in the ever warming night.

blue and orange and with shades of green,

the forest expands

where trees once grew

thousands of year ago

before the fires and the wolves 

who walk on two legs.

two wolves then six

a black river

and a small herd

of blue sheep

crossing mountains

in the depth of winter

miles from cities

miles from a warm bath

sitting in a cloud tent

sitting in the wind

sitting with a Lama

perched like a moment

on a thin rock shelf

at 17,000 feet

with prayer flags by my shoulder

watching the air

breathe

watching time

watching myself disappear

smiling in the shadows

laughing in the sunshine

then two wolves

then six

black tails

with specks of white

like snow flakes

and deep drifts

that close the high alpine passes.

i thought i'd take a sip

inside France

she sipped her wine;

she asked me to dance

while picking ripe grapes

from an overhead vine.

on her daddy's land,

the sun was shining;

her body was sleek and tanned.

i thought i'd take a sip

before that drink was banned:

we'd grab a bottle and laugh;

sing a Stone's song & take a bath.

we'd go crazy with the blues.

oh, we'd never need to choose!

she'd read the news

when the highlights were bold,

saying, all that glitters isn't gold!

my fortune was in the cards!

her private estate surrounded by armed guards

and i'd be a fool to try an escape,

inside where it hurts or out of shape

inside France

she sipped her wine;

she asked me to dance

while picking ripe grapes

from the overhead vine.

on her daddy's land,

the sun was shining;

her body was sleek and tanned.

i thought i'd take a sip

before that drink was banned!

to peel an organic orange

running across America without any shoes

hearing the darkest news

shedding my coat

but still wearing the blues

wondering where it has all gone wrong

humming a sad song

about indifference

then jumping a border fence

and a wall

rivers wide and ten miles tall.

all my pants are torn

wondering why the richest people born

without a picking thing to do

wander around without a clue

in retreat or full charge

aiming at the world at large

are hitting the bull's eye

with mother's milk and warm apple pie!?

well, their crumbs don't fall far

it's too bizarre

to be a comedian's joke

staying asleep while acting woke.

thousands of workers looking for work

an auto mechanic or a retail clerk

with beautiful land underfoot

on shifting sands or staying put.

i think it's strange

my home on the range

just passing gas or looking for a buck

thinking bad company or wishing good luck.

i know i love you

but often what you do

needs further review.

it's half-time or quarter-time

out of prison or committing a crime,

i'm risking my life

sharpening my knife

to peel an organic orange.

you took a ride

well, you thought i was free

but it was simply your twisted memory

because you see, i've been walking

to escape all your talking

and that road is long

without my favorite song

since you don't know the score

so i'm trying to ignore

what you said

when you jumped me in bed

oh, it was long ago

just before the winter's snow

and that spring was hard

you caught me off guard

i wasn't your little boy

i didn't want to be your toy

but the stars in the sky

heard me cry

when you took me for a ride

thought you were a bride

wore white

every night

wore white

held me tight

took your bite

thought it was your right

to satisfy an appetite

well, you thought i was free

but it was simply your twisted memory

because you see, i was walking

to escape all your talking

and that road is long

without my favorite song

since you don't know the score

so i'm trying to ignore

what you said

when you jumped me in bed

as WE soak in the baths of infinity

I try to welcome myself,

and I seek for him:

maybe in Singapore?

or Lahore?

by the seashore?

perhaps on a mountain top?

between the moments of a ticking clock?

or within the lines of a haiku?

all the while,

while noticing the essence of YOU.

I am aware, though,

that within it ALL 

balance or stumble

I sometimes feel unwelcome,

and am greedy,

and unwise.

but it's no surprise.

I am standing on my hind legs,

sniffing the air

feeling the wind in my hair 

while I fly

among the stars in the sky

temporarily here

and there

recovering my health

from the corruption of wealth

hoping for a choice

listening to an inner voice

welcoming me

after all

loving me

before the inevitable fall.

so I stand

holding out my hand

and my heart

asking YOU

always 

for a continual restart

each and every moment

as WE soak in the baths of infinity.

with my tiny wings

i cried at night

and in the daylight

standing on unsteady feet

knowing i should eat,

there was no appetite

in spite 

of losing weight.

and when i tried to draw a deep breath

it came out small,

matching my size

as if to sympathize

with my growing concerns.

a friendly doctor said i could be dead

or perhaps not

but it all depended on what it is i've got,

and i had something

in my lung,

and being no longer young,

there was a good chance

i had attended my last dance.

Cancer?

but I'm a Virgo!!!

and i didn't want to leave,

YOU!!

my memories are not as important

as the here and NOW:

we sit 

sipping a dry wine and

our eyes shine.

you ask and I reply:

i want to wash dirty dishes in hot soapy water 

and thereby clean

my fingernails,

and ride the open highways and rails,

singing songs remembering Johnny Cash,

and then set a world record in the 100 yard dash,

while remaining humble,

writing a four line poem

which explains how the Rocky Mountains

became rocky,

and how our scars can be healed by a kiss.

let me be healthy,

to see the tiny hummingbird spin its' 

even tinier wings

all the way to the sea of Paradise and return

with a flower in its' mouth.

i want to hand you a flower, too,

with my tiny wings.

the bones of dead animals

the hyenas

with a swift run, yelping,

and a blazing red skull illuminated

on my waiting room wall,

both broke my concentration

and coughing,  i fled,

into an dreamworld

as majestic as the distant Mountain of God

and as cold as the snows of Kilimanjaro:

my left lung was filled with glass shards

as a Maasai warrior watched me from a high rock,

standing on one leg, impassive,

and i could see the sun dancing on his spear point.

i was being sedated in a hospital operating room,

watching the wild dogs chase a young zebra foal.

a heavy dark cloud enveloped me, and sheets of rain

nearly drowned me, but i awoke, foggy-brained,

covered with a buffalo skin shield for safety.

my right lung was  protected by my emperor's guard

dog and seemed healthy;

my left lung was not doing so well, but might be saved,

as a local witch doctor explained.

the bones of dead animals covered the floor.

i went home to sleep some more,

high in the safe branches of a Baobob tree.

Alabama's Africa Town

in Florida

the shore line is now a front line

while the phone line to the Governor's office is constantly busy

looking over to the Keys

hearing the shouted words "So help me, please!"

the old man and the sea

remembering stories of a shark attack

are calling: there's no turning back

dying or already dead 

the high rises 

proudly

finding surprises

where the sun also rises

when high tide is spotted running across Lincoln Road

and maybe the onslaught can no longer be slowed.

in Florida

the shore line is now a front line

while near Alabama's Africa Town

the sunken slave ship was finally found

buried in mud near Twelve Mile island where it was burned and sunk

treated by the enslavers like a useless piece of junk!

a boastful white man acting like a heartless drunk

hiding his crime thinking that if it's out of sight

there's no evidence to point to in the dark of night

but now the history books

can give this story many more serious looks

finding surprises

where the sun also rises

when high tide is spotted running across Lincoln Road

but maybe the onslaught can now be slowed.

careless words

in the night

maybe the middle of it

i awoke and felt like shit

knowing how i misspoke

with an ill-advised joke

about me and a tree,

a bum hip

and two wounded knees,

and please

know that life can be a bitch

being a snitch

or even while on the up and up

wearing a catcher's cup

to protect the balls.

no more falls

might be the best

on the romantic test

with a score above zero on a sliding scale

between serious woman and inept male

timing my shot

hoping for more than what i got

without being greedy

or, in the worst case, being needy

and alone

with no way to atone

for careless words perhaps like above,

less frivolous and more infused with love.