to map Hell

Bullet has muzzle velocity, so great:

1,235 feet per second

and 1.2 seconds after being fired,

it meets steel helmet,

who held up as well he might.

But bullet's force was great,

and He was melting and vaporizing and

spritzing out tiny droplets of lead

as helmet surrendered,

gave inward, bulged the steel,

and onward rushed bullet

1.204 seconds after leaving muzzle,

jagged outer edges of  helmet now behind Him, He met

hair

who held Him up nowise

in His journey.

Skin gave way to mushroomed bullet and

bones deformed at His will,

671 feet per second forward He went as He tore

into vessels too shocked to bleed,

and nosed through soft gray-white-crimson

stuff

hardly hard as warm butter.

First, He cut through the memory of Mother,

then thru a small dog, eyes shining upward;

through a first kiss, a used car, a classmate's smile,

but what the Hell it ran amok through a huge area of

scraped knees and pulled pigtails,

then a small amount of fear-about this and that-

about bullets,

then through a respected Father,

and next the warm, inviting skin touch of a girl,

and plans for a house-someday-and tears,

a smell of acrid wine first tasted,

the remembrance of raucous birds calling

in the foggy gray dawns of winter;

of food cooking, the aromas tasty and pungent;

of sex, and school, and sandwiches, and sorrows.

Then bullet was through it all, that brief map of life,

and out the other side easy as punch,

flicking helmet's edge,

continuing on,

erratic now,

partly flattened, traveling 662 feet per second, slowing until 853 feet 

beyond the tipping helmet,

He rested Himself in the bark of a standing tree,

still bewildered by His path,

duty done, 

to map Hell

where paradise once had been.

America in Iraq

Under cover of darkness,
the Assassins' Gate
displayed a terrible eye
and a commanding presence.

The watchtowers
and concrete blast walls
eyed nervous travelers
coming in and going out to kill
or to be killed with black-smeared faces,

some wearing helmets and others armored vests

or both,

In the first few hours
of our visit,
the atmosphere was physically cool, but
it soon became intolerably hot, particularly
between the hours of ten and six.

The fear was hot, too.

During the day, an intense sunlight grew into this vivid,
shimmering yellow ,
which often washed away any sounds of happy life.

Soccer balls still bounced, but they made a heavy thud.

Laughter was hollow, uncertain, seeking permission

from people far away.

During the night, few slept peacefully.

Inside the Green Zone,
along the west bank of the Tigris River,
paper shredders sat ready while
Truth and Madness
grew fat wearing aviator glasses,
playing cards and drinking warm American beer.

Dreams of normal life became an intrusion,
as extraordinary happenings felt normal or
nothing would happen at all, also normal.

24 hours were never enough for a single day.

We heard a bearded schoolteacher talk reverently
about his God, while watching a solitary man who was missing
his right arm stare at me as he shuffled past, unsmiling.

The niceties of conventional life largely absent, no one
seemed to know where they were or how to escape.

Frequently, an AK-47 would appear, carried on the wind with dust and
dirt and the call to prayer, oiled, fully-automatic, angry and vengeful.

Nearby, there was an obviously dead Iraqi visible,
fallen flat in the faint shadows of the Baghdad zoo.

It was a man, his clothes soiled, matching the dirt on which he sprawled.

Other animals not yet dead
seemed to dream of suicide or living through yet another day.

Which was which?

Violence slept on many beds,
out in the streets, near the mosques, or on small beaches south of Basra
where modern tides experienced a steady flood of doubt.

No one wore makeup to be beautiful.

What should we do?

The Sacred Heart by Dali (1929)

Salvador Dali
came into perfect view
flirting with you
but painting me.

walking toward a Spanish horizon
approaching the southern sea
he found a vast stash 

of cash
and his model sailboat.

he stopped suddenly
and asked politely for his winter coat
but it turned out to be too small

or maybe he had recently grown too tall?

he cruised around the Barcelona block
where he found a melting alarm clock
and a bleeding red eye.

it didn't particularly appeal to him,

so i
rescued him from the intense cold.

he was growing sensitive and acting old!

he began shouting to a nearby friend
playing with perspective
and tickling time 

which he would twist and bend
into a happy birthday cake!

well, for Heaven's sake
some things are not what they appear to be:
he kept painting me

because i was not averse to reciting verse
or running from a disappearing leaf.

his social scene began like a moving film
of pleasurable mischief;

1931 records of New Orleans jazz
is what he has

playing often.

there seemed no time to spare!

i asked him for his secret but he wouldn't share.

i subsequently made him my mistress
but somehow that didn't feel right:

he became a famous artist and i an unemployed tailor
dressed in my best uniform of a crucified sailor
escaping an abusive dad;
it wasn't my only destiny but it was all that i had.

i worked very hard and grew a faint smile;
the mustached Dali was intrigued and asked me to stay awhile,
and during the course of our future cruises,
i noticed he had blasphemous wins but occasional losses
while playing spades.

but with a talent like The Sacred Heart

his printmaking had a decent chance to start.

our lives kept intruding

then finally pulled us apart
when he used India ink to spit on his mother
whom he often truly adored.

i tried to curry favor with my brother
as we sat together on a comfortable perch;

Dali ascended from his bench and attacked the church!

he never called me again even when i heard times seemed good.
our story ended with a rough outline as it ultimately should

have.

never visited Singapore

Ho Ching,

some say quietly,

is powerful enough

to earn the trust

of a country's leader,

and she is beautiful, too,

with her strong face and bright eyes.

Jenny Lee,

who shares with my sister

her first name,

is wealthy and gorgeous,

and so so young.

She has no interest in being

with any leader.

Jenny Hoover, my sister, was younger than me

by 3 years,

and never visited Singapore,

much to her dying regret,

and was never rich!

She was married to Mike,

a Fed Mart clerk.

He was not interested in being with

any leader, either,

but he had my sister for 50 years.

Lucky guy.

Something money can't buy!

a last supper

Where have we gone wrong, America?

the tide has come up too high

and all aboard are about to die

sand castles wash away

beachgoers in stunning disarray

a banner fluttering in the sky

spelling out words LONG GOODBYE.

the taste of salt on all the tongues

makes it way to all the lungs;

a last supper served on the plate

and no one wants to be too late.

you're a penguin

I am having breakfast:

two eggs and toast, with very hot tea.

my phone rings but I don't want to answer;

there's simply no reason why I should.

my eggs would get cold if it were a lengthy call.

but mostly, there are few people with whom I want to talk.

you are not among the few,

unless you're a penguin.

his red beret

with a yellow sun and a brilliant green sky,
this small village
on the Mediterranean coast of France
has blue boats and streaks of hot sand

fish in wet nets at dawn on a busy beach

deep-vermillion color of the harbor's water

light which is more than light.

the tall man wearing his red beret
carries two easels,
one with tiny points of paint placed artfully

across a stretched canvas.

a wife sits in a rented room

old cobbled streets

a steep hill to climb,
and a narrow view from an open window.

Collioure,
summer of 1905:

warm!

and it rained in July.

Vlaminck held the letters which he read
over and over:
the wild beasts had escaped!
one certain mustache,
unshaven,
pipe in mouth.

another with glasses the better to see invisibility.

unnatural minds,
looking without success for dark shadows
while finding even more shifting light,
intensely,
vividly,

pointing to open space on a splendid line,

while the evening fish were eaten whole. 

a humorous Matisse

The Blue Owl could not tell her creator
how she tried to fly at night,
but failed to get his price.

The task to tell the master
was left to a humorous Matisse,
who, without reticence,
spilled the news obliquely.

800,00 francs might seem a lot,
but it was a very large canvas
and expected to gain an even bigger price.

Being emotionally insecure,
Picasso was in constant need of
reassurance.

So,
Matisse wrote that the beautiful blue
of the bird actually looked wildly black
under the artificial light of the exhibit.

That was his explanation for the smaller sum.

And birds in flight symbolize freedom.

They both loved birds.

Picasso loved money, too.

much more than the birds. 

underneath a fine Parisian sky

Montmartre

on a steep historic butte 

with fresh strawberry tart, 

unwrapped nudes,

& excited affairs of the heart 

underneath a fine Parisian sky 

watched i 

seated outside my busy sidewalk cafe 

wondering what people say 

by the walls of the ancient Sorbonne 

in their studious Latin tongue. 

nearby, the spry 

Agile Rabbit 

sitting on his vineyard hill drinking cheap local swill 

with a painterly friend of mine, 

asked Joyce if he really had a choice 

or was it just a rumor about the invisibility cloak? 

perhaps another drunken joke 

about a man stuck inside his wall:

a shadow of a ghost before his eventual downfall? 

there's more that i should say: 

i recently talked with Claude Monet 

about his first impressionist flowers brush-stroked every single hour until 24 had been made. 

he said he was adequately paid. 

i sipped my warm cafe au lait wishing this Paris memory would stay and stay!

 

then a wind and hard rain came up abruptly and took all the suspense away. 

Montmartre 

on a cobbled July afternoon 

in the shade, 

stirring with an unfashionable plastic spoon, 

i the tourist began to consume 

a Lebanese grape and a sweet pepper with a stem shaped like the quarter moon. 

the slightest trace

corpus callosum

amygdala
basal ganglia
i am looking for you everywhere
but can't find you anywhere.

are you a sore on my ass
a bent blade of grass
a lady with exceptional class
or nearly nothing at all?

thinking, but i can't recall
from where are you watching me
and why aren't you here?

i want you near, dearly

tell me if you're close by
with a simple sigh so that i
can finally be at ease
would you, please?

i sat by the pond & watched the fish
poked at my food, didn't finish the dish

lost the appetite i tried to keep

but wanted you

took a quick peek
saw nothing interesting, went away
and determined finally to stay
away, 

but your pull, your eyes
eventually even i realize
there's magnetism and magic
in desire 

along with the tragic

Oh yes, i'd like to see your face
the faintest hint, the slightest trace.

how much i've missed you

baby, how much i've missed you

and i've never even kissed you

never had the chance to spend the night

satisfying my lover's appetite

no, i never had the sense

to climb down from my lonely fence

i never had the heart

to imagine a brand new start:

would you see me in the morning?

take me without any warning?

would you be the gentle to my breeze?

would you become the welcome to my please

the smile i'd walk a mile to see?

the arms my charms would love to have wrapped around me?

baby, how much i've missed you

and i've never even kissed you

never felt the smoothness of your fingertips

moving with desire across my hungry lips

no, i've never had the sense

to climb down from my lonely fence.

safe at night

the bird was dead

folded wings and closed black eyes

lifeless on the ground

but still imagining flight

safe at night

belly filled with seeds

in a nest made with straw and spit

her short time

as busy as a professional chef

darting 

over the clover

quiet now

in spite of the winds

blowing her soft feathers

the pause is probably permanent

as i hold the tiny body

in my warm hands

feeling her chill

his Russian wife

the grim, gray face

with her great dark eyes
stood waiting for the second World War
from a safe balcony in Paris,
near where an island forms a church.

she was without her Spanish stranger,
who was holding a young blonde girl
in bondage and was unable to break away,
as soft ropes pulled tightly around his waist.

and his Russian wife was too skinny to know, and not
well enough to understand that her own misfortunes
had driven him far away and it would not be gentle.

he now lived inside a hot beach cabana, peeking outside
only when he needed more money.

the young blonde girl quickly became both his obsession and his sister,
as she curled her pubic hairs inside their bathing hut on a
sandy Dinard beach and gave him plenty of pause.

his wife, meanwhile, kept her own hair
cut short, to resemble a current fashion.

and the gray lady in Paris, leaving the balcony,

put her hand to photography,
instead of a bust, 

but it wouldn't make any difference!
the Spaniard would seek her out, eventually.

my faith

she handed me a peach!

it was late in the afternoon and i was hungry,

so extremely hungry.

no food for three days

wearing soiled clothes and my unwashed body for weeks;

a prisoner inside my own mind

trapped by forces beyond my control.

her peach was the best thing i've  even eaten

and before i could offer my thanks,

she quickly disappeared into a crowd of strangers.

but i've never forgotten.

thank you, young girl, you've restored my faith in humankind.

her colors were nearly perfect

a juicy little number
which one i can not tell
her colors were nearly perfect
inside her oyster shell

behind the door to Heaven
a full red glass of wine
her colors were nearly perfect
revealed in her design

we tripped into a concert
sound poured into my eyes
her colors were nearly perfect
they painted her in sighs

the bright cloud full of rainbows
each one a lovely sight
her colors were nearly perfect
i watched by candlelight

with morning soon approaching
i saw when i awoke
her colors were nearly perfect

delightful as she spoke 

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.