Cotopaxi, Ecuador (summer 2012)

Saturday, February 24, 2024

a man called Confucius

 There was a bombing in the Basilica,

but fortunately no one was injured.

the media coughed up the story for a week,

like a house cat with a huge hair ball

stuck in its' throat.

Finally, the news shifted to Hong Kong!

The BBC along with many other international media,

breathlessly proclaimed that a street protest,

which started at the intersection of 

Yee Wo Street

and Hennessy Road,

grew like an old Confucian beard.

The throngs of people were heard singing,

it was reported,

with many carrying placards which

spoke of humaneness.

Uniformed police were reported to have been

shoving everyone within their reach.

Undercover agents were actively taking pictures.

Of course, police behavior was not appropriate,

as many protest organizers were quick to say.

Propriety, it was noted, was important;

sufficiently important, the BBC wrote, to galvanize the protesters.

The assembled people appealed for wisdom from their elected leaders!

Yes, this proved to be big news!!

But the upper levels of Hong Kong's political elites

proved to be less than trustworthy.

Within days, they capitulated to the wishes of

the mainland Chinese leadership's interests.

These interests, it was known, were not about

the 5 pillars!

Thus, the old Confucian beard was trimmed.

The majority of Hong Kong people had hopes and hearts

surgically removed, like an arthritic hip,

without anesthesia.

Finally, the news, (BBC included) shifted to an Indonesian earthquake

and the subsequent tsunami.

Yet, historically, there once was a man called Confucius.


Wednesday, February 21, 2024

The Dora Maar affair

The brown rabbit with thin ears sat upon a blue circle and took a curiously surrealist look around, finding several orange crates and a pink stamp stuck onto a small corner of the neighborhood bar. There, the minotaur grabbed his fine glass and took an extremely long pull, swallowing his pride with his famous bull on a hard chair inside the Deux Minots cafe on the famed Left Bank of Paris where Madam Figaro threw her bleeding knife between the fingers of her shutter hand. Her brightly-colored nails were trimmed and lady-like as she cleaned the white tablecloth with her anxious sighs. North of the Louvre in the 8th arrondissement sat this private moment of two artistic minds with French red wines between an overcoat and a scarf. His thick layer of oil paint on the clear glass etched a deep thought and with an easy laugh, it became a negative and a muse was born.

Thursday, February 15, 2024

World History: Shahid #4

The tin soldier grew bold, stood tall;
his loosely laced shoes worn only for a laugh.

A girl, Mandy, tugged his pants,
and held his hand for a while.

His black eyes, crossed
in front of empty space, 
lost focus for a considerable time.

I was
the newest statue in this room,
a substitute for a particular lady
who had escaped on her teacher broom.

I read
the history instructions she provided:

A map of our world, their home planet,
damn it, damn it, damn it,
not an insignificant map; not poison gas
or a strange path to an essay museum.

There's Vietnam, I pointed out,
and Mao's mainland China,
and Formosa,
which I mentioned in reference to
a Mr. Peanut 
who was angrily tossed at the blackboard,
fell to the floor,
then crossed a narrow strait to his island.

I leaned on the blue podium which reeked of tedium
but it held my weight 
while
the tin soldier killed me with his lame jokes.

He was missing a prominent front tooth.

A lopsided smile, mostly.

But his classmates saw him as a stud;
a teacher denier!

He held their attention.

They ignored the map.

Their voices like lead balloons,
crashed into insignificance,
while I grasped at straws.

Their future was a warning bell soon to ring,

It rang!!  They quickly emptied the room.

and That's All Folks!

Tuesday, February 13, 2024

Paris in the spring

no, it doesn't get better
even if you visit Paris in the spring

it never meant a thing
you skinny little bitch
doing coke-a-cola in a junkie ditch

yeah, i wanna know whos' smoke
is hanging between your lips
hungry to please your hips

but you're cold
looking for some heat
taking everyone new you meet
but leaving them for dead

well, i ain't going down
into that coal black town

i'm looking for a piece of air
and i won't find it there

so sorry there's a needle in your head
but it's not my stick

you're making me sick
lashing whip on a hard afternoon
coming again but way too soon

no, it doesn't get better
even if you visit Paris in the spring

it never meant a thing
you skinny little bitch
doing coke-a-cola in a junkie ditch

kicking a habit out the door
thinking nevermore

yeah, i wanna know whos' tattoo
is on your ass smeared in blue

their name outlined in red
and i wonder what was said

and i wonder how you felt
as you watched his rocket melt?

did you crawl away with the score
or turn around to ask for more?

so sorry you've lost track of time
you once were a friend of mine
but i couldn't change your tune
anytime late or soon

no, it doesn't get better
even if you visit Paris in the spring

you can't remember anything

Sunday, February 11, 2024

Inno di Mameli

in the morning,
over worn stone steps,
the Italian artisans walked inside.

the lady of the house was hiding her head under the covers,
a fresco recently made of her ass;

it was like an tasty island rimmed with collector's red lipstick,
freshly painted on the nearby marble ceiling.

waving her arms
in the eighteenth-century manner,
she rose from her bed.

while eyeing an ample supply of caviar,
she headed to the bathroom.

as she walked down the wide hall,
the artisans stopped smoking their opium.

no man whistled or thought of a pick up on the street,
even though one of them was a Turk!

an artificial lake in the porcelain bowl,
like a small grotto in a nearby park,
held her false teeth from the night before.

when she finished with her makeup application,
she reached for her sunglasses and put them on.

it was almost evening before she set about
assembling a breakfast from ripe olives, tobacco, and red wine.

a crowd of visitors were already
in her kitchen.

while they watched her eat,
they tossed barbed messages among themselves.

she was very, very cool, chewing slowly.

when she finally finished her last sip of fine Piedmont wine,
everyone came to attention and saluted.

one woman soon played a snare drum and 
a small dwarf grabbed his acoustic guitar.

the crowd began to sing Inno di Mameli.

but i wouldn't see her again until the following year,
by which time the artisans would be finished with their tasks.

Saturday, February 10, 2024

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.

Wednesday, February 7, 2024

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?

Sunday, February 4, 2024

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.

Friday, February 2, 2024

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!

Thursday, February 1, 2024

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.

Wednesday, January 10, 2024

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.

Friday, January 5, 2024

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. 

Thursday, January 4, 2024

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. 

Tuesday, January 2, 2024

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.

Wednesday, December 27, 2023

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.

Tuesday, December 19, 2023

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.

Saturday, December 16, 2023

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.

Friday, December 15, 2023

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.

Thursday, December 14, 2023

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.

Wednesday, December 6, 2023

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.

Jessica in Madrid, Spring 2006

Jessica in Madrid, Spring 2006
daughter is empowering herself