the grilled chicken salad was a perfect meal
and you were the perfect guest,
as i watched you easily eat your plate clean
with a fork and a knife:
what an appetite for life!
it appeared to me that you enjoyed
our time together:
my iced root beer wasn't able to
provide any profound statements,
although i sipped with eagerness.
the grilled hamburger i ate resulted in an
onion burp far removed from our table
but i covered my mouth and apologized
to no one in particular.
it's true, as we discussed, that a nuclear Iran would pose
regional balance-of-power issues!
what is not certain is if the Israeli
Air Force will send 100 (+/-) fighter jets
on a preemptive attack against these nuclear
facilities, creating awful uncertainty.
but it seems certain that Muslim terrorism is
a growing worry worldwide.
Hamas and Hezbollah, hear me!
October 7, & a redux, perhaps?
climbing over the rubble?
what is not understood is how to address this
extremism!
there are historical facts about Islamic
expansionism that we can know with certitude,
but IS this truly expansionism when the land in question has always been lived on,
cared for, kissed and loved?
i have not read the Koran or The Satanic Verses,
but perhaps in uneasy dreams, i, too, could become a suicide bomber,
wearing an explosive vest or belt,
anxious to express my outrage and defiance!
the Middle East is on the knife edge, and all blades are historically sharp.
we also have sharp eyes to see what is necessary,
and eyes to cry, as well as to see suffering.
but who will publish the guide book?
and i trust you didn't have too much trouble
digesting our meal together,
assuming you saw it clearly.
it was winter and the snow geese stayed busy in the snow.
i asked if she'd like a cup of coffee.
again, the North Korean leader said to
prepare for war
and what is more
the behavior of subatomic particles
is fundamentally unknown to the many people
the world over
who have fetishes.
Putin, meanwhile, acting like a rag with no intention of selling
his shares of the Black Sea,
kept squeezing all the piss and vinegar
from nearby Ukraine, hoping
the natural laws would seem less menacing,
the nails in his head would no longer cut his hands,
and a guitar found dead near the Moskva river
would no longer seem like such a paradox.
the threatening noise from that shadow rising in the East,
like a sorcerer's apprentice,
grew harder
when i slipped my
finger inside her panties.
it was always a cold day in Hell but warmer near my wood fire,
the grey mantle rocks radiating their protective heat as
her soft moans reassured me that my fingers
were generating
an illusion of protection against the gathering storm.
she said she'd love a cup of coffee.
Einstein was close with his famous notion of general relativity,
which is deterministic,
and he had no intention of selling his idea to just any bidder:
he spent many years hard at work with sticks and stones
and strings,
trying to answer the question of how to securely tie the button.
both the Bishop and the Iman tired to ignore him,
and their many allies also feigned disinterest while
from a close distance
they watched me kissing her neck,
becoming especially aroused when her two lovely breasts
were eventually exposed.
suddenly, no one could guess what would happen next!
it's always that way,
that much was certain,
while she and i sipped our coffee together on the love seat, quietly listening.
they called him the King
but he didn't know what he wanted to B
looking around for a place to sing
he did the Shuffle in C
driving thru town in his pickup truck
feeling damn good but down on his luck
no holds barred riding out on the range
heading late at night into tiny La Grange
where Austin ladies with their Hollywood dreams
sway under the lights of his pickup high beams.
feeling damn good but down on his luck
looking for adventure in his bright red truck
heading to California or by damn it's a bust
leaving behind the hot Texas dust
for, well, just about anywhere else!
by why not just stop?
to dance with the ladies until they all drop!
they called him the King
but he didn't know what he wanted to B
looking around for a place to sing
he did the Shuffle in C.
a long war and a needless war
although some are short and important
but all are terrible and traumatic
and there are horrible injuries and horrible deaths
scars on skin and scars inside skin
legs without bodies
bodies without heads
heads without hope
memories
dreams which reoccur like breath
in and out
out and in
weaving and bobbing
fishing for the soul.
so Picasso
didn't know
James Madison,
but he knew quite well
Dora and her magic spell.
and he often wore a dandy hat
going to a fancy Paris ball.
his first wife, Olga, wrapped an ankle
due to her opera fall.
their marriage took a turn for the worse,
but there was no Spanish curse;
he simply decided he deserved what he wanted
and vows be damned,
and how the wind doth ramm!
like the unholy penis in his skillful hand,
he felt great and had the EYE:
short and spry,
full of himself while distorting any female breast.
yes, who could have guessed?
he stroked and poked and painted,
grabbed Jacqueline by the neck until she fainted.
later-in-life ceramics on the shelf and red clay on the floor;
a favorite brush on a small table by his studio door,
far from Montmartre and his room with Fernande and being poor.
the young boy with a gift
on the world stage as an adult in an untethered skiff,
adrift,
clutching his genius.
i'll give you something to chew on,
like a piece of fat or a this or that:
when young, i pulled a wing from the body of a colorful
Monarch butterfly and felt nothing was amiss.
i caught a yellow and black bumblebee with a bare hand
and it stung me, but i didn't cry.
i tossed 6 colorful baby chicks from a 2nd floor porch on
an Easter Sunday and they fell heavily onto the
black asphalt of a driveway.
they all died from the fall, but i didn't understand death.
my mother madly chased me around our home but before she could grab me,
i dashed into the bathroom and quickly slammed shut the door!
i could clearly hear her screaming for me to open the door,
but it stayed firmly locked.
a while passed before she handled a garden axe and threatened to
smash the door if i didn't open it!
i watched the leading edge of her axe as it blasted thru the flimsy wood door.
my father kicked me when he became angry, which was often.
he had a temper and i was his little boy, too available.
i once found his brass knuckles in the master bedroom;
they looked well worn.
i still have a knife tip scar on my right forearm, but can't remember
whether it bled when i was initially cut; my father said it was an accident.
on a memorable Christmas morning, my excitement to open a first present
was smothered by the realization that it was a gift box filled with black Pennsylvania
anthracite coal. The coal was hard, small chunks of aged rock.
i sat in stunned silence, the box on my lap.
as a young adult, i became a soldier in a foreign war in South Vietnam,
but i didn't merit a Purple Heart award.
i already had one, thank you.
It's been called many things,
now Beijing:
a large city wherein the Deng government ordered soldiers,
most all of whom were wearing combat helmets and clean uniforms,
to enter Tiananmen Square.
mere moments after, hopes and dreams were crushed, mangled, obliterated,
as were bicycles, left riderless
underneath the steel treads of angry, active armored tanks.
i remember that exact date in 1989
because a friend of mine
died.
he was shot multiple times
while standing defiantly between his mother and elder sister,
both of whom cried as they fled on foot,
into the screaming darkness!
hundreds murdered, shot, beaten by dutiful young men
who followed commands;
thousands more were rounded up like cattle,
herded and whipped and taken away
from the huge square where freedom hoped to live.
and like the historical death of Jesus,
the believers in freedom and democracy know
that the CCP stone impediment will roll away from this tomb,
and a new fleet of bicycles,
with fresh air inflating onward rolling tires,
will return to Tiananmen Square,
with courageous Chinese riders steering their handlebars toward a
a new nation.
and it will be a happy nation, too,
because dreams will be allowed.
Chemical Ali was not there
in the rarified air
at the summit of Alpe d'Huez
where a sign in French says
"Allez Armstrong"
go hard and long
he was often hung in the press
accused of doping i should guess
but never strung on the gallows as Ali
is soon to be
yet he seriously kicked ass
and would certainly out-class
most sports writers
playing pencil lovers dull as fighters
Chemical Ali will soon be dead
for what he did, not what he said
the ghastly gassing of the Kurds
an act of evil beyond mere words
innocent children and mothers
fathers sisters brothers
uncles aunts old middle young
poisonous clouds all far flung
by Iraqi Migs and French Mirages
no racing bicycle in those garages
thousands dead and homes razed
survivors stumbling in a toxic daze
while Saddam smoked his Cuban cigar
sipped bourbon adjacent to his palace bar
holding perfect Kosta Boda crystal
and his famous Glock 18C pistol
but Chemical Ali was not there!
tiny pieces of my heart
well, where should i start?
upside down, left side, right side:
there's nowhere to hide
but i'm along for the ride;
someone is telling the truth and someone lied:
i remind myself that i've always tried!
and when finally i climb to the top,
even then the pains never stop.
but between the rounds, after the bell sounds
there's just a simple bloody nose;
is this the lesson that everybody already knows?
digging deeper and the road keeps getting steeper,
but plugging away helps me on my way,
tapping toes,
watching to see which way the wind blows
and that's good enough for me, holding my own key.
opening doors, sweeping floors
thinking it's really not too hard,
shuffling along with just one playing card:
there's somebody singing my favorite song
so how can i ever go wrong?
tumble weeds and flower seeds,
Sheryl Crow and mistletoe
that's about all i care to know:
tiny pieces of my heart
well, where should i start?
upside down, left side, right side:
there's nowhere to hide
but i'm along for the ride;
someone is telling the truth and someone lied:
i remind myself that i've always tried!
The 514th Battalion was used as bait
and their ruse worked, for a government informer
noticed the marching soldiers and took notes.
His report reached 7th Division
headquarters and a sortie was pressed rapidly
into operation, mainly due to the recommendation of
an American major who insisted to his
ARVN counterpart that action be immediate.
The troops of President Diem came in on choppers
early the next morning, without music, expecting to
conduct a quick two hamlet sweep.
An American Captain and his fellow Lieutenant
unslung their AR-15s and joined the Vietnamese officers.
They scanned the terrain, immediately noticing that
the small huts to their front appeared empty.
What they could see were several old women and young children,
paddies, and fields. It seemed unnaturally quiet.
They decided to rest before proceeding.
Even under the shade of a clump of coconut palms,
sweat began to form in the increasing heat.
A rank animal odor familiar to the Mekong delta
came into their nose.
Without discussion, the Vietnamese captain wanted to curtail the operation
and withdraw. After all, he concluded, going forward could be dangerous.
The first hamlet might be deserted, or it could be the site of an ambush.
At that instant, a Viet Cong wrapped his finger
around the metal trigger of a Thompson machine gun.
He waited for a decision.
His gun had been captured, oiled, and lovingly cared for.
It was only a matter of time.
death's an old joke
but it comes fresh to everyone
subtracting from the sum:
one less garden for the flower
one less minute on the hour
one less falcon flying home
one less question left to roam.
as i feel sure of what to say,
i love you more each passing day.
i love you now irrevocably,
pulling you closer to comfort me,
confiding intimacy
bolder & more daring
more tranquil & more caring,
our beautiful hands enfolding,
soft yet firmly holding:
side-by-side we admire the tree.
i love you now irrevocably,
pulling you closer to comfort me.
death's an old joke
but it comes fresh to everyone
subtracting from the sum.
sweet Sam
when i came to sleep in your arms
your door was closed but your heart was still open
i went to find the key
it could have been in an adjacent room
instead of across a raging sea
where i found myself tied to the turning mast
and my ears were full of woe
i heard you give your sage advice
but wasn't sure which way to go:
honey i was your mariner
and i braved the steel-eyed storm
i led the way across a battlefield
and saw the sad forlorn
i hiked to the nearby mountain top and grabbed a lightening strike,
mixed it into a rainbow that i thought that you might like
i stood in the middle of the highway
and braved a thousand stares
and made a fancy salad with crumbly cheese and pears
i traveled to the ends of the Earth and listened to the tides
tried to find the answer but all it does is hides
and all along the twisty path i kept looking high and low
i heard you give your sage advice
and now knew where to go.
John Lee,
what is your morning song?
you're doing everything wrong,
by the way.
do you even hear what the citizens say?
damn, simply sad for Hong Kong!
once so free;
busy with promise and prosperity;
the fresh sea breezes
wherein nothing ever freezes.
John Lee,
your future is now history.
but here is simply me
telling you what to do
with your newly enacted Article 23.
a man is not a tree
willing to be trimmed and cut,
but
I am now become your external interference
you are so worried about:
I wish you would hear the people's shout!
those self-motivated, sneering men in control who boss you around,
they won't hear (heed) the sound,
so why ought you?
right, I see what moves you around.
well, people will not be diminished
by your paper and your desperate pen scrawl
like graffiti on a midnight bathroom wall:
look, the lights of Hong Kong are growing dark.
flowers are dying in your Central Park!
what are YOU afraid of?
peace and love?
John Lee,
the awful bearer of the future as history:
black hearted man,
unable to take a stand
in support of freedom, peace and love.
John Lee, a grotesque example of MANKIND are you,
like rubbish stuck to the bottom of my dancing shoe.
it wasn't an illusion, after all
gave me wings.
yes, I am an American.
more than most, I also am an avid reader.
as many know, when I go shopping at any grocery store,
I'm always able to find cold milk.
other food items are also in abundance.
we only stand in line to make our purchases,
even when the self check-out is available.
our dreams can be simple when our bellies are filled,
and as Americans, we love to eat,
inside or outside.
at home, many Americans watch their TVs;
they find solace, sitting mesmerized.
the Truth can't be found on TVs,
a fact that doesn't seem to be upsetting.
but what pisses people off is when the electric
power dies:
a weather event often causes this temporary blackout.
when the TVs stop working,
a light flickers and minds fade even deeper into dullness.
Americans see war on their TVs.
The adults find it entertaining,
but the children go to their mobile devices to play games.
a lot has been destroyed in this world,
while here in America,
the winds blow warm and steady,
and early flowers bloom;
everybody assumes that life is good!
but so much reality is missed,
sometimes even the flowers cry,
over their own cold milk.
Isadora Duncan,
with her purple hair,
sat dining at the Colombe d'Or
wearing dark aviator glasses.
Absolutely go to Singapore!
it's not just a slow place to spend special time,
it's the Swift place.
The great pandemic seems to have run its' course,
so now the show can go on,
from dusk to dawn.
boosting tourism is fine,
but spend a dime or more:
Absolutely go to Singapore!
the parks are lovely;
the vehicular traffic is slim.
don't simply procrastinate:
visit on a whim.
never once feel disappointed,
rather feel anointed,
like a king or queen;
older or a teen,
eat, drink, and be merry;
take a ferry!
Absolutely go to Singapore!
so the kindly old man isn't deemed cool!!
he's being tossed into a neglected swimming pool
even though his eventual substitute
is almost as old, wearing a fat man's suit,
with a claim to fame of being a heartless brute.
no, it doesn't seem fair
that a nasty man with thinning orange hair
could captivate American voters with his tiny hands,
enthralling those minions sitting in the bleacher stands,
watching his con.
they know him as The Don.
well, the weekdays and the weekend,
like fine fabrics in need of a mend,
are unraveling before my eyes,
and to be honest it's a cruel surprise
that the recent opinion poll cries:
it's the huckster! he's winning! the medicine man is on the loose!
he's fingering the rope, counting the strands of the noose
he hopes to wrap around the neck
of a country he keeps referring to as a terrible wreck.
will there be no sweet melody
or remedy
for the home of the brave and the land of the free
when the doors completely close and the lights go dark?
will no flowers grow in the public park?
this country might eventually be filled with hate!
a failure to communicate!
no second opinions or debate!
will it really be too late?
is that the fate,
written on the western wall
before the fall?
