Bibi, will it be you or me?

Bibi,

will it be you or me?

the man who spilled his own beer on a narrow street,

who couldn't keep his feet,

I called to you and what did you do?

you brought in a few toughies,

mostly the religious roughies,

who began to bluster and boast.

they helped you butter your toast!

meanwhile, a young boy who lived near the coast

faded away since he had nothing to eat;

he, also, couldn't keep his feet.

but unlike you, sir,

he wasn't a self-indulgent minister

with body guards for every sip and bite.

he simply wanted the peaceful life that wasn't in sight.

you wanted to be exonerated for any possible crime,

and didn't want to do jail time.

he only wanted to have a happy meal,

hoping to heal.

Bibi, will it be you or me?

the man who gave it all away to rule for just another day:

you gather many incredulous looks

and will certainly go down in the history books.

the fat lady sing

i drove into the oldest part of my old town
and saw, sitting on an empty window sill,

the woman
with a fancy cigarette hanging from her hand
and inside her mouth a psychedelic pill.

she was the only girl on the entire block
with two legs kicking instead of twenty four,
a wind blowing papers which she wouldn't read
hard up against the bottom of her front door.

some cats played music in the middle of the street,
humming a southern spirituality tune.

one stray dog slept until he was done,
then began howling at the shadow of the moon;
his eyes red and two ears hanging way down low;
he started licking himself where he felt it hurt

and had no where better to go.

another mangy dog, stretching, went looking for his next meal

when a saloon exploded like a house of cards,

scattering Wanted: Dead or Alive Posters into the adjacent yards.

favorite loaded pistols were shooting at whisky bottles wobbling on the bar!

thru it all, nonchalantly sat the woman on an empty window sill,
waiting for me to get out of my damn car.

she was watching an elephant and a brown bear with balls
juggling coins in a game of pure chance.

while far down the old road marched a traveling band,
playing a sweet song of  adolescence romance.

young kids in blue jeans, tattered and with holes in the knees,

sang along without knowing the words,

several boys dangerously swaying from the few nearby trees.

behind the patched circus tent in an alley full of loose string,
a striking fat lady danced her weight inside the big top ring:

a crowd of local drifters were sitting around 

acting spellbound:

they had come to hear the fat lady sing.

no one saw Hemingway

 no one saw Hemingway shit into his green slop bucket 

so fuck it 

he's long dead now 

but i walked on a tour to his former studio 

and people in the know 

think it's cool he was an expat who came from money 

Hadley was his first special honey 

he wrote in a sharp narrative style making himself famous 

winning awards from the House of Lords on a hill near Paris 

i didn't give a damn that he grew depressed 

who could have guessed 

he'd loudly kill himself?

he still quietly lives on many a library shelf: 

the old street is narrow where he walked, drank, talked 

the Paris traffic passed by in its' familiar hurry: 

it did not appear aimless as it sped over ancient cobbles with edges smoothed by dreams 

which have often bled with age.

he couldn't sail

my great granddad was on the late train

he delivered the US mail

right out of college he needed a job

and he knew he couldn't sail

he held important letters inside a leather sack

i watched him shuffle on down the freight line 

but never knew if he was coming back

white smoke and black noise filled the air

while my great granddad sat on his lonely chair

on the last car leaving at night

sorting his letters by candlelight

no woman to keep him company

he had an important job to do

whatever he might have been thinking

he knew the mail had to go thru

each day could be slow or amazingly fast

each day could be his last

but he had a smile as he counted sacks

rolling down the railroad tracks:

my great granddad was on the late train

he delivered the US mail

right out of college he needed a job

and he knew he couldn't sail.

 

Le Coeur a gaz (1923, Tristan Tzara)

the play was three short acts, &

the last spectacle on the program was a

complete Dada farce,

with a trumpet blaring inanely, mangling the Marseillaise

in front of an infuriated audience.

this time around, there were no professional actors

to storm out singing about the utter pointlessness

of pretending to be body parts while wearing cubist costumes

made of stiff tubing,

which reduced their walking to a geriatric shuffle on stage.

outside on the street, the police heard the angry voices and stormed inside,

where fist fights between Dadaists and the future Surrealists

had begun in earnest,

with several already badly beaten and in no mood to be mollified.

shouts for order bounced off walls, hitting no one.

but damage to the small theater was considerable:

seats were smashed and faces bloodied.

Louis Aragon tried to rescue Eluard while the police arrested

the entire audience!

but later,

they concluded it was all a big misunderstanding.

Sir Elvis Presley

in the state of Tennessee

i left the freeway

to climb an old oak tree

once owned by Sir Elvis Presley

before he hit the sack of an apparent heart attack.

he had an iconic pink Cadillac,

a 1965 which he'd drive

all the way from Tupelo.

the Blue Moon Boys put on their famous jail house show

after the high speed drive, you know,

before Elvis gyrated his hips out of joint

trying to make an innocent black and white point

at the lonely Heartbreak Hotel.

the backyard wishing well

was filled with dozens of blue suede shoes

which made it easy for him to choose

which pair to wear.

in the state of Tennessee

i found the Rockabilly Boys

playing Chuck Berry songs with all their musical toys

heading down to Nashville.

there, they'd eat to get their fill

of rhythm and blues and an old hound dog

because 

in the state of Tennessee

they don't eat much frog.

it's an unforgivable

it's an unforgivable

and too often repeated

CRIME

against humanity

white mob intimidation

and RULE

beyond cruel

vicious and violent

heartless torment

causing death

bleeding and painful

SHAMEFUL

hardly an indictment

levied

even when the FBI pokes a nose

into the affair

it isn't merely UNFAIR

it's an unforgivable.

under Southern heat

i heard Merl sing
after lunch time
on the prison floor
for a red hot dime

he sang real hard
meant what he wrote
about a hanging judge
with a midnight rope

and a dark man
on a wild horse
underneath the tree
being held by force

long time ago
white as a sheet
in a rural land
under Southern heat

laughing at love
smiling at pain
trying to be bad
swinging in the rain

i heard Merl sing
outside his cell
just like Johnny Cash
in a wishing well

he sang real hard
meant what he said
that an outlaws' life
was better than dead

long time ago
white as a sheet
in a rural land
under Southern heat

a nuclear Iran

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.

on the love seat, quietly listening

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.  

Shuffle in C

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.

fishing for the soul

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

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.

a Purple Heart award

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.

the Deng government

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: morte 01/25/2010

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!

along for the ride

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!

looking out the window

young and alive

nearing 25

with a clear head

remembering what was said

all night

it was all right

the jeune fille

slept well

& i heard tell

two bottles of fine wine were sipped

tongued and lipped

slowly swallowed

then next morning she followed

me home

where my large canvas currently sits

her black sweater and black fingertips

constantly brushing my face

with the taste

of promise

i began to paint her sigh

artfully she questioned me why

her breath escaping her lips

subtly squeezing her hips

it made no sense

so i said i'd draw her tomorrow

dressing her in sorrow

with a favorite pencil

and a bit of broken chalk

but she wanted to talk

like a Javanese toy

acting coy

so i took her in my studio

while she kept looking out the window.

i watched Hamlet!

i watched Hamlet!

before his death he wondered how to be or not to be! 

Claudius killed Hamlet's father, but 

then he married the widowed mother, ex-wife of his brother. 

and i wondered if there were no other plot possible for Shakespeare,

or did all these events appear clearly delineated as he was walking,

deep in thought, alongside the Avon river?

later, i watched the Dali Lama announce he would resign, to

take up writing stage plays in a well-worn orange robe with his baby smile.

he wondered aloud if he could lock himself away in his private room for days on end,

crafting a human interest fable about his family heirloom table?

he had an idea about a maid named Mable who wears a small white apron, serves a human skull on a small white tray for her employer who was named Hamlet but on their very first rehearsal day,

Hamlet would die tragically after a brief sword fight.

the maid eventually serves herself and washes the supper dishes while the Dali Lama runs for President, once chasing several feral dogs around the Lincoln Memorial during a brief campaign stop.

he hears the dogs of war crying Havoc! 

and something more but before he can make sense of it all, an old gravedigger drops a noisy shovel while burying Ophelia in nearby Arlington National Cemetery.

everyone nearby of course stops to pray,

but i couldn't hear the eulogy or what they might have to say or not to say,

at the service,

far from the Avon river.

i highly recommend the play.

The 514th Batallion

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

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

sweet Sam

from your high rise window
standing on the top most floor
can you see me in my uniform
marching off to war?

can you see my tiny fingers 
with youthful polished nails
flipping silver treasure coins
calling heads or tails?

i'm not sure how to choose
as you're pointing down this road
i keep looking for the question
which no answer ever showed.

sweet Sam

what is this foreign floor?
i can see it far below,
but go faster is all you shouted
and just enjoy the show.

can you see me quake and tremble?
i'm in black smoke and loud noise
resting like a baby now
with fragile childhood toys.

remember when i gave it all?
marching to triumphant songs
i still felt strangely missing
having righted all the wrongs.

so, remember when you see the shore
that sparkle is my eye
and if you're feeling puzzlement,
i'm somewhere in the sky.

and the song which plays an endless loop

which everybody knows,

the lovely little melody of
roses and yellow bows.

i sang that once before
when i was marching off to war.

sweet Sam

to sleep in your arms

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, the awful bearer of the future as history

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.