remember your manners

 oh,

it's only a simple song
that came along
well before
the once upon a time
i fought in an ancient Asian war
wearing a proud hat and a big brown bag
over my head
that might not have been the proper size
but i was already too young to realize
what the news frequently said
that, yes, i was already quite dead

and the man
sitting in his big white house
joked that i was just another little white mouse
serving at his discretion serving my time
looking for my street seller
selling a dime
like a poor broke little Jackie Horner
hustling on a busy American corner
his long beard asking me "What's up?"

and I 

taking an unsteady drink from the communal cup
was seen rushing for home
which was no longer there
just like my childhood Sampson hair
falling from the small town barbershop chair
where
for twenty five cents
we smoked our cheap cigarettes inside army tents
cleaning our christian souls
of all the loose women and immoral black holes

I'm Waiting for the Man and memories of childhood

Bobby Darin and Sandra Dee
being swept out to a raging sea
on a raft of bamboo spikes and the salty 8 track
never to be found again and never coming back
like Frank Lloyd Wright and his famous prairie cans

the truth in the American desert is the unrelentingly dry sands
and the perpetual thirst:
i still don't know the answer to the question,
"Who's on first?"
but might eventually know
which television game show
i need to see
before being spanked on the Catholic Bishop's horny knee
as i sit and smile and laugh and shower

i count my days in cotton bales each passing hour
and there's a decision to be made about Columbus and his sailing crew:
did they do what they were supposed to do?

on the islands sinking
what were they thinking

wearing Spanish leather boots while walking on the steamy shore?

those native huts of Hispaniola never needed a door
but the vaults at Fort Knox are built of bones and blood
and southern shacks of sharpened sticks and mud
saw tall men in their plantation suits carry away the keys

so,
remember your manners and always say please.

brave protesters in Hong Kong

The Yellow River

with its' mighty brown flood,

and the Yangtze

with potent dragon's blood:

millions of buried ghosts,

tears dead and alive!

brave protesters in Hong Kong

finding it hard to thrive

inside Mao's little Red Book,

raising their heads for a gambler's quick look.

See!  there's the Great Wall:

a Terracotta army of the first Emperor

holding swords and shields, standing tall.

Dynasties leading deeply into the historical past,

with echos of great tragedies

which last and last.

fields of plenty and loss

almost too far to walk across;

sprawling cities on the expansive coastal plains;

thunder over the mountains followed by torrential rains,

arriving early or leaving too late,

keen eyes sipping pearl milk tea from a special China dinner plate,

too proud to kneel

for another expensive Western meal! 

Federico Garcia Lorca (Generation of '27)

i decided to attend a movie preview
and it was a total flop:
the film,
not my being there.
it was simply beyond lackluster!
later, i heard the producer would henceforth
abandon cinema and
that's a good thing.
the money backers fell into a panic
when they saw actual stones being thrown
from the audience.
yes, it was that bad!
the opening scene might have been of a razor
slicing into an eyeball,
but no,
not even as memorable
and thus history was deprived
of possibly another surprising moment.
the most interesting person in the audience
was Federico Garcia Lorca and not only because
he had once been an erotic friend of Dali,
who was now living with Gala.
Lorca was the highly esteemed Spanish poet who imagined
himself a literary critic, 

but who knew little of imaginative painting,
which was Dali's great strength.
Gala was good for Dali, too, or so he said.
And Dali knew he needed to distance himself
from his ex-lover, so he refused to attend the preview.
Picasso also kept out of sight.
He was busy elsewhere with his private auditions of a young blonde.
she would get the part.
Picasso's wife would get the dog.

Lorca would eventually eat a Nationalist militia bullet.

he's still being looked for. 

on top

the winds stir the chimes regardless of the times it's the evening breeze blowing thru the fall trees while i'm in my bed remembering words left unsaid but the soft musical notes like a dream that floats soothe my restless heart i wish we could make a new start and become lovers underneath these covers or on top and never stop.

I'm sipping my tea

five nights and i'm cooking stew resting by the fireside thinking of you i'm sipping my tea reading a book remembering all the days to here it took then finding a pillow before eleven getting out of bed sometime around seven watching the oil gushing from a hole feeling the silence empty my soul five nights and i'm beyond seventy-two still riding the train thinking of you and out the window beyond the steel track my life as pages with no turning back five nights and i'm riding away but no one is asking for me to stay bright city lights the countryside i can't find a place to hide using my hammer or welding torch i'll make myself a new back porch under the stars by the small pond like a fairy with her tiny wand i'll sip paradise with a chocolate milk and a ruby slipper and a robe of silk under the sky if it doesn't rain i could be reading Roughing It by Twain five nights and i'm tying my shoe ready for hiking thinking of you

stuck between the social cracks

Jim and Tammy Faye
wetting their ministry bed
living in an abandoned bale of hay
moved to a sleek houseboat
with a rich Christian goat
which they milked for millions of dollars;
they drove a 1953 Rolls-Royce
and enjoyed a large choice
of the best cuts of steak
Jim went on the Evangelical take
and eventually went to jail
Tammy Faye took her tanned tail
and married their best friend
yet the Bakker affair
didn't quietly end there
no, more frosted blonde tresses
loud, colorful dresses
and a reality TV show
born-again kept on the go-go
night and day dressing like pimps
anything for money:  you want limps?
tears on the thick make-up
passing around the collection cup
to poor whites with meager social security and welfare checks
more train wrecks
coming to a big tent near you
Jim and Tammy Faye
practicing their special blend of voodoo
it's what they practiced and were trained to do
stuck between the social cracks
found on the harder-edged side of the tracks.

Man Ray

Man Ray snapped the shot
of Picasso's comedic eye
and there was indeed a wry smile
captured on film
which ultimately Gertrude Stein saw 
at a Beaumont party.
Picasso was dressed as a torero
and seemed happy for it, carefully
savoring extra caviar and sweet pastries
with his dainty cup of tea.
Olga made him do it, of course.
Were it his choice: hot beans,
cold sausage, and a few Bohemian friends
from the old days.
But, in this Paris spring and summer he was famous.
In winter, he traveled south, escaping
the fancy balls, masquerades, and the silly
Fitzgeralds.
He did not want to be an international
bird of paradise, as much as he admired birds.
He wanted to be Picasso, without upstaging
the invited guests.
His real eye watched the women, while
the real eye of Count Étienne de Beaumont watched the men,
and not very discreetly.
But he and Pablo remained friends,

even as they traveled to different parts.

Dora Maar

Dora had the body

but
with heated breath on her camera lens,
her smile like an enigma
faded

when Pablo found Francois
visiting his studio
wearing a youthful dress.

on his scenic Paris rooftop
he saw her swelling chest
with his artistic eyes and began
to paint a dream.

she noticed his hungry face redden
but did not blush
nor squirm

nor sympathize
nor encourage his grasp.

they soon became lovers.

eventually, she wrote a book about
life with the great master
detailing his clever approach
to color,
to his love of the classic bull fight,
and himself.

but Dora had the body

and with dark eyes,

abundant mystery in depth,
her French accent on the Rue de Savoie
framed lonely pictures
which only she
could see.

Indira Gandhi

eye slicer and

hair oil

met coconut breath on a back

street of Bombay

under the baleful stare of Indira Gandhi,

before she went completely mad.

of course, she disliked everyone

who talked without an accent

such as hers,

even when her tongue was swollen

by the sensibilities of British royalty.

the taxi driver said her thoughts

were being read by a distant fortuneteller

who sat in an elevated clock tower,

which looked over the enormous sweep of history.

and his fare nose helped steer him thru

the busy streets after midnight,

avoiding brass monkeys and the many cripples

who begged while sitting in piles of dirt.

the ever-alert angels, hawking cheap merchandise,

narrated stories

about snakes luring the innocent away from lush lands,

and snake charmers who know how to dance

without missing a step

jumping between the borders of two countries.

mounting an idle bicycle, a loner,

momentarily balanced in India,

riding a childhood's dream,

began pedaling innocently toward a

woman holding a knife that

drips with blood.

listening deeply

My listening deeply is a poem, an ode to attention and silence, an active movement into space, where i might be sitting atop a 14,000 foot mountain peak deep in the Colorado Rockies, west of the Continental Divide, immersed in the feeling of untamed winds blowing through my hair, and feeling, too, the heartbeat of the rocks, heated by the sun, smoothed by the rains, and then, as if by magic, i might be in a room with people, those i know and those i want to know more about, listening to stories about lives lived and steps yet to be taken, and i hear the breathing and see the faces speaking with lips and active tongues as words soften the air, reaching out, and it's as though we are all together on shifting ground, sitting firmly, seeing the world for a first time, reaching one another across the short divide, across the space until there is no longer space, only the mountain top on a clear blue sky day, and we are all sitting together, as indioviduals and yet a group, a community, enthralled by the immensity we witness, the stunning simpleness of a touch, the power of a kiss, a thought expressed that we hear while humbled by the closeness that listening deeply gifts us with.

Whitman (May 31, 1819 - March 26, 1892)

Whitman would tug manfully
at a favorite hat
upon his head or
without it on the ground.
He wrote promiscuous poetry
under an eternally erect sun;
in the darkness his night stars
like little captions of literary light
showed him what he expected,
not what others doubted.
In Song of Myself, he was
both the in and the out,
extravagantly
making a tune of considerable importance
for himself.
And sing he did, even boasting of
standing amused when he wasn't being very funny.
But he learned to carve a path to values
which he shared in his work.
And while he waits, with no misery on his beard
his eyes still burn.

looking into my private life

if you could see me surfing
myself across the endless mountains
washing my sins in uptown English fountains
hitting the highway at a hundred miles an hour
passing French ladies each holding a single flower
border guards uniformly check out my business
looking into my private life
ask about my finances and my second wife
i'm sitting in the middle of an ocean bridge
west of Montreal on an island in the sand
falling suspended from another person's hand
it's not impossible or even fairly certain
since i'm hiding behind an anticipated curtain
all my lovers are hiding in the audience
i'm sitting in the middle of this crazy intense
bending at the shifting in the wildly blowing time
shouting so you'll tell me what is yours and what is mine?
i'm breaking out while you're apparently breaking in
soaking in the sunset while you're soaking in the gin
there are too many people pointing fingers in this town
holding themselves upright while still holding me down
and always in the new night i'm feeling packaged and sold
you're trying to convince me that i've always been cold
i've come to you drenched in my silly regret
and wonder if this is as good as i'll get
and yet and yet and additionally yet
i never wanted to disappoint
i didn't feel any special need to anoint
i just wanted to get my head out of this joint
watching you watching me
washing out to an endless sea

Berner Oberland

There were no answers in Murren
even though the Eiger Monch and Jungfrau sat
watching me in my solitary descent
from the Schilthorn across our narrow valley,
where wild rhododendron kept kissing my face.
in the midst of this temporary affair with flowers and
with high meadow cows ringing my bell with each step i took,
i could still hear the whisper of the Swiss maid who
poured my beer at night, urging me to fill my blue-eyed well;
in the mornings, she buttered my croissant with her patient knife,
packed my lunch with a promise, and left her message in the way
she folded my bag.
But there were no answers in Murren
even though the rain fell during the morning i made my deepest penetration
into the back country, so far away i jumped over swift moving streams which would
take years to find the ocean.
and when i finally opened my bag for lunch, i heard the Moonlight Sonata bouncing
from the valley walls, each piercing piano note like a stab of recollection, in no
small measure, measuring me as i did the apple in my hand.

from Singapore to Rome: Plutonium

The boys in school they think it’s cool
there’s no one to impress
but the empty bellied African
wants nothing but has less

The little girls wrapped in their curls
their fathers hunt for pay
inside a steamer sunk at night
whos' ghosts have gone away

The TV mother full of mirth
her phone calls far from home
sits hearing oceans rise and fall
from Singapore to Rome

The Cinderella shopping cart
with Barbie dolls and death
rolls down an aisle at midnight speed
without a thoughtful breath

The sidewalks of a city street
where souls play without socks
reflected in a gloomy hue
are wrapped inside a box

The lion and the jungle frog
Before their winter day
Gave their voice to loneliness
With nothing more to say

The philosophers stayed funny
up staged while in their bed
and when they pointed with an eye
Earth's flowers all looked dead

Three cheers for number 94
a long, long time ago
it’s elemental my old friend
The Bomb was meant for show.

Teaching US history

Teaching US history to a group
of students in 10th grade
and in spite of my best efforts
more than one began to fade
while I talked about Uncle HO
his famous trail and the Viet Cong
I wanted to chastise some kids
because it just felt wrong
to not give me the attention
I felt the war needed
so went on about Kennedy and Diem
until it was completed
the war, you know, without Japanese
or French mostly American boys
who would have rather been in the World
experiencing more pleasant joys
than pounding the bush and soaking monsoon rain
in an Asian jungle or strange ville
where Westmoreland saw his tunnel light
from a star-studded hill
while napalm burned flesh & scorched
jungle trees creating an American scar
which could be seen from C130s
dropping Agent Orange from afar
Yes it is an old war as wars tend to go
and lasted too long with many brave deaths
but i looked at my audience and heard
the many exasperated breaths
of bored distracted teenagers
this Vietnam War isn't a story
that they can appreciate for
the sacrifice and simple glory
once shown by a grandfather
an uncle or aunt
i mentioned the campus protests
but tried not to rant
about the Government or
the Tonkin Gulf Resolution or lying
my message was mostly that fine young
American youth were fighting and dying
in a strange world far away
and should be remembered and honored by high schoolers
even today.

it's time to read the Torah

duck
here comes the Donald
he's on a hover board flying at high noon
the new sheriff badge pinned to his inflated chest
duck

he came way too soon
The Doomsday Clock was nervously twitching by the door
Princess Grace kept fondling a loaded gun
duck

she ran for the shore
with two deputies and a member of Delta Force
they loaded the ship of state for the Battle of Midway Island
duck

it's heading off course
where the water is ocean blue and the Pacific sun bright
towards the South China Sea and the coral airfields
duck

it's almost midnight
the Parties of God are partying in downtown Tel Aviv
millions of migrants are hiding beneath flimsy canvas tents
duck

there's no chance to leave
there are slippery piss puddles on the barracks' floor
where the Donald is puzzled by the size of his tiny hands

duck

it's time for Lebanon bologna
it's time for a great war

it's time for bunker busting bombs

it's time for Allah to return

it's time to read the Torah

duck

duck

Donald

duck 

Warhol

Andy Warhol

albino white with his heroin smile

stood mildly happy far from the Steel City

listening to the Velvet Underground

but he still didn't know where he was going

airbrushing modern paints in a rainbow arc flowing

across the pouting lips of Marilyn Monroe

while he faced a kneeling Little Joe

his art opening into a screeching guitar

hearing the downtown dealer fleeing in a mobster's tinted-window car

the Factory party continuing 24 hours long

with sharp needles and hashish smoke blowing

but he still didn't know where he was going.

drinking from your well

Hello Mademoiselle.
i came to buy some butter
but left drinking from your well.

strange things flew in the air!
i grabbed my hat and found a coat
hanging by an empty chair.

i went out and slammed the door,
ran down to a whispering beach,
sat listening on the shore.

an echo exactly at midnight
cried softly in moonlit boots;
it paused at dawn in white.

i saw a top hat riding shotgun
in a Rolls chauffeured by fate
when an immense sun,

rising on the high tide line,
stuck a feather in my cap;
it was not at all by design.

i was left feeling naked and hot
but it's a part i play, wondering
if that's everything lifes' got.

very solemn, straining every nerve
i stood up straight to leave
but fell frantic into a curve

where i peeked across the room
and saw rushing directly at me
the grasping hand of doom:

all those fingers winking
two or maybe three times a second
encouraged me to start thinking

that i were in a fancy show boat.

hanging by an empty chair,

i grabbed my hat and found a coat

someone had left hanging there. 

blood changes the game

blood changes the game.

at the first sound of a bullet

screaming over their heads,

young soldiers forget their own name.

blood changes the game.

forget the hero medals and the parade pomp;

the drill sergeant's foot stomp;

a young girls' thrown kiss,

hoping the bullets miss

body parts.

broken hearts

await any frontline news with anxious hands.

blood changes the game.

a grandfather in his army uniform,

pictured exhausted and torn,

holding a Springfield with an empty clip

disembarking from his crowded troop ship

underneath the Stars and Strips,

no longer dodging the artillery roar

of a distant war.

blood changes the game.

a dad, too, trading in his civilian shoes

for combat black.

there's no holding back

the urge to join in the fun.

so son, here is your gun,

but

blood changes the game.

Tyson

She dressed like a Vassar student
from 1932 with formal tucks, 

a pearl necklace, silver hair,

and her head held high like her esteem.

She would not play the fool,
nor did she like to be entertained with anything
less than the most erudite spoken language
of Shakespeare and Charles Dickens. 

She force fed as though we were fledgling baby birds
and she the raptor with wild owl beak and a penetrating
gaze into your forming character.

She would ply that mold by God because
that is what an English teacher did, so suffer little children
and welcome high school Class of 1966, into her domain.

You will never again be the same!

The Maasi

The Maasi saw
from Kenya's land
their river falling
couldn't understand
the wildebeest
or the hippo
would die in this heat
with nowhere to go
without water
without a voice
dead indifference
leaving them no choice
great migration
sadly ended
while African tribes
in smoke decended
forests were cut
charcoal was made
cattle were grazing
without ancient shade
in an old land
with a new pain
without much food
without much rain

the final cry was 'Broken Arrow'

it was once all about Saigon
but now it's gone
the muddy river once slept and burned
and what have we uniformly learned
painting it jet black won't get it back:

the body bags filled with Asian dirt
politicians said it wouldn't hurt
watching the helicopters at the embassy!

a young woman with her crying baby
grabbing the barbed wire wall
dodging shots before the inevitable fall...

and all the President's men
each with a white face
their conference table with expensive pens and frivolous lace
and a perfect powder room
where the happy hour drunks sang delirious songs of doom
in the stone temple.

the gods sat hard and cold
trading places which could be bought and sold
outside the parlors of the free press:
readers were forced to guess
what in the streets of an American city
was real and what was merely witty;

and on the television screen
cigarette smoke filled the stale air.

in Vietnam the midnight sparkle
was a phosphorescent flare,
and young men lived and died there.

while in the Pentagon,
it was once all about Saigon
but now it's gone
when the flesh gave way to marrow
the final cry was 'Broken Arrow'

Le Tricorne (22 July, 1919)

her thin fingers were magnified,
while tiny lines of Russian smiles
were seen dancing on the stage,
waving to the audience from a 
perfectly classical ballet position.

and there was sincere applause for the flesh-and-blood
physicality, but grace and beauty
shared all the jumps and spins and bows.

in the scene-painting studio on Floral Street,
Picasso had mixed light chrome with pure white,
to produce the beauty of old ivory, which added richness
to the sets of Le Tricorne, which needed it especially in London.

Massine played the Miller, speaking with his feet
in a stomping fit of flying sentences, tipping his hat
to the ladies and the admiring men, all thinking
they were watching the future Gene Kelly, while dreaming
of an umbrella and a cup of warm tea.

apparently it was raining,

or soon would be,

but all were warm and dry inside the Alhambra Theatre.

La Boutique Fantasque

La Boutique Fantasque
and the silver pipe beneath the derby hat,

the dandy little guy with his deep sharp eye
his formal tie
black before a bright white light
tied tight
inside a blond French mistress
with a youthful hunger for his cock

his fast brush and his wry smile slide
wide
with practiced pomp past the Russian dancer
into the wilds of Provence

and parade

the woman in tears displayed
on his Spanish canvas
weeps with magnolia memory
pure as a lake bottom

the sun cold with shades of nuance.