Nixon and Mao

i've been thinking of the days

when cigarettes were 25 cents a pack from the dispensing machine

including a soft pack of matches

and soda was 5 cents a bottle

but the nicest thing was nobody talked about Trump.

a fill-up at the gas station was typically less than 5 dollars which

included a complete window cleaning and an oil level check

but the nicest thing was nobody talked about Trump.

the bikini was introduced for the young girls who had lithe, athletic bodies

and the nerve to wear one on a warm summer pool or beach day and

they sure looked delightful to the young boys

but the nicest thing was nobody talked about Trump.

Jim Bunning of the Philadelphia Phillies pitched a perfect game in 1964, on Father's Day,

and his team won which was not remarkable although helpful for their standing in

the league

but the nicest thing was nobody talked about Trump.

In the early summer of 1969, in a muddy field near Woodstock, New York, there

was an amazing outdoor multi-day concert of stunning music attended by

hundreds of thousands of beautiful young people, 

but the nicest thing was nobody talked about Trump.

Richard Nixon, in his role of President of the United States, reached out to the

People's Republic of China and it's leader, Mao Tse Tung, for a rapprochement between

their respective countries and it proved to be a welcome gesture

but the nicest thing was nobody talked about Trump.

in 1989, the Iron Curtain separating east and west in Europe was dismantled by

freedom loving peoples tired of the mind control of the Soviet state and that empire

for the most part began to unravel stone by stone and brick by brick,

but the nicest thing was nobody talked about Trump.

on September 11, 2001, there was a horrific attack by Islamic militants

against the United States centered on Manhattan, New York, at the World Trade Center,

with the use of two commercial American Airlines planes crashing into the twin towers,

and later, on May 2, 2011, the master mind of the attack, Osama bin Laden, a Saudi national

living in Pakistan, was killed by United States Navy SEALs during a secret raid on his compound,

but the nicest thing was nobody talked about Trump.

died of fright

no one came into my bedroom

yet the air was heavy with breathing

i imagined a masked man in uniform

he wouldn't give his name

but i signed all the papers

i accepted all the blame

and in the morning there was no one

i must have lost myself at night

my dying was never questioned:

they said i died of fright. 

Broken Arrow

it was once Saigon
but now it's all gone:
the muddy river slept and burned
and what have we learned?

painting it black won't get it back!

the body bags filled with Asian dirt
who said it wouldn't hurt
watching the helicopters at the embassy
the woman with her startled baby
grabbing the barbed wire wall
dodging shots before the fall
and all the President's men
in their white face
the conference table with expensive pens and fancy lace
and that perfect powder room
where the drunks sang delirious songs of doom

in the stone temples
the impassive gods sat hard and cold

watching fates bought and sold

in the parlors of the press
the readers were forced to guess
what in the streets of an American city
was real and what was simply witty

and on the television screens
cigarette smoke filled the air

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

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

or was it in Orem, Utah?

remember what they said about Oswald?

how he planned it all and was such a

good Marine 

sharp-shooter

with his rifle

with nerves of steel 

with unlimited patience

being a convenient dupe of the mob

but it was all bullshit

meant to deceive and deflect

while driving the Irish Catholic crowd crazy

or crazier, if that was even possible,

by losing their first American man who

ascended to the Presidency. 

the Cuban Batista boys were furious, of course,

about the loss of their property

and the fast women

and the slow cars

and how they hated the cigar smoke from Castro

who blew it furiously up their asses

but never giving away his hand.

the cops did their best playing the field

sniffing the air for smells that didn't belong

conning the cons

wearing their suits into Broadway clubs

waiting for snitches and bitches

to order tall drinks

from a short bartender

who was a closet friend of J. Edgar Hoover,

famous top dog at the FBI.

of course it was Oswald, the pinko

solo player

a mastermind

a maestro

a genius,

simply another day in a plaza in Dallas,

or was in Orem, Utah? 

as some conspiracy theorists have suggested. 

the summit of Alpe d'Huez

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 inside his palace bar
holding perfect Kosta Boda crystal
and his famous Glock 18C pistol
Chemical Ali was not there

eaten by pigs

eaten by pigs

while wearing wigs

squealing naked and not yet infirm

watch them lie and squirm

down the dance hall and out the door

rolling in heaping piles of their own manure

wearing their disguise outside the public sewer

ICE

not tea but walking body lice

masked with military grade armor

a special operations charmer 

zip-tying children in the street

binding tiny shaking hands and tiny feet

screams for help answered with a sneer

ICE is there and now here

eaten by pigs

while wearing wigs

snort

contemptuous of American justice and Federal court

orders, they say, from a soul less pimp

squatting behind the Resolute desk like a deep fried orange shrimp 

bone spurs and fat reducing pills

challenges and chills

the brain worm eating its' way deep into the soul

finding a black heart and a blacker hole

what, one asks, is the end game?

SHAME

on all the cult followers and their tragic game

extinguishing the long-burning liberty flame 

while applauding hate

is their ultimate fate (to be)

eaten by pigs

while wearing wigs? 

on the dunce seat

when i attended school

i had to obey the golden rule:

no messes and everybody confesses

on the playground and in class

no holding hands or grabbing ass.

Mrs. Coleman was her name

and teaching was her game.

we had a small group of rowdy boys

who thought our penises were little toys

that needed attention

not to mention

flirting with the innocent girls

wearing bobby socks and shampooed curls.

the teacher was often stern

her temper simmered into a slow burn

and 

i ended up on the dunce seat

when i failed to meet

her expectation to be quiet and stay seated

she treated

me with her adult stare

i tried to care

but my friends would poke and joke around

no one could make a sound

when she looked our way

but we always had a lot to say

at recess:

hey, look up Nancy's small skirt

Francis is always wearing the same striped shirt

Joey farted, lit a match & shot the flame

i somehow got the blame

and 

ended up on the dunce seat.  

Picasso would have painted

Pablo was a dabbler in the art

of solicitation while a genius with the brush

and colors on canvas.

Two wives and countless lovers, all women,

naturally, he boasted.

he didn't live long enough to make the

acquaintance of a modern day painter named

D J Trump.

DJT has painted his own canvases, and 

each one of them is a self-portrait. 

He boasts continually they are, collectively,  the greatest

paintings in the history of humankind.

Many people are known to believe this is true.

Many who disagree are threatened with

the guillotine, a device with a weighted, sharp

metal blade meant for decapitation.

Headless people have been seen wandering the

streets of America.

Picasso would have painted them, had he lived long enough. 

landfill or garbage dump

Portland isn't known as trump land

and that's a good thing

trump land is a hell hole

a deranged darkness of the soul

pity the humans who inhabit trump blight

who turn light into a nightmare sight

wherein the political right 

exacts revenge upon their American enemies

enemies?

simply free citizens who choose freedom of speech

over craven supplication

who choose liberty for their nation

over being a member of the cult

by default 

all who obey trump

belong in a landfill or garbage dump.

Portland isn't known as trump land

and that's a good thing. 

Louise de Coligny-Châtillon (1914)

before we began smoking opium

i was already your devoted slave

unafraid as any other former jailbird might be

to feel your whip strike approvingly on my bare ass 

you've forcefully sodomized me with your love poems
filling my orifices with your urgent singing
opening the gates to my body without difficulty
while i've spread myself wide to your intense advances

i remain the recruiting office deliriously hungry
for your enlistment: there are no obligations!
the application merely asks for your most sincere depravity
and my madness is fully guaranteed

if we prove to be a combustible couple,
of course this relationship cannot last, so
i'm going to give you a very good tip:
i burn for your disdain.

the happiest boy

there's a little boy playing in the tasseled field
pretending to be a captain or uniformed colonel
without serious thought darkening his nocturnal
no deeper idea about an older living or the younger dead:
an all American global blue white and red
carrying his cardboard captain's shield

guaranteed invulnerability to anyone with intent
or under the super moon on a starry night
and all without any sense of fright

simply sidewalk ghosts sneaking around
oblivious to the very tender, fertile ground
where all blind people are eventually consigned

there was a crack of the bat and a flying ball
he spun and went over the nearest pile of hay
he had nothing of importance to say
he tried, but it was considered obscene
light years of urgent words and what did it mean?

he's still playing like the happiest boy of all.

i love belonging

when i was young, i created a self-protective

bubble around myself, as a defensive measure

from what i felt was abuse from the parents

who fed and clothed and housed me. 

the tools i employed were rebellion and mischief,

which were intermingled in always a curious fashion.

i found a bonding love with my grandparents and my 

grandmother's family, her 7 sisters and their mother,

my great grandmother.  My great grandmother was

a distant but gentle presence.  Her love of cooking

was a way to share her love for people.  Inside her home,  Tuesday

pie-cooking sessions happened in her large kitchen;

her daughters helped and the wonderful aromas of

many fruit pies cooking and cooling on a nearby table

filled my nostrils; i would find myself

overwhelmed with a flood of colors and tastes and the soothing sounds of

ladies laughing.  My grandmother also took me into her

own kitchen, and she equally loved to cook. 

Her Thanksgiving Day turkey in her oven was a day dream

waiting to be revealed during the many bastings meant to keep

the meat moist.  I would be scolded if I tried to snatch pieces 

while she was carving the bird.  It felt good.  I was teased and recognized and,

while maybe not exactly appreciated in those moments,

I was welcomed.

She was from an old order Mennonite family, yet had a delightful habit

of always serving herself a glass of cold beer along with the New Year's

tradition of cooked pork, sauerkraut and a large bowl of real mashed potatoes.

i belonged to this world of sights and sounds and aromas, 

while leaving me protective bubble behind.

In Vietnam, as a young soldier of 21, I served with other young men

from America, from diverse backgrounds with interesting stories.

Gus, a tall, lanky guy from the coast of California, shared his pipe

collection; he know them all and they each had unique characteristics.

Alan, the afro-wearing black guy from Bedford-Stuyvesant, wanted me

to know his life growing up in a ghetto.  Kent, the CIA agent-in-training,

who would helicopter into Cambodia and return with tales of intrigue.

Others, and we became brothers; we trusted one another; we reached out

with our dreams and our fears.  We relied on a community outside of our

immediate home families and bounded.  We believed in our bonds.

A young Vietnamese soldier was tasked with helping my Team 95 garrison

protect the compound.  He was in the service for life, or until he died, or the

war ended, he told me our first night together, sitting behind the barbed wire

fencing and the stacked sandbags.  He asked me to help him speak better

 English and in return he'd teach me Vietnamese.  We met regularly

for many months.  I learned he lived off base in a dirt floored hooch;

his small house had a metal roof fashioned from discarded beer and soda cans,

split in half and flattened, then woven together with thin wires.  He asked

me to shop for soap and powdered detergent for his wife.  Once, I surprised him, 

his name was Nguyen, with a bottle of Martel cognac.  At the time, this was a drink 

only high ranking officers could afford. 

I remember the first time Bette kissed me.  We were on the wood bridge spanning a

very small stream.  She must have seen the real me without my bubble.

I've completely discarded the bubble.  I love belonging. 

 

 

 

of hatred and bigotry

the real America, Charlie,

is found in Austin, a middle-sized city in Texas,

during South by Southwest.

so, here's your test:

is it music and drink, sex and sin?

if you said yes, you win.

lots of fun and the bands

full of laughter, straights and trans,

eating and dancing and being true to Self,

not a media personality pulled from a shelf.

beards, broads, ladies and gents

doing whatever life foments

while saluting life and liberty.

repeat after me: be free

of hatred and bigotry

and have a drink on me. 

Vietnam is such an interesting land

Vietnam

is such an interesting land:

shoreline and mountain top

jungle and rice paddy

people and places

bungalows and water buffalo

brilliant sun and heavy rains

heartbreaking poverty

exquisite wealth

glistening skyscrapers

river shanties

busy city traffic

quiet dirt lanes

papa san

mama san

water puppets 

flowers on the Perfume river

beauty and yes, depravity

yet with laughter and soft touches

final judgements

penetrating smiles

bright, inquisitive eyes

brown

with jet black hair.

i'm intrigued by it, all.

That's the lucky part

I've heard it said by my history teachers:

George Washington was the first President of America,

then a newly formed Republic,

finally successful in a war for independence against the

mighty British Empire.

It was a protracted struggle,  costing lives and wealth.

In doubt over the many years of battles was the triumph of the colonies.

How they won is undisputed, with major credit given to the

leadership of the Continental army, and luck.

Luck is a powerful intangible at work over the many generations of

human life, and it continues to be active.

In America, I've heard it said by my history friends

that luck has ended for the people of this land.

The current president, nameless for this diatribe, is a disaster.

He is a disaster not only for the people of America, though;

he is a plague on the nations of the world.

I've heard it said by my nighttime mind:

this current president is immoral but not immortal.

That's the lucky part.

Edna (1892-1950)

In Paris, a simple bridge over the river Seine
could not be rebuilt:

George Dillon brought his younger arms,
surrendered to lavish red-haired charms
and the scandalous Fatal Interview
about the sexuality of two
was promptly published on the following Saturday.
It offered a literary way
to understand the sad demise
of one famous Poetess sonnet-wise,
who became drug addicted and Steepletop lost
at an undeniably human cost.

Me?

With lips like a valentine heart
and sweet songs from her apple cart
would she love me, if I said
I could raise her from the dead
and read Aeneid or Baudelaire
in French or Spanish, if she'd care.
We could go walking in the nude
and while not perfect or purposely rude,
I'd kiss her inside her candle's glow
and play music on the keys of her piano.

She could recite her poem Renascence
with that unforgettable voice which forever haunts.

off the foggy coast of wild Peru

how did you survive

when they killed the number five,

and tossed your Father in a cell?

because in Kashmir there is a riot

when Indian troops demand a total quiet

from early dawn until an indefinite tomorrow

like a conquering Spanish Pizarro

off the foggy coast of wild Peru.

what will you do?

a sharp-eared owl heard the softest drums

of an approaching storm:

she saw the clever swarm

of power-hungry mouths

eating the primordial forest nude and bare,

leaving

nothing but thin air:

her tongue could taste the odor

of a menacing nightmare

softly creeping 

into bedrooms where children were safely sleeping,

dreaming of their grand empires

of laughing moons and shooting stars and youthful merriment.

their closed eyes and gentle faces,

wrapped in imaginary blankets of loves' good graces,

rest in peace.

what will they become?

more statues made of gold?

F. Scott Fitzgerald, American novelist

Celebration beer in hand, 

the stranger sat next to Scott and asked about the Paris weather.

Zelda overheard the question and threw her drink

at the face of the questioner.

"How dare you?" she demanded,

"Who ever cares!"

as soon as she finished her last word, she went

to replace her drink.

the weather improved in her absence.

but just as soon as she left, she returned,

drink in hand.  

Scott had a drink in hand, too,  and one resting on 

an adjacent table.  

he liked having a simple choice. 

Scott saw Duncan walk in with a young man who

was half her age and decided to introduce himself.

when Zelda saw him knell before the aging dancer, she yelled,

"How dare you?"

"Who ever cares!"

and she ran from the room, drink in hand, and threw herself from

the nearest balcony.  

the weather improved in her absence.

Jair and Donald

everybody knows that

former President Jair Bolsonaro,

a Brazilian by birth,

is loved by the American president,

Donald.

Bolsonaro lost his most recent

bid for a continuation of his own

Presidency, in 2023.

He claimed voter fraud.

Everybody knows that

he is opposed to same-sex marriage,

abortion,

affirmative action,

drug liberalization,

secularism,

and, of course,

a woman having her own voice (as in abortion).

is it any wonder why

trump loves this guy, even though Bolsonaro

is younger and better looking.

trump himself claimed voter fraud when he

clearly and decisively lost a prior presidential

re-election bid. 

They are kissing cousins from afar,

men in love,

Brazil and America,

united in their quest for total power.

 

A literary table

A literary table in a Paris cafe
found Picasso on the sidelines
with surprisingly little to say.
Braque and his wife kept sipping their tea,
explaining the concept of ideal harmony:
"it's like poetry on canvas to form a new art;
a metamorphosis of rhythm which springs from the heart."

nearby hung a painting of two men reading from a letter,
arguing in jest about which one was the better,
but Picasso never wished Braque away;
although, in 1921 it certainly seemed that way.

Braque finished his tea and felt quite alive;
he had to break with Picasso is he were to survive,
and so off he went,
as though he were Heaven sent.

his studio was filled with tactile space
where curtains with irony and white lace
fluttered by the open windows.

TS, phone home

i slept in the Victoria Hotel
down in old Mexico
and walked on handmade tiles
colored in deep indigo.

Eliot wasn't on my floor
nor was he in the bar
listening to the young gringo
strumming on an old guitar.

i heard he was still swimming
in a pool without a sound
with a handful of wasteland dust
i remember he had found.

he was wearing a huge sombrero
pulled tightly against his cheek
with a slip knot fully made
still showing the receipt.

my margarita had no salt
but i drank it all the same
to not offend the bartender
who called me by my name.

a Spanish lady with the melons
she was proposing to sell
approached the nervous tourist
ringing the front desk bell.

i came to walk the canyon
so deep it smelled of death
where spirits wear an empty mask
and take away your breath.

a train would leave the station
soon maybe the next day
and though tempted by those melons
i knew i shouldn't stay.

my coach was full of writers
down on their luck & drunk
on mescal which they all consumed
until their voices shrunk.

we stopped above the canyon walls
& began the long decent
into darkness at highest noon
i wondered what it meant

i heard the hidden waterfall
down in these depths of doom
and supped on poetry endless
beneath a Copper moon.

Ho Chi Minh didn't play golf

Ho Chi Minh city:

street traffic swallowed by honking horns

where a new Trump Tower

is to be built over the bones of Ho Chi Minh,

a man who wouldn't wash dirty dishes

for any rich white developer.

Ho Chi Minh claimed no deferments.

he held aspirations for his people,

his country,

and their future as an independent nation.

His sacrifice was for a unified Vietnam,

not for an irrigated front and back nine with

world-famous greens,

tidy bunkers full of smoothed sand,

and custom Italian tiles craftily laid inside the men's locker room,

where golden showers would soon soothe the skin.

Ho Chi Minh didn't play golf.  

 

temples in the mountains

i wore my robe and soft slippers

sipped mint tea

heard the wind outside my tent

harmoniously

ushering in the night.

 

i saw temples in the mountains

heavy stones beside my head

a thin mat on the hard ground

which i called my bed

comforting my soft soul. 

i saw the prayer flags singing

snows deep within a high pass 

wild goats with coats of heavy fur

searching for a blade of grass

growing cold in winter.

 

i saw the great wall moving west

sat in awe

felt the land beneath my feet

move at the sound of a shepherd's call 

and a new day dawned.

is there more that i could say?

it's finally raining hard

but i've lost my only playing card

in a room with no backyard

where the children once ran around

now they're gone without a sound

and there's no one left to see 

just a shadow and fading memory

i look for you but there's only me

to unlock a door with a useless key

and the door is old and gray

so it doesn't matter anyway

there's lost love i can't repay

is there more that i could say? 

i'm just a Jack inside his box

behind the walls of a paradox

where the ticking of the clocks

count passing minutes of each day

is there more that i could say?