Hem

i wonder what Ernest would think
if he could visit me in my house
in my room in my corner
and rest his naturally
heavyweight frame
on an over-stuffed chair
while a cold draft of beer cooled
his pencil-less hand?
Would he read my writing and
say I was alive or
say the stuff was dead?
He could often be stern
and steely honest, with an eye
hard on the stone fragment
of realism.
He liked Henry James, for one,
and I read The Blue Hotel
by Crane, another of his
favorite short story writers.
Mark Twain should be read for
Huckleberry Finn, he thought.
Once, he said that all modern American
literature comes from that
single book.
Well then, find it and read it
and come to your
own conclusion
before the conclusion
comes to you.

for you tomorrow

i'm coming for you tomorrow
in the rain if need be
over hot coals or
a raging wicked sea
it's driving me crazy
why can't you see, me
i'm coming for you tomorrow
i'm coming for you tomorrow
in the bright lights at noon
in the shadows or
under the golden moon
it's driving me crazy
why can't you see, me
i'm coming for you tomorrow
i'm coming for you tomorrow
in a big limousine
in the morning or
in a sweet silver dream
it's driving me crazy
why can't you see, me

candy and lovers

she fell down
on the soul of Saigon
in early morning darkness
her dreams were gone
under the sun
she flashed a smile
ran into traffic
stopping awhile
she dressed in white
dancing upbeat
ran into trouble
crossing the street
people loved her
kissing the air
arms in motion
hips everywhere
candy and lovers
wishes come true
fantasy night
calling for you
boys in a nightmare
looking for home
crying dancers
dreaming alone
they fell down
on the soul of Saigon
in early morning darkness
their dreams were gone
under their bed
they held their breath
needing a hope
facing a death
candy and lovers
wishes come true
fantasy night
calling for you

James Gatz

we row on
boats against the current
chasing the dream
completely spent
because the party is over
music packed and gone
only swimmers in the ocean
before the dawn
driving toward death
through blinding light
chasing money
through a careless night!
presumptuousness
the little flirt
smashed toys
bruised and hurt
and in the morning
my waking eyes
the last guest
arriving, heaves and sighs
scratched on the front step
an obscene word
still anxious for tomorrow
the sophisticated herd
starts the walk to work.

romeo, foxtrot, shall we dance?

dark green jungle of death
this Conrad hell stealing my breath
apocalypse
now they tell me
finally
the mist rising over an early tree
dawn and the sharp crack of fatality
the beginning of the end
rewound
an angry helicopter sound
full of pain
the dust chokes
the rain
it never ceases
never falls asleep
counting sheep
on the battlefield
morphine arm
buying the farm
destroying the hamlet
without regret
fighting for something
i don't know
as younger men come and go
smelling the blood of madness
a thousand mile stare
while nothing is there
apocalypse
now they tell me
finally
in a trance
shall we dance?

Emily Dickinson

twist your head
in either direction and the nose
remains in alignment
with the toes
your eyes
in that curious face
seem to revolve around
a skeletal space
of lips fat
above a dimpled chin
where hair grows,
whiskers your sardonic grin
the green dress
supports your shoulder
thin and bony
growing older
in your pencil-thin hand
the black distinguished book
borrowed from your mind
a clear inquiring look
cleverly in focus
lifes' postcard
in your unfenced unfettered
very public back yard
where your good eye
slowly stood
apparently alone
as though it could
completely see me
just now
and perceptively
somehow
through all eternity
verbally scheme:
what did it mean,
Emily? Emily?

Colorado 2010

i've recently returned from a flight
to Colorado and 6 days of skiing
the good mountains of Summit and
Eagle counties, the big Rockies
with the big steeps and big deeps
of snow and cold blue skies
i drank hot chocolate with Sam
and Karen and Hunter in the
Peak 9 restaurant, watching a fast
and furious snowfall add to our
pleasure, add to our memory
i went to ski hard and fast
i didn't go there to be a suspicious mind
i didn't go there to be other than myself
i went to revisit a friendly ghost and most
of all, i went to get the hell outside
to feel the steady grab of gravity
to feel the frost flail my face
to be exhausted each evening
to be excited each morning
i went while i was still able
to be child-like in amazement
mature in appreciation for all
nature provides, yet
i had nothing to prove

Queen will rock you

Queen will rock you
if you're not rock and rolled
ripped
into a frantic relationship
heart and souled
like a fuzzy teenager in curls
wearing fake diamonds and pearls
wrapped around the lead singer
teasing you with his little finger
oh sweet baby can you feel the heat
stomping and stamping on your own two feet
arms in the air
screaming everywhere
shaking your dreams all over your hair
looking for me i'm over there
i'm your sexy little teddy
and my friends all call me Freddy
i'm the population boom
invading your room
invading your head with a glorious sound
coming up hard and coming down
coming to strap you into the ground
red and blue
they're coming for you
they're coming for me
it's simple to see
kissing and crazy
being young
forever unsung
happy and innocent and true
Queen will rock you
Queen will rock you

snow and ice

we rode the bikes up a long steep climb
over gravel mostly but ice and snow
unmelted, deep made the going slow
we had to push the bikes up hill
when our traction was loose and unfound
the rear wheels spinning in search of solid ground
it was a tough slog but we kept moving
knowing ultimately we'd find the end
around that next impossible bend
with wet feet we ultimately remounted
and coasted into town where the hard road
in full sun, lay exposed even though it snowed
the past week, so now we're riding fast
heading back to end this sorta ride
before either one of us crashed and sorta died.

to apologize

desperate character
reading between the lines
in a tiny motel room
under beer belly signs
cigarette blowing drifting smoke
battered ash tray lid
by an large open window
former neighborhood kid
and whisky bottle sat
one wrinkled hand holding on
just off-center but still certain
it'd be there come dawn
still words upon the paper
written from a hollow eye
across the hall more laughter
followed by a silent cry
the feeling was sharp and stabbed
the light while the whiskey was fine
and in turn stabbed the memories
of another distinct place and time
before the old age and sore muscles
the death of friends and compromise
and evasion and the weariness of truth
clean sheets wrap and harmonize
all complaints fall asleep, some die
a reluctant death, but i
need to apologize to you
for what i failed to do.

the lady in the vest

the lady in the black leather vest
knocking at my office door
she came looking at the floor
told me what she came here for
i told her that i wanted more
she gave me a kiss
impossible to miss
i'm not pretending it's true
when she smiled i thought of you
told her everything i'm gonna do
the lady in the black leather vest
singing songs in perfect heat
she came talking to my feet
told me that she came complete
i told her that she was a treat
she gave me a kiss
impossible to miss
i'm not pretending it's true
when she smiled i thought of you
told her everything i'm gonna do
baby chains across her chest
showed no pain and met the test
the lady in the black leather vest
baby i'm no fool you were the best
the lady in the black leather vest

Hamlet

i watched Hamlet. 

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

Claudius killed Hamlet's father! 

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

and i wondered if there was no other plot possible for Shakespeare?

or did all these events appear clearly delineated as he was walking along the Avon river?

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

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 on 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 needs to serve herself and wash the supper dishes while the Dali Lama runs for President, chasing feral dogs around the Lincoln Memorial during a campaign stop.

the Lama hears the dogs of war crying Havoc! and something more but before he can make sense of the scene, an old gravedigger drops a noisy shovel while burying Ophelia in nearby Arlington National Cemetery.

everyone nearby stopped 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.

death had come

my love for her could not save her
or make her pain feel any less intense
her love for life could not save her
or help her understand what made no sense
the special gifts that she collected
in sets and singles around the room
once full of joy and happy memories
filled the air with a silent gloom
my lonely walk next to gray seas
under a white sky by thunderous surf
i wore a black coat with a sad heart
searched for meaning on solid Earth
on the wet sand i held no soft hand
no silly laughter or quirky smile
i knew that death had come to claim her
and would return in a little while
my love for her could not save her
or make her pain feel any less intense
her love for life could not save her
or help her understand what made no sense

Maxime de la Falais

the death of Maxime was of natural causes 

at 86 it wasn't considered extreme 

her life was colorful artful in fashion and exquisite 

with really good friends and food 

she fed the Warhol brood 

in her loft apartment 

she lent 

Mapplethorpe encouragement in New York City 

she was a rare English beauty 

and silent lover 

lived her life proudly without unnecessary cover 

worked for Vogue magazine where she was often seen 

writing long lines for columns 

she moved to France to dance 

to write her memoirs in her golden hours 

when she died 

high society sighed 

in Provence where she was buried 

in rhythm and completely unhurried.

you're so sweet

you're so sweet
but i've moved on
i'm by the edge
of a brand new dawn
i'm on the edge of a wishing well
looking down at your private hell
i thought you'd be appropriately nice
but you're still as cold as ice
i thought i'd be your robin hood
and you'd be my lucky charm
but you were never very good
and i was never far from harm
you're so sweet
but i've moved on
i'm by the edge
of a brand new dawn
i'm on the edge of a red star night
where lovers smile in their special light
and you seem lonely and full of need
smothering me with your special greed
i thought you'd be my liberation
and i'd be your fancy guest
but you were a moments sensation
and i was never at my best
and you were never very good
so i'm doing everything i could
you're so sweet
but i've moved on
i'm by the edge
of a brand new dawn

THE LOST EMPIRE, MY ASS

the Empire sat impassively in the thick air
aware of all who clamor to come there
aware of those who mock its victories
the little people with little words
on an imagined platform no longer
before a crowd of adoring co-eds
with shampooed hair, eyes designed by
media royalty in Paris or Milan, or
before a room with background music
floating from the 1820s on a cloud
of powdered wigs, new men laundered
and fit with tans, starched from the desert
of their employment, no, sorry Derek.
this Empire is not defeated by any army
of warriors however Godly or dressed
for combat success, however full of poetry
full of nature sounds or hawk breath
no hard arms or thoughtful themes no furtive designs
no james bond-like character no kung fo
can pull down the dress of this Empire
and discover any funeral pom-poms
no skinny white legs no hard knees or
hard elbows no rude awakenings
no Saharan silence or dragonfly cry
these cliffs are of centuries and steep beyond
the mere rappel of parlor words
the beautiful hills are everlasting infinite
alive with the sound of a golden wind
no great swell of another teeming nation
can upset my Empire, at night it never rests
the fragments hold the center in the light
with a revolutionary mind we still see
Washington astride his fine strong horse
placing his fine firm boot on the envy of the waves
welcoming others still yearning to be free

Mapplethorpe

The white mulberry tree
was draped in heavy net
My art was consuming me
I hadn't died yet
cruising New York streets
Black sheets on my bedroom wall
reading Blake and Keats
determined not to fall
Trying to keep my camera clean
My candle burning from both ends
wax dripping bluish green
yellow post-it-note friends
a taxi of similar shade
strawberry acid inside a Chelsea trip
all expenses paid
i smiled, lost my grip
shutter clicking black and white
i gave them quite a fright

Picasso's Art

the periods changed from blue to rose
who really truly knows
cubism and surrealism
the harlequin or the minotaur?
from hour to hour to hour
woman to women to young girls
dancers at your party wearing smiles,
symbolism traveled years and many miles
stretched seductively on your famous canvas
while the German bombs fell
and transformed Guernica into Hell
on Earth, this moment is now all right
in that hilly Spanish town tonight:
Marie-Therese Walter hanged herself
where you once built a studio shelf
armies of colored bullets in your head
another lover who would soon be dead
when you weren't able to drink anymore
and died older, near a Mougins floor
Jacqueline Rogue would shoot herself
you built that shelf,
too.
but what could genius do?

Carole

i drank my coffee facing you
as we talked about the new man
in the life of JoAnn
we talked about the good old days
while I ate a very large warmed cookie,
carefully separating it into small,
more manageable
bite sized pieces
i recall we did the same with our life stories
as you thought about smoking a cigarette,
your lips working the imaginary butt
while i spoke, slowly exhaling a paragraph
about Mike and his cauliflower.
did you laugh
when i said it gave him gas?
His death was unfortunate, as was Jim's death.
but you seemed strong, with sharp clear eyes
watching me take a sip from the paper cup.
i know being a widow
is hard.
we went outside and sat on the lone wooden bench
and you lit up
being alone is not the same as being lonely,
you told me
i thought the bright red vest looked good on you
as did the jewelry, fashionable in a silvery way

US Army

place of birth
Lancaster, PA
selective service number
41 1 48 61
Date of Entry:
29 Jul 1969
71B30
Vietnam Campaign Medal
Blood Group: O+
RVN: Dec 69 - Feb 71
HQ MACV USARV
Advisory Team 95
Tam Hiep, III Corps
SP-4
Honorable

Papa in Paris

everybody knows that Hemingway 

was in Paris 

just the other day, 

with the lost generation and Ezra Pound, 

marveling over all they had lost 

but suddenly found. 

Gertrude Stein and James Joyce and Scott, the significant others, 

some married, 

often with lovers 

losing their innocence 

like Papa! 

who should have known better but lied:

he went to go get her instead of the train 

then surrendered his own wife, 

long years before his took his own life.

and long before The Old Man and the Sea won the Pulitzer 

and he the Award of Merit, 

and he didn't even need to share it.

heartbreak

heartbreak
and the pain
plenty of rain
plenty of meaningless sound
swirling around the book store wall
sipping my Starbucks coffee until
it was all
and i watched you disappear
even though you were near
even though i wanted you in my arms
before the cash register rang
but no Angels sang
i tried to tell you how i felt
while i ate my tuna melt
while you talked of riding bike
i tried to tell you why i like
heartbreak
and the pain
plenty of rain

to kiss you again

and

i lied when i said i didn't want to kiss you again 

even Scotty Fitzgerald knew Zelda was in bed with a pilot 

not the airplane he flew 

before she was grounded

in a different sort of bed

yet he loved her far beyond his written world 

of Gatsby and a strange friendship with Hemingway

in France

and the dancing herd of the jazz age 

it had seemed all the rage 

to sail and sun and drink well before three 

yet he loved her when he no longer could write from memory

and 

i lied when i said i didn't want to kiss you again

paint it, white

you come to me with your bright eyes
asking me to sanitize
all your sad lies
all your self control
not knowing
which way to go
not knowing
how much to show
how much to reveal at the center
i'm not your mentor
it's time to enter
into a life time like a life line
where i can see you
where i can know you
understand you
when i believe you
when i hear you with your best friend
not caring who you upend
or where you send
all your self control
not knowing
which way to go
not knowing
how much to show
how much to reveal
make it real, real
make it seem right
paint it, white
paint it, white