1973

I saw sweet Jenny
in the lobby of the famous Blue Hotel

She was dancing with another man
He was treating her real well

Her head resting on his fancy shoulder;
it didn't matter that he was older

and with a smile she took a chance
gave the other men a second glance

she'd wink and smile and pout
and I knew what that was all about

She used to do the same with me
back in 1973

and then she'd say "Baby, can't you squeeze me close
I don't ever want to be your ghost."

Well, that was simply fine with me
back in 1973

when her hair was scarlet and her dress was black,
I'd kiss her lips without turning back

She'd eat me up and never turn me down
Each day we'd drive laughing into town

And the road ahead full of fire and heat
No, I never wanted to leave that street

Hot traffic under smooth night skies,
I felt the need in her hungry eyes

Just running on empty but she wanted more,
so i'd do it again for a wild encore

Well, that was simply fine with me
back in 1973

when her hair was scarlet and her dress was black,
I'd kiss her lips without turning back

and then she'd say "Baby, can't you squeeze me close
I don't ever want to be your ghost."

And with a smile she took a chance
gave the other men a second glance

she'd wink and smile and pout
and I knew what that was all about

Well, that was simply fine with me
back in 1973

Another week, another dollar

I'm tired.

I've been teaching inside the high school
the past 4 days.  The experience is not encouraging,
since so many of the students don't seem to get it.

Almost every ear is filled with a tiny speaker, as their
music is constantly playing.

Almost every hand holds a cell phone.

The focus is largely not on the material, and
most are unwilling to discuss
the historical issues;
rather, it's on the here and now, or
on the very short-term, like what's for lunch?

I stand and talk to my class.  I sit and chat with them and there
is laughter, and there are questions, which I answer.

But the near past of American history does not interest my class.

I'll try again next week.

Broken hearts

Broken hearts

in the famous hallway
with endless private doors

the maid scrubs the wall
she cleans the floors

while overhead more bombs
continue to fall

inside the doorway of the cafe
scattering paper
upsetting a tray

then just before dawn
everyone was gone

cups of coffee spilled
mounds of tears
more people killed

and a long run begins on nervous feet
towards Broadway for an opening night seat

where "Hero is almost dead," the black swan said,
with a bullet in his brain

now, no memory can remain

The kitten sips warm milk in a nuclear haze

An old man dreaming till the end of his days

Nearby, a baby cries
from hunger
soon dies

more poison falling from the skies

All their stories pointing fingers
more time is passing and more time lingers

Broken hearts

an apple pie and cherry tarts

Bombs are falling on the firing line
innocent blood runs red

"Lips without a name," is what He finally said

on a deserted island with sandals underneath His toes,

as the warm breeze strokes His forehead, so everybody knows

Broken hearts.

Eva Bender

a no-fly zone over Libya

a Nissan electric car

the perfect porch in Gretna
i wonder who you are?

surviving heartache

a watercolor touch

if i ask you for an answer
is that asking for too much?

tiny tea cup
on a handrail

free at last

released from jail?

why'd he do it?

black and blue

did the kitchen sink
grow tired of you?

2 tulip bulbs
one red kiss smile

a Swedish heart

to paint for a little while.

a walk in the woods

could you learn to love me
if i never change?

if i stay the same when the wild winds blow

and i never hide as my hair is tossed
because this wind is strong and my hair is dry and long
and i won't seek shelter as i walk in the woods
listening to the sound when it disappears in a natural rush

could you learn to love me
if i never change?

if i stay the same when the calm air comes

and i always sigh as i touch the grass
because this air is fine and the grass is a friend of mine
and i won't run away as i walk in the woods
listening to the sound when it appears as a natural hush

could you learn to love me?

because i love my life and my work and my play
which is a part of who i am and i am content and happy

could you learn to love me
if i never change?

Jacqueline

Her gun?
A deadly piece of metal and sweat
and bullets, for sure,
after hours at the exhibition
when the lights went dark
in the south of France.

Married Years?
It was twenty, the chroniclers say,
she played the empress with an
exaggerated neck on his canvas,
and in his bed with her feline face,
there was a painting to be made.

The Musee Picasso in Paris
never heard the sound.

One by hanging, earlier, and now
the smell of gunpowder in another lonely room.

polka dots

Stay with me so
I might paint your face.
I'll crown your hair,
combing it long and smoothly in the back.
Then, a thin scarf, centered and
tied neatly under your chin
with two sections set softly on your chest.
Your arms folded low,
I notice again how angular the nose,
how open the forehead, how strong
the overall countenance, how soft
the smile.
Folded, too, is the sleeve of your left arm
and your skin is cool with a sudden draft.
Sit in this upholstered chair, here.
I'll pull the white window drapes and set up a light.
Tell me the story of straightening my tie
before I left the studio for a recent interview.
It was good I wore a vest, yes?
That's it, relax. Of course, cross your legs.
Your ankles are not nicer than your hands.
No, they both delight. Look this way.
There! It's finished.
Yellow and blue polka dots are a nice background,
don't you think?

Never is

How could he not love her:

Necklace and neck and fancy ring
and breasts and hair and hips
and heavenly eyes with their deep shine
of perfect ass.

One eye golden,
one brown,

the brows above the eye
on the left side & the right
made from a sharp bold pencil stroke.

Her dark lips, a perfect mystery to be solved.

Her strength lifts him from his chair,
as his cigarette ash falls to the painted floor.

The short walk lasts a lifetime.

"But it's finished," he said,
after they'd left the bed

and there won't be another
who walks the dog in the rain,
or holds his head in a cloud

quite like her.

There never is.

cold glass

your lips

the boat fills with sensation
the tide heaves in shafts of light

the Earth

moves in tandem
and high speed tires squeal,
entering their corner with too much speed

my tongue

inspects the silent moan
you inhabit

and together imagination exhausts
our memory

my bare forehead is pressed upon
cold glass

while below the valley is gray

The Dora Maar Affair

The brown rabbit with thin ears sat upon a blue circle and took a curiously surrealist look around, finding several orange crates and a pink stamp stuck onto a small corner of the neighborhood bar. There, the minotaur grabbed his fine glass and took an extremely long pull, swallowing his pride with his famous bull on a hard chair inside the Deux Minots cafe on the famed Left Bank of Paris where Madam Figaro threw her bleeding knife between the fingers of her shutter hand. Her brightly-colored nails were trimmed and lady-like as she cleaned the white tablecloth with her anxious sighs. North of the Louvre in the 8th arrondissement sat this private moment of two artistic minds with French red wines between an overcoat and a scarf. His thick layer of oil paint on the clear glass etched a deep thought and with an easy laugh, it became a negative and a muse was born.

and jelly

well it's a lot more than you think
i washed my hands with you
in my neighbor's stainless kitchen sink
it's driving me to drink
and i scrubbed and dried
pulled at my plug
everything was spinning i nearly died
then i fell into the hall
i didn't eat for fourteen days
climbing up the bedroom wall
growing small
waiting for the telephone
which never rings
i'm sitting all alone
writing your name off my list
that would be simply easier
if we had never kissed
if we hadn't shared a laugh
or walked together in the rain
then shared a bath
i'm poking you in the belly
making you another sandwich
peanut butter and jelly
and i'm watching you chew
asking me to do
whatever it is i want to do
well it's a lot more than you think

what to say

there was a time not long ago
inside a working day
i spent the night not long ago
unsure of what to say
but i'm not denying
there was magic in the air
i saw lightening striking
and confusion everywhere
& angry crowds of people
screaming in the street
protesters defiantly
refusing to admit defeat
all moving like a tidal wave
inside my head
stopping for nothing
an old Monarchy said
and then i drove my car
for another tank of juice
underneath the summer sun
when i heard your next excuse
with wind blowing through your hair
whisky on the floor
it's so much easier denying
than to open up the door
and then you're snacking
on your favorite smoke
flipping through all the channels
searching for a joke
and we're cruising on electric avenue
where i'll be sleeping tonight
since you left me at the dealership
claiming "Everything's alright,"
and last time i saw you running
into a movie with fading lights
waving to lonely children
taking in the sights

there was a time not long ago
inside a working day
i spent the night not long ago
not knowing what to say

riding with Hunter

riding bike with Hunter
in a soft rain
we were on a narrow trail
about a single lane
through the woods
near a grandmother's house
hardly any other people
but we did see a mouse
the ground was wet
some snow still around
we managed 16 miles
before we unwound
my face was splattered
with little sprays of dirt
and bits of gravel
it didn't hurt
i felt strong
thinking of you

bright white

a busy east coast
city street
faces long and beat
nothing sweet
no one to greet
tired feet
walking westerly
into the setting sun
nothing fun
no gun
almost completely undone
on the run
dreaming of
Saturday night
black light
bright white
delight
out-a-sight
on some ballroom floor

my champagne glass

your lipstick mark lingered on
my champagne glass
and you took a sip
thinking you were high class

and i thought so too
what else could i do?
i was looking right at you
everything i saw was true

when i asked you for this dance
you raised your eyes
and i reached for you
like reaching for the skies

but i held onto you
and when i pulled you close
there was a feeling
and i liked it the most

and there went my heart
pounding in the musical beat
swaying in the breeze
i could feel the heat

your smile was giving me thoughts
and i knew
when the dancing stopped
i'd still be holding on to you

your lipstick mark lingered on
my champagne glass
and you took a sip
thinking you were high class

and i thought so too
what else could i do?
i was looking right at you
everything i saw was true

my boat

it's not a prison
it's a boot
& there is mystery
while the black cat rests
curled in mouse dreams
with tuna on his breath
the New York Times
paging noiselessly nearby
full of hubris
casts shadows on the floor
i myself can bleed
but not every crossword puzzle
is as obvious
as my pain
not every movie is as happy
as a stranger's smile
the forest squirrel spinning
his tail like a revolving Earth
watches my body for a sign
there is no sex no proclamation
he eats his food
without disturbing the cat
his clawed feet tiny upon scattered leaves
alert eyes penetrating
i am asleep nearby as water
fills my boat.

whisper (zelda)

my girl friend's name was zelda
and she acted like such a bore
i talked with her on Sunday
but i couldn't hear her anymore

i'd see her reading magazines
flipping pages of her life
looking at all the advertisements
for a husband or a wife

and dancing down a busy street
dressed in diamond rings and furs
she never cast a worried look
'cause everything she saw was hers

& i followed with my open book
writing every word she said
but even when my book was full
i couldn't raise her from the dead

she gave me sexy games to choose
no strings attached i couldn't lose
she played her hand and pulled my hair
i looked around no lover there

my girlfriend's name was zelda
and she had star dust in her eyes
but it wasn't how she looked at me
that told me everything was lies

we used to sit and dream of love
and she'd whisper in my ear
but when i asked to share her soul
she wouldn't let me near

& her party postcards faded
with colors dyed in black & white
all the signs found in her eyes
were pointing to midnight

my girlfriend's name was zelda
and she acted like such a bore
i talked with her on Sunday
but i couldn't hear her anymore

she gave me sexy games to choose
no strings attached i couldn't lose
she played her hand and pulled my hair
i looked around no lover there

a bit of earth

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

the kiss of Tosca!

this is the kiss of Tosca!

they were all dead by 3 o'clock on a fine afternoon 

no one expected so many to be gone so soon 

in the early dawn children at breakfast a mother busy with her knife in hand: 

silent Enola Gay high above in her silver chariot drunk on hot jazz 

heavenly wine stored deep inside her belly 

her horses pulling onward into the great wide open 

Morta listened for a cry from the singing diva 

wailing above the home of 100,000 deaths like Roosevelt

fatherly in his easy chair

rationalizing

behind a somber podium 

the great white hall silent behind his back 

his skinny hard tires black 

and rolling 

towards the Manhattan Project not in New York City anymore

then Truman with his hand on the pen 

writing the white lie which would open the box of hell 

and offer howling ghosts 

screaming in full throat 

in mushroom cloudy smoke

the balled fist reaching ever upwards

hot exhaust on the crisp desert air 

Trinity 

like a horrible nightmare 

burning every migrating butterfly into a dream shadow

blooming cactus flowers falling to desert sand

the barbs remaining sharp

and ashes like dusty tears  

and the experimental little boy of all big bombs falling indiscriminate 

targeting and tumbling and preparing to explode over a huddled mass

soft people awake or asleep, restless or comforted

their suddenly revealed skeletons boiled and basted and bombed 

the troubled disbelief 

a sudden cry

thinking the unthinkable 

and to Gods or spirits they called and begged in anguished Japanese, 

moaned on the currents of flaming air

staggering beyond the city limits

past the graves of dead gardens,

what? 

why did we have to die? great Earth were we not great, too? 

will there be a second chance? any chance? 

what do i do? 

am i the butterfly or the flower? 

or a passing memory or a missing hour?

50th anniversary night

The celebration of the 50th anniversary
of the wrestling program is scheduled for
Saturday, February 5th. There will be a
meet and greet for current and past wrestlers,
followed by a buffet in the cafeteria.
No one will be required to make weight.

down below

up on the hill where an old man died
the rains were falling
and some people cried
while in the town
far down below
just shopping around
with nowhere to go
an empty bag with yesterdays' keys
and a street walking girl
chasing her memories
romance novel in hand
telling her what she can't quite understand
she's looking for the moon but finding only pain
asking for a second chance before walking back again
her river was tired of being wet
the sun unsure
if it should set
and in the calm while lovers stolled
i saw her heat escape the cold
lose the grip it tried to hold
up on the hill where an old man died
the rains were falling
and some people cried
and in the town
far down below
just shopping around
with nowhere to go

castles in the air

castles in the air
i could not find you there
wistful and resting without care
tired and without my heavy jacket or a shirt
i went to rid myself of hurt
and that good sensation lasted much too long
i almost felt i had done something wrong
but with every easy breath i took i glowed
when i remembered all the good love you showed
no bad thoughts no dueling sword
no sense of exclusion or discord
simply sweet reflection inside a cloud of bliss
it's you after all that i mainly miss
castles in the air
i could not find you there
wistful and resting without care
from my leather chair i leaned on the window sill
i saw you on the distant hill
and you were beautiful with flowers on your bed
i almost felt i knew what should be said
but with every easy breath i took i glowed
when i remembered all the good love you showed
no bad thoughts no dueling sword
no sense of exclusion or discord
simply sweet reflection inside a cloud of bliss
it's you after all that i mainly miss
castles in the air
i could not find you there

falling bombs

falling bombs look like shooting stars
passing in the night like speeding cars

and a siren wails like an frightened child
abandoned where all the garbage is piled

and the running boot with an anxious sound
without a soul just keeps dancing around

and the shadow in its' graveyard crying
the demon speaking but plainly lying

and on your head the weight of night
unmoving 'til the morning light

and the spinning cymbal smoking blurs
blinding what was his and hers

the open eye and the wizard gone
down an avenue at dawn

falling bombs look like flaming spears
scary in the night like childhood fears

175,000 vertical feet

There is a new tracking system available which lets a skier know how much vertical feet of skiing was accumulated, through the deep pockets of the Vail Resort system.

I've just finished 6 consecutive days at Breckenridge, Colorado. One day there was a 26 inch snowfall, followed by an 8 incher, a 7 incher, and a 10 incher.

I skied that powder in evergreen trees on the Windows trail, narrow and yet beautiful. I skied that powder on the steep bumps of Devil's Crotch, off Peak 9. I skied that powder from the Imperial Chair on Peak 8, at 12,900 feet, dropping into Whale's Tail and the Y Chutes, and continuing to the base of Peak 7. And I skied that powder on freshly groomed intermediate trails for the sheer exhilaration of the intense speed and carving finesse possible.

The snow was incredible, being light and forgiving and like a temptress, delicious and encouraging.

I heard unrestrained hoots and yippees and other shouts of delight from passing skiers, although I could not see their faces.

I used a snow blower to clear the driveway, several times in the morning and at night.

Also, I ate well, not just because I'm a good cook. And I always found myself in bed by 9pm, fatigued but excited to give my best on the slopes the next day.

Now, in my home on the east coast, I think of leaving for my next adventure. Care to join me?