Luisa Casati

Venice never closes!!
Casati never stops her flamboyant dance,
and Rome has monuments and artists in
narrow alleyways full of hope.

My broken camera captured her movements
in orange hair with twisted curls in front
of the ruins of antiquity, where her dark eyes
sat on the marbled shoulder of Hercules.

This gay Italian city watched her
in Medusa dress, stroll with jeweled leash
leading two borzois, one black, one white,
to an audience with the Pope,
but he was busy playing bridge.

Upon watching her pass, I went straight to my house,
hoping for an invitation to her dinner party, but it arrived
sixty years too late.

Posing on her polar-bearskin rug
as others took siestas during the renaissance,
she heard The Volga Boat Song and on the first playing
noticed a bold red circle with an empty center
smeared on the title page.

It was Picasso pimping for the Bolshevik
uprising against the Tsar, dabbling in paint,
while his friend Stravinsky scored that tune for
the Ballets Russes, where Olga played a part.

Later in Paris, the largest cloud in the world
sat on the waterfront near Montmartre
where tourists spent their day with wine
and local cheeses, learning French.

Nearby, Casati's Palais Rose was built of red marble
and was naked except for images of herself,
many tall and skinny.

If she were insane, as rumored, she would have had more than
two arms smelling of incense and a necklace
of love bites underneath her river of pearls.

She died in London on June 1, 1957, many years
after Shakespeare, and is buried at Brompton Cemetery
with a taxidermed Pekinese dog
resting at her feet.

Tet (February 1,1968)

Johnson shook my hand
with his sneaky Texas smile
and hissed me off to a land war
in a small Asian country where
there was no home front and US Marines
killed everything they could.

My screen door wasn't able to keep
the bugs from escaping when the bombs
began to fall and huge explosions
filled the humid air with their death
march and the tides of the South
China Sea seemed so far away.

"Born to kill," he said before he died in a
fast ambush with a slow M16 still warm underneath
his young hand as the music from the helicopter blades
reminded him of the end when an impulse
from a single cerebral nerve fired a last burst.

The embassy compound in Saigon was overrun and
microphones appeared to interview the MPs wearing
flack jackets pointing at the Stars and Stripes where moments
before a liberation flag hung with smoke in the indifferent air.

Nearby the National Chief of Police held his revolver to the head of
a man in a plaid shirt wearing nice navy blue shorts but
no shoes and the bottom of each foot was black when the bullet
punched a hole in his head just before the
spurt of red blood stained the street when he fell without
a trial and without a sound.  Eddie Adams working for
the Associated Press received a Pulitzer Prize
for his photograph of this frozen moment, which he never forgot.

General William Westmoreland wore a braided military cap and gave
encouraging reports while bodies were still being pulled from
the rotting paddy soil.

On time, the jungle animals chattered at and scolded the French and American
soldiers, carrying their shoulder fired weapons onto the pages
of the New York Times, walking over a street without joy,
looking in wonder at a land they could not own.

Dead babies were seen on white sand beaches.

Their black bodies were burned beyond recognition.

Skeletons walked from an open fire without expression.

Shadows failed to hide their pain.

bake me a pie

she had no money when
she came to my door

acting friendly

she told me she was poor

but on her arms were bracelets
a shine in her eye

smiling brightly

she would bake me a pie

and in my kitchen was a spoon
and a pot

steaming visions

she told me she was hot

and the television channel
was a dud

playing dirty

she covered me in mud

while she looked good
and was everything i dreamed

breathing deeply
it wasn't what it seemed

with my rifle and
camouflage underwear

hunting trouble

she filled me full of air

cutting me

the thing that annoys me the most
when you treat me like a ghost

before the afternoon is tossed away
and i'm on empty for another day

is when i happen to close my eyes
and i can finally see between your lies

and i'll try to care
but you're just not there

i'm falling through the lonesome air

your cutting me
like you cut your hair

and if it's a beautiful day
i can barely hear you say

you might find time for a morning walk
if i was good but you would't talk

and your hands were large and mine were small
so naturally you watched me fall

and in fact that memory
which you drew oh so carefully

cheered you up when i was down
i never heard a more unfriendly sound

the thing that annoys me the most
when you treat me like a ghost

before the afternoon is tossed away
and i'm on empty for another day

is when i happen to close my eyes
and i can finally see between your lies

and i'll try to care
but you're just not there

i'm falling through the lonesome air

your cutting me like you cut your hair

the first moments

soft breasts,
washed and firm,
lightly cupped under his hands,
reminded him
it was not yet time for lunch
on the rooftop terrace
of a flat in summer Paris.

not suddenly
the ripe peaches were left
as his slightly flushed face smiled,
and she walked to the ladder
to descend through the forest,
wondering what she should learn,
considering her next return.

dead birds

moon owls
fire dragon

naive boy wondering

tugging his
little red wagon
over some dusty road

just an empty load
of horizons
beneath his feet

his modern hair curled neat

his melting ice growing warm
to the touch

they don't say very much

together they skip ahead
following a trail dipped in lead

and crashing on a sandy shore
where dead birds wash their wings

a drunken sailor sings.

barb and kenny

under the yellow moon
you wanted me too soon
rain kept pouring down
so i left that lonely town

so now
i'm on the run
looking for my loaded gun
the one i used to own
when i was all alone

strangers
out on the street
everywhere we meet
pointing at the sky
and never asking why

inside
i never write
my stories in the night
dark and without you
telling me what to do

i know
when the morning rises
heart break and surprises
emptiness and black
keep riding on my back

under the yellow moon
you wanted me too soon
rain kept pouring down
so i left that lonely town

calling
no one can hear
the crowded station near
lots of pretty toys
barbie dolls kenny boys

dressing
in suits and ties
exchanging happy lies
talking on the phone
while i am all alone

under the yellow moon
you wanted me too soon
rain kept pouring down
so i left that lonely town

art school

on the first day of school

bits of limestone and raw clay
took my normal shyness away

and i became the baker with his bread
using time and patience and my head

to knead you.

rising from a heated kiln

one piece off the top shelf had cooled
and i was initially fooled

into thinking i could never learn to fire
or to apply thin glazes with a wire

to pot you.

then, even the fresco on the teacher's wall
became damp and started to fall,

but i watched it take another form
when dried and reapplied warm.

and i was very happy to see
the complete unity
of my final piece.

November 11th

11/11/11

solitary performers

you walk in front of me
toward your own death.

i am not able to help
or hold you back.

i take a deep breath

and you have something to say
as you pass an old
red-leather trunk.

i consider the morning drunk

in his good mood all day long,

another actor in search of himself
singing a Marquis de Sade song.

we can't put a stop to it now.

we saw scenes like that a dozen times or more
after the most recent war

when the fuses kept blowing and there was no more light.

our street had at least fifteen people with nothing to do;
each face with a green, a mauve, and a blue,

and you thought there was no such thing

but now admit frankly in one fashion or three
that untroubled creativity will keep you free.

i petitioned but you would not yield,

left your straight jacket in the wheat field

where only color had the power

to command your attention after an hour,

and went your separate way

where, at the local town hall,
for a long time there was a big crowd without any real dialogue.

each of us carried on a personal monologue
in the direction of the other

while miscounting money on a cold afternoon.

i thought i wouldn't miss you so soon.

"let me bathe myself in your eyes
 like a newborn surprise,"

i said.  But now you're dead.

a blue vest

she came in a blue vest
wore it close to her throat

laughed when she told me
she liked rocking the boat

yes, she had soft red hair
wore it straight when she could

asked me to play her
and i promised i would

took me down through the door
where i liked what she showed

she gave me a ride
but i wanted the road

so i thought i'd linger
watch my world passing by

before she disappeared
with the next lonely guy

and her music ended
with the cold rushing in

bought a new blue vest
wore it close to my chin

this party was over
wore me down to the bone

she gave me advice
more than i've ever known

i don't need anymore
and i don't want to stay

it's only a bad dream
and should be over today

black limousines

without seeing the green lawn,
the white shirt,
and clean pants,
i heard about their private game:
the rich sporting an expensive stance.

different from you and i,
bent over their
colored ball,
lining up for another shot:
claiming victory and taking it all.

fifty senators packaged;
red white and
blue wrapping;
bells, whistles, and black limousines:
the working poor busily napping.

the cultivated money,
crystal glass,
and tight smile,
enough for most satisfactions:
for a lifetime or a decent while.

for everything

thank you for everything
especially the special stuff
now is it time to be gentle
or do you like it rough?

thank you thank you
there's not much more i can do
once i had a woman
that i didn't believe was you

thank you for the great show
it's really amazing to see
but when you're looking for a stranger
will you still be looking for me?

thank you for everything
so glad that daddy was away
we had hamburgers on the grill
but i knew i couldn't stay

thank you thank you
there's not much more i can do
once i had a woman
that i didn't believe was you

thank you for the heart felt
for the dish served on the floor
it was more than i imagined
when you opened up the door

thank you for everything
especially the special stuff
now is it time to be gentle
or do you like it rough?

her colors were nearly perfect

a juicy little number
which one i can not tell
her colors were nearly perfect
inside her oyster shell

behind the door to Heaven
a full red glass of wine
her colors were nearly perfect
revealed in her design

we tripped into a concert
sound poured into my eyes
her colors were nearly perfect
they painted her in sighs

the bright cloud full of rainbows
each one a lovely sight
her colors were nearly perfect
i watched by candlelight

with morning soon approaching
i saw when i awoke
her colors were nearly perfect
delightful as she spoke

a stupid joke

white knights
heavy in armor to the burning town
they rode uninhibited
smartly up the wasted hill
looking for another thrill
red-eyed charging down
slashing sword cuts and falling heads
young ladies
swept from beds
dust panicked by the winter storm
cold bodies once warm
oh, the blood blowing in the grass
blindly moving
traveling fast
and the drums and horns fingers playing
flags flapping in the breeze, swaying
the crippled air no flowers there
no pretty people stopped to stare
underneath their fallen sky
no effort to explain
no one left to try
that last bite of bread around
each mouth without a sound
an element in the darkest smoke
a distant laughing
a stupid joke
"dead dirt roads lead nowhere,"
said Mr Hungry to I don't care:
and this became the final end
my bewildered friend.

Fall just takes my breath away

Our beginning wasn't really the beginning;
it only seemed that way since
the eye was fooled by the rising tide.

Your mind reassembled traditional
elements and showed me a completely
new composition, which helped
conquer my fear of the impossible sea.

My mind wondered what was real
between the said and the seen.

Your colors unique,
circled my listening ear.

The quiet bedroom wall and 
the stone fireplace beside the
extraordinary autumn rug,
kept us rapt.

One hard head and one bright egg
wrestled on the soft fat pillows
in front of a red oak blaze, where
only the most prominent
could tickle the Universe.

And i believed in you completely,
because no abstraction walked in hiking shoes
instead of conservative sneakers.

When a person emerged from between the lines
it was hard to say who imitated nature best,
but we sang full-throat ed and
never the same song twice.

Moments began to pass when I would
gasp for air without you.

It's impossible to escape the questions,
but it is possible to find tension
where the sun
becomes an expanding green spot
on a strange white canvas with a
painted black curve reaching inward.

Your words in my throat,
looking for their answer,
know i am back from the war.

But when you want to see me, you can call me and
tell me so.

Fall just takes my breath away.

Pablo before 1943 or after

When his beret basque tumbled,
I saw the minotaur
Down on his knees
With a young lover in his head.
Moments before he
Had been sitting
With an older fur coat, her square
Shoulders set by a heavy jaw
Inside a small restaurant
Much-frequented by
His friends.
This Paris cafe sold everything in limited quantity,
Even refugees from
The history of art.
Near it's front door
A pair of blue windows
Against the slight evening breeze
Stood open.
There, warm flesh and
Cool champagne
Talked of anything on
The interior courtyard where
Pigeons with peas,
One fair and one dark,
Were disguised as young girls.
Miscellaneous clutter
Atop a checked tablecloth
Included the sculpture of a skull.
White costumes and pale faces looked
For the slightest gesture
To take on meaning.
An other-worldly atmosphere
Could be felt on the winding stairs,
where Matisse went to find an idea
about something French.
A yellow lemon and many glasses
Remained on the long table,
under which Malraux could be seen hiding.
"Come," the wounded minotaur finally
Whispered to her tapering fingers,
"Because you find me interesting."

not missing the two

look to me

i can give it to you

no one will notice what we're doing

they haven't a clue

walking to Paradise

while missing a shoe

but we're not missing a beat

i felt you

heard you come on to me

my wooden spoon fell to the floor

i enjoyed my tea

watching the water boil

while missing the three

but we're not missing the two

I can feel the hug

It's what is felt
That hurts the most,

And not having you
Except as a ghost

In private moments
Short and spare

When I allow myself to know
That you're not there

You won't be coming home again
Late or soon

But I see you smiling
On the rising moon

I'm alone and was given
No simple choice;

Yet when the room is quiet
I can often hear your voice

Then looking everywhere
Under chair, and bed, and rug

I can't find you anywhere
But I can feel the hug.

was his art

The cigarette
near the coffee cup
on the square white table top
exhaled toward Picasso
a puff of anguish
for his heart.

A salty tear
rising from one chair
wore the hideous mask
and an immortal series
of a weeping woman
was born in torment.

She saw Mother
and dead Spanish babies
underneath the rubble
of a democratic dream
bombed in 1939
by a Fascist imbecile.

And the painting
became a statement
before the sudden fall of Paris in June
and his fading thought of Dora:
a lonely eye drawn on her sobbing cheek.

In fact he knew
with more than dreaming
that the only thing that counted
in his life
was his art.

when the music stopped

Near the shadow
long legs of an Argentine dancer
under breasts without a cover
lift for my inquiring touch.

Behind me in the soft twilight
the marble stairs
and Greek Doric columns
smell old and masculine.

And she formed a simple tango
with her musical movements
on the second step
while I held the note.

On the near floor a white piano
with black keys
to open her heart
if I should want to.

Two swans appeared
on the terrace
which she noticed
only moments before.

Two sides of the same coin
rolled over
my tapping foot
without making a decision.

A bowl of cherries
held in her hands
was offered to me
along with three glasses.

But nothing kept her happy
when the music stopped.

this intersection

the dials on my watch
pester me
with an urge for speed
instead of languor.

it was so when i thought
of the twinkle in your eyes
as i slowed
into this intersection.

the mid-day traffic
honked like geese
on some confusing journey
without a map.

their flight leader
twisting his head
looked for the horizon
which wasn't there.

i sat in my car
in traffic
when i saw your face
through my rear view mirror.

in this short period
i heard their motors reverberate
with anticipation
while you fell asleep.

farm boy

farm boy came with his plow
the girl pointed to her garden
a red dawn tickled the hillside
where they stretched
hand in hand
watching for snakes

they were a good match
digging in the dirt
pulling weeds
planting seed
and watering the grapes
before a harvest

mushrooms grew on their feet
when they ran into the woods
cheese crumbs on the trail
where they walked
smelled of winter
as they stopped to drink

Kurt

On a snowy night mid-December
Kurt Vonnegut
climbed into my room
with heavy heart and a deep sigh.
i was sitting on my folding chair
close to a wood fire
watching my empty cup.
i had expected him before seven,
and it was now eleven,
but his mustache told me he was
running late.
he said he had been trapped inside a woman's wall
where there is usually no escape,
unless one is an author
with a quick wit and an even quicker pen.
he settled easily on the floor,
and turned to face me before he spoke.
his first words softly whispered were
"Hocus Pocus."
his white hands cautiously folded in prayer.
i noticed a small atomic bomb on one index finger.
i told him i dreamed of time travel.
he wished me good luck,
no matter how bad things got.
i asked him about his wounded knee,
since i saw him limp.
he told me about Dresden,
and in a voice filled with ghosts,
said "It was a crematorium."
we both fell silent.