City Lights Bookstore

down at the Goodwill store on the other side of town
i went shopping as a poet with my customary frown.
searching for my glory days on the off-streets of New York,
a spoon in my mouth still looking for a fork,
i found the Hamptons where Warhol bought his wig
and watched the revolution bar be que a pig,
and dealers of dope and modest health-food stores,
gurus signing posters and book shop whores
looking for lonely old Italian men with money,
eating and drinking, until someone calls them honey.
stretch limousines of social-register boys
came for breakfast and stayed to pet their toys.
an envelope delivered on a silver tray
when tea was served and cookies passed my way
said "Welcome!" inside so i rose to grab a drink.
a sentimental lady said it doesn't pay to think!
but if i could decide it would be in San Francisco
or rowing to my houseboat in the bay at Sausalito,
or in Carmel or North Beach for some theme-park rub
instead of sitting here in an old Manhattan club.

high horse

on the high horse
spreading your legs
sure, hide them inside the blue jeans
for all i care
i can still see how you spread your legs
the horse knows what i see
and he carries you willingly
he smiles more than i smile
a big toothy grin underneath his prominent nose
he knows you better and is not nervous
you spread your legs so close to his face
but he's a horse with leather taste
his ears straight up point to the sky
which watches you spreading your legs
i see a lonely cumulus cloud
that wisp of white and the sky
and the horse and i
we all watch you squeeze the saddle
between your legs and feel that pressure
and agree in unanimity,
you must be a very good rider.

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.

His last name is GOSTISHA

The boy from Santa Clara
smoking a red pipe
held his young nose high in the air
opening a military door
yet found no answer there.
simply the Stars and Stripes on the floor
neat columns of black and white
glorifying war
but that didn't make it right.
Some distance from Saigon
another helicopter pad
armed men with survival minds
but that didn't make them bad.
And man he loved his tobacco
sucking an Italian stem
shot me through with his questioning
"was it US or was it THEM"?
The boy from California
on a beach near Malibu
still remembers the crying girl
who stumbled without a shoe
and the child without her skin
and the boy missing his head
down by the water buffalo's blood
and all three were dead.
We went camping at Big Sur
walking the tide line without socks
he cried on the drive there
and when we rested on the rocks.

PULSE

the Mother with her infant girl
in her arms
sat on a burning field in Spain
near where
the German bombs had just fallen from the sky
a terrible noise fell and dead bodies fell
drumming piercing stabbing wails of anguish washing the wounds
no Democratic musician seen grooving to the sound of
heart beats of concussions thousands of screams mournful hearts
tossed dreams limp like un-stuffed dolls
haphazardly dusted in blackness each solemn face etched
and every eye tired and sore and bleeding tears
dense smoke coiling and crying children hiding
underneath crumbled bedroom walls where
no childhood memory no family picture remained intact
the temperatures rising, rising
as church bells ring in the near distance while hope fades
miracles fade, too, from the dry lips of anxious fathers
who wonder aloud about a better future or any future at all!
sleepwalking corpses methodically with a purpose
below a full harvest moon
hear the sound of each weeping field as their feet tip toe over ruin,
looking for a place where the grass is greener.
and another Mother with her infant
girl
in her arms,
her Earth finger pointing directly at the melting ice
near where ancient glaciers now frequently calve
a terrible noise as solid pieces fall thunderously into the salt sea
she holds her gaze steadily and
ice bergs newly born in their solar maternity ward begin
the long float away to a different sort of watery oblivion.
oh no, i fear they fall down on me! so i run, run
trying to stop the bombs as my feet
tip toe below a full harvest moon, over the same ruin
overwhelmed by the Mother's moan and her infant's sigh .

When i'm 64

grey shadows
maybe black or navy
the lights were so dim it was hard to tell
where exactly was i when
Van Halen began to play?
(oh) Greg it's time to ride i thought
i wasn't listening to the Beatles singing
for the 100th time after the murder of John and
the quiet death of George
When I'm 64
but damn if Ravic in Georgia didn't send that sweet link
i just had to give it a spin, pay attention to the lyrics
straight from the Sgt Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band
song track number, hmm, not sure but i can almost see
wait!! it's old fart land and do i want a clear view?
i can see for miles, but do you feel like i feel?

especially when it's a quarter to three!
it's simple, there are no hordes of cheering admirers
no beautiful woman with puzzled philosophical eyes
removing her cotton bra with a knowing smile,

remembering even if i forgot what was important
a teacher (perhaps) and i the attentive student
sharpening my pencil in a hand-cranked gear-tooth driven
little machine many many years after Darius the Great
used this very same machine to conquer his local world
remember, 2, it was Gore Vidal who wrote about him in a great book,
many many years before my recent birthday on the 6th of September
when i turned 64 and there's no turning back and of course
i miss Darius.
who will miss me?  once,
when i was fishing underneath a Paris bridge, i saw the padlocks that street lovers
secured to the open fence, hundreds although i never counted, because i
was never good at arithmetic, all meant to secure a relationship.
my fishing buddy in the Seine was Carl Sagan, who hooked me on science.
and even though i never measured the legal limit, i later
joined him on a chair outside of a Monmartre cafe, and mentioned to him
that his painted smile looked like a Starry Night,
like a Van Gogh, i guessed,
and he postulated that a trillion trillion trillion galaxies were in alignment
and those distant stars and others were our friends, smiling or otherwise.
all of my friends are stars, too, i said,

remembering their faces and how they soulfully laughed

or cried without embarrassment, regardless of the day.

and we drank to that!

Vera Savina (nee Vera Clark)

At the Arc de Triomphe
the sun was streaming
early one morning
when Massine could be seen dancing under
the arch.
he was looking for Vera Savina, with whom
he had recently fallen in love.
Diaghilev was furious, and went racing down
a nearby flight of stairs determined to keep them from meeting.
Picasso kept quiet, as though he knew nothing of ballet.
And soon, Vera found and took Massine by his hand to her bedroom.
Again, Diaghilev was furious, and said "Hadn't [I] made him?
What had Massine...been?  Nothing but a good-looking face
and poor legs!"
But soon a young refugee from Moscow arrived in Paris and visited
unannounced in Diaghilev's suite at the Continental.  He was a
seventeen-year-old Russian known as Boris and
Diaghilev instantly became intrigued.
This all happened before the company traveled to Madrid, where the gypsies poured in to dance.

Pretty Woman

gripping the wheel
pretty woman asked me how i feel
into a corner a hundred and five
hell, i'm lucky to be alive
but it felt damn good
just like i knew it would
(when) she picked me up
tossed a whiskey cup
told me to drink
enjoy it, baby, don't even think
'cause we're heading for a thrill
here, swallow another pill
grab me tight
we're crazy tonight
two wheels spinning top down
heavy metal satellite sound
so how's it feel
behind the wheel
screaming down the avenue
hell, i hardly knew what to do
Hendrix Cheap Tricks Hot Licks
and she picks
me and i'm sitting shotgun
Bonnie and Clyde run, rabbit, run
across the desert our mad dash
running low on gas but lots of cash
the stars dancing on the highway
Roy Orbison thumbing a ride heading our way
gripping the wheel
pretty woman asked him "how do you feel?"
into a corner a hundred and five
hell, he's lucky to be alive
dreaming about you honey
love me like it isn't even funny

the Preservation Society

the lady from the Preservation Society,
knocking on my green door
with her hard hand and midnight feet,
never saw the scooter driver
even though she heard his approach.
he turned abruptly from the river road
onto the cobbled street where i still lived,
and pushed an autumn breeze over his face.
he sped closely by her indifferent look, and never
thought to pause or stop.
an open cafe was serving late drinks in glass mugs
and he was thirsty, finally slowing to find a safe
place to park his bike.
when the motor cut off, he could hear her
hard hand knocking on my green door, but did not turn his head.
inside, as i closed the shutters before walking slowly to my bed,
i watched the night air brush a chill onto the hallway walls
and for a very long time after, i tossed and turned, and
felt sad to be alone.

my garden

there's fear on the front page of my newspaper.
death is spreading over the editorial page.
they're both falling in pieces
onto section B C D and
even the comics have any weapon at hand
i can think of:
12-gauge shotguns and .22s are the little ones.
they're coming in with one motor gone and
a wing and a prayer
on their lips, but they're coming like a star-spangled parade.
and in Washington, D. C., no one is home.
the big bodyguard is on the news and we all watch his lips move.
he is often heard saying "I am the perfect shot."
kicking in family room doors, his arm moving at lightening speed,
he is looking at his usual target.
it's you.  hey, it's Y O U.
"but i'm only a reader," you squeal, trying to keep the home fires burning.
it does no good, since this is a war/fear planet.
and you wanted Utopia, but Tommy doesn't live here anymore and the neighbors
are under the Witness Protection Act far from where you are, getting it on
some place else.  they even have satellite TV and a flushing toilet.
"Phew!" you exhaled.  and for a moment there, i had you worried. 
you stood, hands on hips, and looked at me with that slightly nervous look, but i
didn't say you were incredulous.  or disbelieving.  no, never disbelieving!
i said you didn't have to live like this.  read that again.
now pass me the bottle, so I can take a swig and let's talk.
you:  "God damn you've gone crazy!"
"Ha, I'm only waiting for the boat."
you:  "There's a boat?  What boat?"
i wait for the boat.
and that's it.  i'm waving and waiting for the tide.
you, on the other hand, should go back to wherever you came from.
oh, and take your fear and death with you.  they're messing up my garden.

in a good mood

i have
no midnight sweats
when the bed pillow is soft
and freshly laundered white sheets cover my head.
even in the dark
my flashbacks would not flash
and some dreams,
being ordinary,
come on like a childhood lullaby,
and that war was over, after all.
so,
in a good mood
when i was sleeping with somebody,
that God damn grief might not squeeze me by the throat
and ghosts, silently, one by one, might  make no noise
while floating by with bloodshot eyes, watching me.
i always try to get out of their way,
letting them speak,
to not interrupt them as they tell
each story as it should be told.
one walked colorless with a fine needle stuck in his swollen arm
as somber music played without rhythm,
and he tugged at the sharp stick and tried to make sense of his addiction.
another swallowed a live grenade and began to sing in a foreign tongue,
squatting as though to take a shit just as the explosion ripped away his ass.
and a third had no voice at all and kept looking at me with eyes out of register,
her lips moving in the candlelight, soundlessly.
and after they file out, and others join them, there is no comfort in my room.
then my mood becomes tight, like the taut strands of a hangman's noose.
in the morning mirror while brushing my teeth, i see yet another ghost.

ask the clerk

and even if you didn't want to know,
it's time
beyond time past
in the here and now
before we go much farther
the result will always be the same:
a standard M-16 gas-operated
assault rifle weighs 7.5 pounds unloaded.
Packed with a full 20-round magazine it weighs
8.2 pounds and you will carry it everywhere
in combat.  this is a combat weapon.
of course, available newer rifles are much better and lighter,
but i never owned one or cleaned one or even held one.
i see them in glass display cases at local dealerships and in
glossy pages of masculine hunting magazines.
there is maintenance gear necessary for the care and feeding
of this gun, while there might not be anything for the care and feeding
of your soul.
you will have to ask the clerk.

and your brown eyes

and your brown eyes
moon lit skies
under the covers
contented sighs
and just when the sun
comes
satisfied hums
and we took it all the way
the length of another day
far into the night
i could hear you say
with delight
it was never too much
fingertip touch
and then some
such and such
we made the bed
got up got fed
went ahead
and made the scenes
don't know what it means
don't know what it means
blue jeans
and your brown eyes
moon lit skies
under the covers
contented sighs

Summer at Juan-les-Pins, France (1920)

the Two Nudes were magnificently
conceived as life-sized torsos
with astonishingly perfect breasts
schoolgirl toes
volumetric classicism
imagined at a school in Holland
in 1905
with a corpulent rear end
on both
arm in arm
a full painting
not made for alarm
but to hint at sapphic sex
to polish a classic subject
in a modern shine
and yet
one wonders
who was inside the glass?
was this a picture of Gertrude Stein
and Toklas?

or random beach-goers who attracted his special eye?

looking for a stranger

going to the seance
a table on my knee
looking for a stranger
but at the door is me

a seeker and a soldier
in uniform or out
looking for assistance
and i can hear them shout

an organ boy is playing
his candle burns at ten
all hands are simply folded
in prayer once again

a rushing then a rapture
starlight in fine eyes
and everyone can notice
everything he tries

going to the store front
a dollar in my pants
looking for a stranger
to offer him a chance

and he sees me coming
in a mirror on the wall
but the music grows in volume
no one can hear me fall

a crowd is approaching
all listening for a sound
looking for a stranger
he's lost and can't be found

and everyone is leaving
hearts beating as they go
i ask them which direction
but no one seems to know

my front door

so
our love is no damn good
and this is what it's come to be
you never really wanted me
like i thought you should:

holding open my front door
see, there's nothing up my sleeve
i'm watching as you leave
while i ask for more

but
there was never any sugar in my tea
no spoon stirring my morning coffee
and on the top no cream
no nighttime lover's tender dream
an unmade bed
where my soul craving touch waits still unfed
under the spreading chestnut tree
i found no woman stands for me

so
our love is no damn good
and this is what it's come to be
you never really wanted me
like i thought you should:

holding open my front door
see, there's nothing up my sleeve
i'm watching as you leave
while i ask for more

The Dark Knight Rises

master master
i hear you are between heaven and earth
that you have invented everything
including earth and heaven
and hell where you jostle the devil in passing,
falling on your knees before God
who presented to the community of Aurora, Colorado,
a sold-out midnight premier of
"The Dark Knight Rises."
Veronica Moser
was 6 years old, brightly blond and blue-eyed.
She'll always be 6.
She was in attendance with her mother, Ashley,
when a popcorn piece fell to the carpeted floor and her young hand
reached for it, hitting it with her finger tips at the same time
that a talentless bullet sliced open her tiny skull, splattering blood and bone fragments
all over the new pair of blue jeans she wore.  Veronica's mother screamed and
tried to reach for her fatally wounded daughter, but a mad bullet
ripped at her neck and a second crazy piece of hot metal slammed into
her abdomen, splashing mother's blood onto the still soft skin of her dead child's face,
soaking the floor near their feet, and the cushioned seats now unoccupied by Batman fans.
master master
i hear you are a loving lord
but 12 dead moviegoers and 58 wounded in the largest mass shooting in America:
master master
explain yourself to Veronica, who didn't get a chance to eat her popcorn.

Saint-Raphael, France

oh and how he came to loath her,
filled with heated sperm
she refused to taste,
as he stood watching his erect penis
swell into a giant head.
but at first she was a trophy,
and his time was spent
drawing her into an affectionate sketch near
his summer studio on the productive coast.
it would have been unthinkable to color her face
as an emerging vagina,
with her smile turned into a vertical slit
of pink and rose hues,
her pouting mouth uncoiling a seductive tongue.
no, he would love his mistress
with an innovative lust, but
not the bride:  for her, the traditionally representative way,
intrinsically feminine
and radiating with sunny freshness.
but then the problems!
from his balcony, he saw the physical and psychological monsters
climbing to her window,
opening the view, and one took her leg and one
took her mind,
setting the stage for his theatrical ballets on the beach
where one mistress loved to swim.
and the bandstand
below his opened window had a pagodalike top and beyond
was a sea of blue ink as far as his eye could see.
with this and more he would eventually have his metamorphic way,
distorting even the first wife.

Gypsy earrings

her gypsy earrings
heard about the party for the major players and their friends:
among them six former lovers and
a famous poet, who would return the
following evening to ask her (and only her)
for a liaison.  of course, when they were alone,
she acted demur toward him, and claimed
to hate being put on exhibit or to be coveted
so ardently, with entertaining wit.
yet she quickly accepted, asking him to make her
a subject in an important piece of literature.
and he quickly agreed, asking her to recommend
a Spanish dancing school of impeccable reputation.
this was not mere politesse.  they were intent on
pandering to each other, almost from the start.

Le Tricorne (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.

Ulysseus

my mariners!
come with me to tackle weeds;
to choke the fragile brown grasses
which grow beneath our feet
in this new east coast heat wave of 2012;
to rip stubborn roots out of the rocky soil;
to ogle women wearing unIslamic dress;
to drink to the stars our Gods placed in the local stadium.
we're old, but old guys can still get it up,
use the mower
and the axe,
the digging iron and the shears;
to make a path to the far horizon
of a boundary line my neighbor might have drawn.
but we can smash through any fence that sucker might
have made and hurdle over any barrier!
my son has his own mind about our property;
i have mine.
i want a hand-built gazebo and will toil excessively to complete one.
he wants to sit by an evening camp fire
where the wet wood hisses and crackles in a small depression of the burning Earth,
entertaining his community of friends with endless songs of compassion.
i must dig the pit,
like Lyndon Johnson dug America into a deep hole in Vietnam,
while tugging at the ears of his unhappy dog.
i have no puppy to lift, and he had his important work to gather
thousands of uniformed men and send them packing, few of them proud
of his leadership or his ability to tackle stubborn weeds.
my mariners!
we still have tasks not unbecoming men who've watched tv on a
Sunday afternoon, when the seas were calm and the ladies hot.
i will travel great distances to find a long-eared pup,
even if the winds begin to Howl and my arms grow thin.
so let us venture forth,
out of the sand traps and through the woods,
beyond sight of the devious scoundrels of Bain Capital,
setting sail for a seldom visited national park
where we may govern ourselves.

Fender bass

the ice was dull
my blades were sharp
the water underneath a bottle of Perrier
the classical woman on her Viennese harp
the thin man on his Fender bass
bringing another case
for poor Sonny
who died when his head hit a tree
like an arrow splitting a knee
it was in the dead of winter
in the American west
but we go on with our lives
imagining they're the best
they could become a dime store novel or a penny
a farthing or a pound
a fatal fall from every grace
or a trampoline rebound
when time runs down
and the entrance runs on and on
day after day
what more are you willing to say?

celebrating another fourth

i knew i could pull it off working straight ahead
through the night and daylight hours
coffee and well-fed skipping bed
through the bombing and all the confusions
taking only a quick lettuce salad
with small yellow & red tomatoes
with pesto and green shadows
of extra virgin olive oil
i still can feel the recoil of an M16 machine gun
see sparks above the wall
celebrating yet another fourth
just before the sticky night fall
under banner headlines no longer crying
the bye bye by lines
i'm skipping an invitation
so i can carry a wounded child
to the nearest medical aid station
where i can continue my less than social ways
hiding in the haze
of an incomplete life
but my work is slowly getting better
each and every single polished letter
standing alone on a public stage
like a spotlight on a naked page
surviving through each day
like a madly whirling rotor blade
drawing a picture of machine powered flight
sketching the blue of distant Saigon
tossing back a glass of the finest French red wine
i know there will be time for friends and family
on the fifteenth or the seventh
when the writing disappears
it casually reappears
as all smoke needs go somewhere
said The New York Times but
i'm on a methodical tear
a big bender
on another bridge
a knife-edged ridge
leading me to a perfect body of water
and near the summit
in a tiny bed of the wildest bravest flowers
i can worry about an afternoon storm
even as the sky remains clear
since it doesn't matter if
i've already taken in the view.
and you?

Queen

into the water
warm and wet
diving into the deep end to see what i could get
reading the paper at a quarter to four
too many pictures i can't see them anymore
into a daydream
mister
can you tell me what it might mean?
a picture on the diving board
and it's a Queen
and her Lord
she's painting the town
he's polishing his sword
and she's spinning on music
pulsing and high
dancing on memories
no longer shy
asking for a new number
and he's holding a nine
saying he's sorry
but she wanted a sign
into the water
warm and wet
diving into the deep end to see what i could get
driving the freeway at a quarter to five
too many people i can't get out alive
into a daydream
mister
can you tell me what it might mean?
a picture on the diving board
and it's a Queen