Cuban Heels and the White Balloon

there was a large pale sun
in a greenish sky
where i in a deck chair,
on an Atlantic beach,
wrapped your breasts around my apple
which was about to be eaten in
one big red bite.
the nearby coffee-colored sand,
upon which sat the
handsome buttocks of a lady
with a flower fully in her mouth,
felt warm and wet between my fingers.
then a steady breeze returned,
and she put on black tights and a pair
of Cuban heels as the white balloon
rose into our night sky.
i began making
preparations for bed, which was radiating heat.
there, she became a small reclining nude
cradling her head in her hands,
a soft green leaf
resting on her right thigh.
imagining myself the gardener, i entered to water her plants.
it was late summer before we awoke to watch
our reflections sleeping in a mirror.

the blue butterfly

a bright blue butterfly was
sniffing the wet spring air near my
foot trail, her wings moving purposefully.
she was hanging from a helpful tree
as I passed by without my net.
I was searching for the trench I heard tell of,
dug several hundred years ago by prisoners
of a continental army, having been captured in
New Jersey, after having been sent by a greedy European
King in exchange for lots of money.
and perhaps I did find the trench, for what I did see might have
been the trench, leading from a small fresh-water creek
to a nearby foundry where cannon balls and shot were once formed.
but over time, wind, water, rock, and wood filled in the trench with
all sorts of dirt and forest junk, leaving only a shallow depression
where once was a mighty ditch of great consequence.
now all I saw was a long, angled depression and realized that
no simple geological explanation made sense.
this find must have been the trench, I mused,
and the blue butterfly seemed to agree.

The Dream

the bloodstain was very discreet,
not at all an oozing gob of gore:
a tiny smear of red hiding among the shadows,
the details of its' origination lost in a folded sheet
underneath the sweetest candle on Christmas Day.
there was an elaborate tea party downstairs
where all the fires were lit
and guests with their presents were seated
in a large black leather chair which wrapped around them
like a shroud.
although they dreamed of climbing to the second floor,
to the bedroom where my forehead stretched over an entire pillow,
it was closed to their entry in spite of the richness of their gifts.
i sat naked with the bloodstain, quiet in a deep brown armchair.
the stone in my hand would soon become a woman
who would dance on my mind with her mouth.

in quest of movement

breasts and arms
both playmates near my neck
the wall clock ticking
effortless licking
my eerie little head
never far from bed
exploring in the light and shadow
in quest of movement
but how far can i go
before i reach the lowest toe
of that very nice girl
who has rhythm inside of her curls?
will she be nimble and quick
or full of nothing but bulk?
the arrangement of flowers is yours
and the misty, out-of-focus contours
are mine
the light-footed dancer
bottom-heavy on my chest
in a fit of irony
settles down to rest
while i, like a sculpture of a reclining nude,
bide my time for the praise which is sure to come
as i wiggle my thumb
without strength; in fact it's almost weak
in my newly contemplative technique,
which is anything but unique.

The king and his Lady

the King was having a siesta
and instead of sleeping on his ass
he put his eyes between his legs
to watch his testicles play the organ.
a fascinating insight, he once thought, simply using a hand instead of a mouth.
when the Lady wearing a bathing costume came
into his room, she was clutching an inner tube and smoking a
cigarette up her nostril, gypsy style.
on their royal bed, she slowly reattached his head.
when he awoke, he saw her breasts hanging firmly on her forehead,
asked her to lean closer, and when she did, smoothly threw a leg
over her oiled back to get a better look.
her body parts were his favorite part of the day.

On-again, off-again: Gertrude and Alice in Paris

And Sir Francis Rose was a dud
bleeding what little genius he held
on the red carpet where the girls often spent
the night
stitching themselves to an ever smaller
less significant circle of friends:
those remaining few who had not yet disqualified
themselves by ringing an inner bell louder
than Gertrude's inner bell could be rung.
but she was a fancy washer woman toiling ceaselessly
cleaning the stains, flushing the drain with her own
interpretations until it was as fine a drain as could be found
in all of Paris by the mid-1920s.
once, she recognized genius.
but as time wore into her reputation, her threadbare dress stretched
over different angles, contemplating the fullness of the Earth.
She added legs as well as arms and a majestic nose, but couldn't
smell a friendship if it was in a separate place from where she sat.
once her secret, an orange flower fell to the floor like an old book
with many pages missing, and the spine was broken.

Ice-Nine

I saw little Red Riding Hood
sitting on a mushroom cap
looking like a caterpillar
simply taking her nap.
The Tin Men surrounded her
each holding an Atomic bomb
while Captain Kirk went boasting
he discovered Major Tom
who was lying on a city street
where a Mother could heard him cry:
news reporters flew into a rage
but no one asked them why.
And behind the door to nowhere
the White Witch drove her train;
she held the throttle open wide
to see what she could gain;
on her floor Miss Dorothy
kept piling yellow bricks,
so Alice called the Queen outside
and blinded her with tricks.
Soon a space ship called Apollo
on a mission to the moon
found David Bowie singing
with his Ziggy Stardust spoon.
He pleaded for a bathroom break
as two riders came his way;
but Neil Armstrong told him "Negative":
we ALL were here to stay.
Then a ghostly sound like sirens
came echoing round the hall
when Vonnegut in Cat's Cradle
used Ice-Nine to end his call.
but the operator was intrepid,
ran outside and threw her fist:
he thought that he could hang up,
but she found him on her list.

snow showers

snow showers
not the hot showers i shared with you
hit my face and melted
drops of memory where i once
licked my lips
fed me until noon.
when it felt safe
i left my chair;
hundreds of people saw me glide past
looking for directional signs:
their arrows poked out at me
worked me into a quick sweat
urged a decision
the nearest one said to go particularly slow
but i was in a hurry.
i saw one woman who held a note
it said i might be lost
so i tried to stop
but the slope was steep and i fell.
i went into a slide and found a hole
without a rabbit or a girl
no patrol rushed to my aid, yet i stayed calm.
i looked to the overhead sky full of clouds:
there was no sun, no hint of a shadow under the closest tree,
and no fresh track which i might have followed
as i followed you in my dreams.
i started to get cold
and was finally able to move.
it was already after lunchtime when i stood up and licked my lips.

that's what i believe

i found no turban on the slopes of a mountain
in Colorado, where i went for a 1554 beer and a
ride on the chair; there was no Middle Eastern illiterate businessman
telling me he knew what was good for me when i
flew through the evergreen trees with the greatest of ease.
no holy texts or final revelations whispered in my ear trying to allay my fear
of big bumps and steeper slopes.  i easily imagined a cartoon
when i saw the face of intolerance and that face wanted poster style
to preach to me about a plagiarized religion even though my true
revelation was knowing wax helped me glide over all resistance.
the lift attendant who practiced intolerance on a friend carrying
an invalid ticket quickly allowed that friend a cushioned seat when the ticket had
been guaranteed fit and proper by a higher authority, but there was no
Heaven, no Angel whispering into any ear, and certainly no threats in the
boarding line.  this higher authority was a customer service employee without a beard.
riding to the breathless top, i saw no black granite monolith surrounded by thousands
of stone throwing zealots; no back packs were heard exploding during happy hour, but
there was a bomb throwing ski patrol technician hoping to avert an
afternoon avalanche.  and i found Chair 6 closed; E was also closed as the winds
blew in a forceful change of stormy weather, biting at my face.
the girl in a green skin-tight suit laughed about being out-of-date,
but her voice was like a momentary kiss.
when the sun eventually rode into a dusty blue sky, crowds of people stood
for hours waiting for their opportunity to be free of idols and the pulpit
where pompous strangers preached about where to ski, what line to take,
and how to use the poles.
when i eventually found Lost Boy, it was near the ski area boundary;
my gliding path on the snow was my own creation and i claim that right.
that's what i believe.

ambush

in an ambush
22 men dead
my green shirt red
all the buttons lost
i called to Joe
who fell nearby
i heard him cry
he had no buttons, either
and we were young
when the jungle flies came
they didn't stop to ask
us our name
their tiny legs
working their way near.
but mothers listen
we are still here

celestial blue

the new guy in town
underneath a movie marquee
waited for romantic reruns
because they were free.
he was hanging with Lola
who was inspecting her hand
hoping to sing
in a street fighting band.
when she couldn't remember
the words to a song
she started her lyrics
and they quickly went wrong.
they watched a TV
which sat on the floor,
explaining life
as it sped by their door.
his wall clock kept ticking
with seconds to spare;
her chair still kept rocking
but no one was there.
the little kitten,
celestial blue,
looked in their mirror
and saw her way through.
she couldn't be certain
what she saw with her eyes;
she thought it was earth-bound,
but reached for the skies.

Self-Portrait

i watched a raconteur
and his lower lip
speaking with a generous heart
upside down and back to front.
he proposed to offer me a new head start.
i asked him for a different angle,
not a simple circle or a square;
even the confident critics wondered:
will anything important ever be found there?
but i was determined to stay
because most of my friends were already away,
and once as a very young man
i sang soprano in my Sunday choir
with everyone God-like no one a liar.
often trying to wheedle my way
to the front of every unpainted line,
i was in a hurry not wholly by design,
eating flat bread and sipping wine.
i didn't have much intellectual integrity;
was heavily wounded in a war.
when asked to kill wondered what the hell for?
listening to the famous bugles call,
there was more to dying than what i saw:
the saxophones performing in toxic smoke;
and song birds hitting high C as they choke
on a very rough patch of desert sand.
i heard him once say this was the Promised Land!
while others might find that hard to understand;
the only clue i have is my name
on the bottom right-side of a stretched canvas
where my thumb plays a hide and seek game
with the palette by always changing colors
or do they simply stay the same?

the Hessian Trench (1778)

we saw that the snake vine had
overwhelmed the slender tree
like a father Superior who had spanked a child
bound and gagged by his bedside.
we were far from a narrow gravel road and the stream we crossed,
looking for the ghosts of Hessian soldiers and their trench.
walking like genial dwarfs through the woods,
we kept trying to follow a faint trail of leaves,
descending and sidestepping and stopping; it was
after twelve noon but before one when a weak sun
tried to loosen us up with some warmth.
we came close to other vines, ducked and jumped,
continued past brambles, got stuck, got unstuck, stepped over fallen logs,
and occasionally would hear a whispering pine.
we found no other hikers, no one else out to explore,
no deer, no bandits, no dead red fox, no soldiers.
we climbed a huge rock, slipping our way to the summit and
our embrace more emotional than rational.  Like lookouts,
we peered into the forest for a clue, steady in the breeze.
the Hessian trench must be somewhere, and the ghosts,
while waiting, are still hiding in their dungeon.

Chapter 25

you didn't care what happened to me
when i fell down on the floor
drunken and musical
looking for my piano
i was dressed on the fringes of the world
holding on but with no where to go
simply making notches in my headboard
looking for those thrown overboard
tallying my numerous lovers
i saw everyone naked under empty covers
while you kept making jokes at my expense
from the other side of your busy fence
one story about a cancer ward when i died
finished elegantly and completely by Chapter 25
i was lonely but still alive
and then buried with my pet mouse,
almost falling victim to a suicide
by gassing myself inside your house
you once drank an entire bottle of Anis del Mono
and dropped to the floor whimpering and sad
about all the misfortunes you've ever had
life was so good before it turned bad
dressing for the ball with your jar of paint
unsure if you would become the Devil or a Saint
you left me to join the Trojan war
and i left you to check the water level in my glass
but it was nearly empty and i wanted more.

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 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 strange thing

i was sitting on my large canvas
and a war was soon to come
i drew the Portrait of Mistress Mills
sucking on her wounded thumb

with a face as flat as gravity
one finger pointing neither left or right
while a soldier with his hurried face
set out to take a bite

he was reaching for his mustache
when he heard three men at the bar
spinning outrageous stories
of old searches for a star

a flipperlike arm began poking me
inspiring my gigantic shout
while the boys continued with their stories
but i was racked by doubt:

i was sitting near an animal
and the woods were soon to close
there was a palpable urine fragrance
and i tried to hold my nose

it appeared to hover overhead
like a fine mystery in a box
and when opened it wasn't too difficult
to see the strange thing was a fox.

hat pin and needle

i saw two trees
and a woman with a pear.
she held onto her fruit basket
refusing to share,
brushing watercolors,
smearing her eyes;
she read a hand-written message
scribbled in lies.
i wore a hat pin and needle
and started to dance.
it felt like compulsion,
like singing in France.
my guitar strings were wooden;
my bottle brown beer;
when i called to the lady,
she refused to come near.

Eva Gouel (1885-1915)

she should never fall ill
so long as she keeps taking her pill
and her drinking continued all day long
while he kept singing his own selfish song
and she thought it was all for fun
but he treated her like a tangible pun
mocking and socking like a busy seamstress
and she could only ever guess
that he liked whatever he did
sometimes he acted like a man, sometimes a kid
a case in point when he split the joint
he hid her away in a box
turned her into a pair of pretty socks
into a still life of a ham
or tossed her with a Spanish thank you ma'am
when their busy life produced a lull
he painted her head into a skull
since he evidently couldn't change his theme
and cancer took her away from the scene
all her lingerie stayed on the floor
he painted her into a chair once before
and now he'd do it again
his psyche was his only Zen

watching your lips move

walking in the woods at night
looking at your bedroom window
when i saw the light
and i was just fooling around
watching your lips move, never hearing a sound
my feet firmly planted on the ground
but you never knew i was there
as thin as a breath of fresh air
the guy you said was better than most
floated past memories like a forgotten ghost
and he had the wind at his back
carrying lonely tears in a heavy sack
and i've seen them slipping away
like shadows you'll never know what they say
but i can still hear them cry
whispering like a shooting star in a moon-lit sky
walking in the woods at night
looking at your bedroom window
when i saw the light
and i was just fooling around
watching your lips move, never hearing a sound
keeping my feet firmly planted on the ground
but you never knew i was there
as thin as a breath of fresh air

but i haven't counted

don't be upset if i don't write you
more often
i've been very worried about my knee
and also what they say about
bark beetles killing the aspen tree
take the bourgeois,
for example,
and give them an opportunity
for a subversive spin
they'll want to know what the odds are
they'll win
so i'm trying to rescue myself,
jumping from shelf to shelf
struggling to get rid of this fever
and if your suggestion has merit, of course
i'll pull the casino lever
pumping up my possibilities
but cancer, quiet simply
is life-threatening
it conducts a tall black hat battle
with my body
as though i were a broken baby rattle
shaken carelessly and fatally tossed
beyond the wall
can you hear my plaintiff call?
i'm still standing, trying not to fall
into another room with old martyrs
wearing blue velvet garters
LBJ said to know war is to know there is
still madness in this world
i'm under my perfect blanket, wondering aloud if i'll be stuffed and mounted?
my heart looks remarkably like little bullet holes
and oddly there could be thousands, but i haven't counted.

cloud cover and the owl

i can't keep watching the cloud cover
falling thickly over time and my muddy boots, but
the wettest weather did not bother my dog.
she had a remarkably good time in the woods, fragrant
though they were with deer turds and rotting
leaves.  she appreciated the owl, watching it
as the crows and grackles hurled intense vocal anger
at it.  the owl made several short flights to nearby
trees after a crow, brainless or heedless, dove in an
attempt to swat the large intruder from a branch high
above my observation spot.  at one point, i counted
9 distressed birds pissed at the owl, who hooted his disdain several times
before finally rising in a stately manner to dust himself off, and
plowing past his adversaries with a certain aplomb, fly away.
they gave a token chase, but without any final commitment, they slowed.
and now that the local cacophony had ended, my dog and i followed
an obvious forest trail to wherever it might lead, fully satisfied.
yet the cloud cover remained.

a rustic wedding

sitting for hours
thinking about a rustic wedding
and i'm hearing mistral winds blowing
but didn't know which way they were heading
or which way i should be going
i couldn't find a compass point showing
the easy way out
no one to tell me what dreams were about
simply towns with lonely lover lanes
broken hearts and broken window panes
long walks at midnight with no rest in sight
a chill in the air and no comfort waiting there
i'm wondering if i should just fade away
like that cowboy and western on a show yesterday:
i heard a soft voice, saw light in her eyes
her smile an illusion for solitary guys
she offered her hand and i gave her my hand
she offered a grin and i asked for the cat
sipping warm milk and i sure wanted that
petting the puppy was just the first act
into the bedroom, out the back door
sitting for hours
but it felt like more
sitting for hours
sweetly discreet
watching carefully the hustling street
i took the staircase up to her floor
we were together for seconds
but it felt like more

waiting by a tree

i saw a squirrel
after eight or ten days
of walking in the summer woods
and i was very alone.
once, just as i was about to rest,
i saw a knife mark on a birch tree.
it was your name alongside an engraved date, but
no other message was apparent.
and it was a very old tree, and tall.
standing there, i heard a fleeing deer and glimpsed it's white tail bouncing
through nearby brush.
it did not return my look,
but it might have been near the birch tree before i arrived.
then i sat for hours where the brown grass was flat, waiting for my lover.
instead, a Siamese cat, too fat for a painting, came increasingly closer.
i guessed the cat was hungry and somehow knew i was hungry, too.
i like to sit outdoors.

The Futurist

once the man had found himself
there was nothing more to say
walking into my room one dawn
he said he couldn't stay.

a bit naive i read his book
admired the way he spoke
his empty words so big or small
they hit my floor and broke.

eventually he reached a point
when pipe smoke filled the air
which made it hard to clearly see
no answers floating there.

i've no problem working hard
and soon would have to dress;
he told me he was busy, too,
and drinking so much less.

afraid of age and toothless voice
surviving in the streets,
he was his best at questioning
the misfortunes that he meets.

a gift, he said, but not a fool,
at various times undone
by vagaries from his early days
which kept him on the run.