2014

i went sipping wine
it was nothing exclusive
had it with a friend of mine
and he seldom shared a glass
so i felt pretty special
almost but not quite high class
it was an aged Pinot Noir
inside a fancy hotel
when i asked for advice
he told me he couldn't tell
with his arms crossed
yet i no longer cared
i put a towel around my neck
and simply stopped and stared
he might have been a candidate
but he couldn't part his hair
he tie was never neat
he overfilled his chair
he lived on shore front Jersey
near a sandy beach
where beer was always cold
but champagne was out of reach
and we began clapping
and heads all glanced our way
i grabbed a passing waiter
he tripped and dropped his tray
and lots of scattered shrimp
and a lady with purple lips
spread over the thick pile carpet
the waitstaff looked for tips:
happy hands and happy girls
noise makers, ice cream swirls
a chocolate mousse and brandy
hot coffee, sweet Jasmine tea
dad and mom with kids galore
a friendly maitre de by the door.
such a sight rarely seen
at the start of two thousand fourteen.

his old bone

went walking in my yard
the dog came along
he thought i was lonely
but he was wrong
although i could never tell him
i was thinking of you
he started sniffing around
for something better to do
i kept thinking of you
but that cat couldn't party
turned the volume down
i started dancing
never hearing a sound
the moon rose higher
stars popping out
the dog began howling
so i gave him a shout
he went walking in my yard
and i came along
i thought he was lonely
but i was wrong
he couldn't be bothered
and let it be known
he resumed his digging
found his old bone
went walking in my yard
the dog came along
he thought i was lonely
but he was wrong
although i could never tell him
i was thinking of you
he started sniffing around
for something better to do
i kept thinking of you

On Front Street

standing in the middle of Marietta's Front Street
in either 1945 or late '44,
i saw an old man wearing suspenders
hanging loosely from the trials of a personal war.
and he still retained a wry smile
even though he was nearing his own last mile.
he was a coal man and knew where the chutes were;
he filled the winter bins to keep out the cold.
in summer he delivered blocks of ice to the well-to-do
and searched but never found his pot of gold.
he kept his hair neatly cut and trimmed around his ears
and as far as the war went he didn't show any fears.
he'd walk across the railroad tracks to the nearby river,
wondering when he looked both left and right
about life upstream in the distant big city
or downstream beyond the foothills trailing out of sight.
he heard about Malmedy and fighting across the seas
but never actually saw a man beaten to his knees.
he had a son in the Pacific and one in Italy
who was wounded by shrapnel at Anzio near the beach;
there was no correspondence during the duration
as both boys were busy and far out of reach.
he died in September of '48 on a hospital operating table
when a young doctor misidentified a formaldehyde label.

four or fourteen

Christie has her fingers on the keys
black and white
whichever ones she could squeeze
harder and harder until one of them says please
she hung with masks of women, boys, and men
painting them originally on cloth
and doing them over and over again
like a dancer with an injury to her toe
she practiced with her music
until she didn't know which way to go
and she came back into my life
like a thin handled two bladed knife
cutting right into my heart
and i never could figure if this was just a new start
or would we always remain apart
she was known to be in love with three
and i felt no special sympathy
or was it four or fourteen
since the last time she was seen
Christie has her fingers on the keys
black and white
whichever ones she could squeeze
harder and harder until one of them says please

a John Deere

i found a trophy woman on the open road
she came completely all the way from North Dakota
driving a shiny green tractor with an inside load
she never seemed to do exactly what she was showed
she tossed Canadian pennies at people drinking at my bar
wearing her blue dress with a high fur-lined collar
she raised her arms to heaven and pointed at a fading star
it didn't seem to matter to her how near or how far
she said she was pampered and had a bone of contention
i said she felt cold like a hard winter on the prairie
she said that was never her intention
her berating kisses finally grabbing my attention
i found a shiny black leather whip in my dominant hand
remembering i was overprotected by my mother
she said i could play cowboy and she'd understand
we found a universe in crazy no-man's land
where i repainted her dress in bright colors mostly red
she was not comfortable on my checkered carpet
but when we tried for sentimentality, we both bled
a wound was found mostly inside our head
there was no going back from the things that were said.

Two Women Rushing on the Road

the road past my front door seems longer when the moonlight
plays tricks with shadows falling through the nearby tree tops
bared of all dying leaves by a forceful southern breeze.
nature has never divulged to me how she decides which
leaf will tumble, or which flower will bloom and in what shape and color, or
which small fish will be picked at random by the roving heron
as its' swift dark eyes look steadily for the slightest movement in shallow waters.
i sometimes see my own reflection in those waters
and realize i look haggard and sick, evidently not the youthful
image which once played so freely in my newspaper mind.
Venus was particularly brilliant in the night sky when i went outside
for a lingering moment to pee, my hair cut short to give myself the aspect
of a more mature man.  no one could see me in the darkness.
love?  is it always a distant planet, a target outside my field of vision
which i cannot reach?  Even with NASA launching me, should i fail orbit?
a young dog barks initially in a low tentative voice and begins a throaty
rumbling growl and i simply ignore her until the barking takes on an urgency
which might be alerting me to a dangerous situation at Three Mile Island.
it's happened before when Jimmy Carter was the Commander-in-Chief,
and i use that memory as a backdrop for possible future dangers.
i've applied multiple ice packs to my temples to no avail.
two muscular women went rushing down the street, under the glow of
star light, moon light, and street light and seemed to abandon their worldly cares
with each running stride as they ran and they did not see me pee.
they did not see Venus, either.  maybe they noticed the moon, which
was as full as an erotic beach ball, but how could i know?
there would be many more runners, their hair streaming out behind them.
but i am in anguish and need to collect myself, like a set of different size stones,
putting each piece in a certain place and remembering why.
my ice packs have melted, like massive glaciers in the northern territories
of Canada, and my neck is now wet and might attract attention if i should
walk into town.  i could take the dog, but she'd scare away the heron.
or buy a costly new car and hire a driver? but  no, i'd prefer to walk.

where the ferry docked

i was not interested in the dull
but she had a passion for it
which i found regrettable.
i would much rather read the
fully pornographic book than
flip through merely indecent pages.
she deplored the lurid,
discovering pleasure while reading Oprah's book of the month,
apparently forming opinions based on it.
she would never pay any price,
while i once knew how to score drugs, very good drugs.
i wanted to dine and drink and dance and make out
with gorgeous women who did not always come free.
i wanted to wear a dinner jacket even when she didn't want
to go out for dinner, which was often.
i wanted to mingle and nuzzle a neck with my day old growth
and she wanted to knit a pair of socks for a neighbor's child.
i didn't know the neighbor had a child.
and although i had only a few more months to live,
i was not yet done.
i still wanted to be where it was both high and low, stealing so many
wives away from their husbands as possible.
i shared a box with the Lincolns, but it was a play she didn't
want to attend.
the play was set above the sea, close to a Grand Hotel and
opposite the place where a ferry docked.
i took that ferry and never returned.

the French beret

She wore a black cap;
it was a little French beret.
He painted landscapes without much to say.
The wine was red.
I couldn't hear much that was said by Ned;
he was the most abstract and carried more body fat
than I remember from before.
A piano was on the floor
and a sax played soft music by the front door.
Money was put into a bowl.
On her face was a dark mole
and one breast was flat.
I saw newly upholstered chairs and sat.
More than a dozen but less than twenty eight
people arrived late.
Hand-blown glass ornaments were cleverly hung
but no Christmas carols were sung
even in season and, no, I didn't ask for a reason.
It was Friday night, after all, and I'm not very tall
but still managed to climb the stairs past the still lifes mostly in green
where I didn't want to be seen.
I saw no unsigned paintings and only one sold;
at least that's what I was told.
The gallery inside was cheery and warm, the outside cold.
Hanging around were a few artists and one cat
wearing a thin collar but no hat?
She asked me if I'd eat some Swiss cheese
and I opened my mouth to say please.

when Johnny hits the drums

i held my gun at last light
aimed it at a mad man at the door
after his untimely death
i found him on the floor
i took all his clothes
and now no one knows
when the morning sun comes
which way my shadow goes

i went down to Mexico
you came looking for a sight of me
what you found was nobody
i lost myself at sea
nothing much there grows
and now no one knows
when the morning sun comes
which way my shadow goes

i imagined late at night
you would find me in my easy chair
it was a hard place to be
when you looked i wasn't there
the wind always blows
and now no one knows
when the morning sun comes
which way my shadow goes

the Bridge School

she took me to the Bridge School fund raiser
when they played jazz in the aisles.
i loved the music as it nosed the shoreline and tip-toed
in youthful slippers
into the surrounding amphitheater.
and the kids loved it, also, as their parents danced to
a suspected Neil Young song and tried to sing
A Horse with No Name, but that was America.
wearing a high-collared jacket,
David Bowie sat on stage with his acoustic guitar,
Major Tom commencing countdown by his side,
an electric bass already communicating in his hands.
they were all waiting for the trip into outer space,
but stayed for the entire performance
which was designed
to help heal a sacred inner space,
either physical or otherwise.
and above us only skies.
they knew you had to have Heart and a caring soul
and they did, both sisters laying it down
for the introduction of Tom Waits
who waited on stage with a microphone
like a king of the musical world
opening the royal door for
Queens of the Stone Age
who were seen turning another lovely page
with their tailored jackets and trimmed hair.
a young girl in her special wheelchair
keeping time with her head
stayed for the entire performance
which was designed
to help heal a sacred inner space,
either physical or otherwise.
and above us only skies.

as a requiem

i ask myself
cubist or classical?
they're two sides of a coin,
either bawdy or comical,
like bits and pieces
of an exploding psyche
which arrive in time
neither early or late,
perhaps to celebrate
or insinuate
or copulate
in a loving yet reproachful adieu.
but arriving in time nonetheless
like a nostalgic currency,
i held the coin
and felt the weight of a loneliness
which could not be spent
or lent
no matter how things went
on the town square
under holiday bunting,
or at the county fair
with wind instruments at my back
and cotton candy in hand.
the six men in a village band,
their little flutes and rustic oboes
and a black clarinet in a flat key,
listening while i hummed Tipperary,
found me in a garden
which my father had once loved.
there everyone saw the coin
and couldn't decide which face
they preferred.
i demurred
and said it appeared to be furred
in chinchilla
so they thought it was my favorite dog
but it was only a ghost;
the one i dream of the most.
i ask myself
cubist or classical?

remain in touch

she said she would remain in touch
i didn't think about it very much
at the time and went my way:
there was so much more to do and say
we both loved food and wine
she said she'd try to drop me a line
and i said don't bother i'll be fine.
outside there was a watercolor sky
i never knew that birds could fly so high
they disappeared into a solitary sun
blinding me as the day had just begun.
there was a knocking at my door
but i had already answered it once before
long ago and there was no one there.
she said she'd come in but didn't know where
i said it was nice to see your smile
she said she could only stay a little awhile:
that life was complex and no one knows
like a moon lit tide it comes and goes,
and in the winter wind a chill air blows.
outside there was a watercolor sky
i never knew that birds could fly so high
they disappeared into a solitary sun
blinding me as the day had just begun.
there was a knocking at my door
but i had already answered it once before
long ago and there was no one there.
she said she'd come in but didn't know where
we would remain in touch
i didn't think about it very much.

imagining a star

imagining a star
it's not who you want to be
it's what you are
in a big stretch limousine
that's not a car
your leather belt carried low on your hips
a fancy pearl necklace
strung out just below your lips
a former seamstress
full of charm inside your skin-tight dress
with Napoleonic looks
and a physical caress
imagining a star
it's not who you want to be
it's what you are
in a big stretch limousine
that's not a car
your celebrity fuels a contact high
an electric organ
wired for sound colors the sky
remaining in tune
introducing the last song too soon
with your love for wine and dine
and a well-used silver spoon
imagining a star
it's not who you want to be
it's what you are
in a big stretch limousine
that's not a car

Stevie

she was a gypsy
with a notion in her hair
growing apart from everyone
without a care
she would sit in her chair

talking about her eyes
using show and tell
to cover up her lies:
saying what she wants in disguise

no gold or silver dust
just a color on her nose
it was easy to uncover
whichever one she chose
she went where the wind blows

talking about her eyes
using show and tell
to cover up her lies:
saying what she wants in disguise

one man a lover
twenty women and a friend
she thought it was impossible
nearing a bend
her road would reach the end

into the shadows
her party went until four
singing love songs for everyone
still on the floor
she asked for nothing more

talking about her eyes
using show and tell
to cover up her lies:
saying what she wants in disguise

a white grand piano

sun, sea, sand, and sex
in his grasp, a tightly held glass
salsa and tex-mex
one rounded ass
and one concave.
in the shade of a straw hat,
still acting brave
wreathed in flowers and belly fat,
his monstrous appetite
and full-length face
ate everything in sight,
enjoying the chase
standing up or sitting down,
famously sincere,
into the imaginary center of town
with nothing to fear.
hysterical for a new start,
dressed for dinner
but reluctant to depart,
growing strangely thinner
wine, tea, pastries, and caviar,
sausage and beer
looking for you as you are
with nothing to fear.
willing to know,
to memorize the part
on a white grand piano
of a genuine heart.

After the May 15, 1920 Opening of Pulcinella

they had a ball
in an extravagant dance hall.
Stravinsky got drunk
and threw out a trunk
full of pillows and hats,
and a great many cats.
the Prince, a celebrated dandy
sucking on Persian candy,
paid the full bill
for all the expensive swill,
mostly champagne.
The post-Pulcinella game
was a big hit.
all the beau monde came to it
in a procession of cars,
most directly from local bars.
Picasso, of course, and Massine,
among the first to be seen,
were at the front door.
dancers already on the floor
included Olga, the Serts,
and several infamous flirts.
the opera was an excuse
for their consumption of aged juice.
many shared a laugh and an epiphany.
the party went on until 3.

when the night comes down

when the night comes down
without making a sound
sometimes when you're not around
and all the world feels dark and low
i'm left wondering, wondering
which is the right way to go
and i really don't know;
no, i really don't know.
when my pillow cries
my room explodes in "Whys?"
sad little pieces of sighs
and all the world feels dark and low
i'm left wondering, wondering
which is the right way to go
and i really don't know;
no, i really don't know.
when my heart feels cold
it feels like i've been sold
can't remember what i'm told
and all the world feels dark and low
i'm left wondering, wondering
which is the right way to go
and i really don't know;
no, i really don't know.
when the night comes down
without making a sound
sometimes when you're not around
and all the world feels dark and low
i'm left wondering, wondering
which is the right way to go
and i really don't know;
no, i really don't know.

charming in green

the nude on the bed
she stayed covered in red.
her landscape of sighs framing my window,
i looked for the gold at the end of her rainbow:
and i'd like another romp at home
with the lady wrestler on my mat.
i had dinner with her the night before:
we couldn't leave it at that.
she dressed charmingly in green:
her smile in candlelight could always be seen.

and, oh
flying off course i danced with a clown
from out of the circus he joined me in town
one time early morning after the war.
we drank to an idea that became a trap door;
locked and loaded i kept looking for more.

and, oh
i asked a gentle man for his Biblical crown
and in his confusion he shot me a frown.
we rode the night train to the end of the track,
arriving in time to take it all the way back.

and, oh
the nude on the bed
she stayed covered in red.
her landscape of sighs framing my window,
i looked for the gold at the end of her rainbow:

and oh,
shaken awake by a violent wind,
an old ghost suggested i might have been pinned.
i was subdued when he came my way,
waiting to hear what more he would say

and i'd like another romp at home
with the lady wrestler on my mat.
i had dinner with her the night before:
we couldn't leave it at that.
she dressed charmingly in green:
her smile in candlelight could always be seen.

OMAHA

on the beach
the entire man was jerking
as only half a man can.
nearby, his separated left leg floated in the water
being tossed by the swirling waves,
the newly issued combat boot loose and twisted on his foot.
the right leg was no where to be seen.
a gold chain remained hanging on his neck, the French sand
obscuring the girl's name etched on its' shiny surface.
his US Army helmet was gone, as was most of his head.
were he able to look, he would have seen a high tide
floating the remains of the American assault onto Omaha beach.
Bravely, a Ranger stumbled out of the surf aiming to join up
with a few survivors heading to Pointe du Hoc, where
they would fight in a small perimeter, their guns aimed
at the enemy trying to kill them.  A destroyer close to
shore was providing fire to keep the Germans at bay.
when Eisenhower learned of their advances later in the morning,
he knew the European invasion was started, but could not know
how great the success would be.
the skies improved in the afternoon, but the cost was high
and would continue to rise with the clouds blowing to the east.

child on a beach

so far as being a leftist bourgeois
who left his wife for the bar
and an endless party:
had i known this accusation
i would have been greatly relieved.
i was no more than a lost child on a beach
searching for an answer to a question
so far out of reach,
combing my thinning hair
to where
it could best show my face.
a man i didn't know said that art should be abstract
but he overlooked a simple fact:
it should be direct,
more appropriately understood like a penis fully erect.
he asked to inspect the gold watch chain
on my coat lapel.
but i had nothing to gain
so refused
and then moved
to continue my lunch at a different table.
i had a friend die by not knowing he wanted to live.
he wouldn't answer his phone:
my only complaint is i had something important to give.
i wanted to show him
a compromise
which i thought was wise.
when a lonely woman asked for her second whiskey
after her third beer,
she never explained to me
how it would help her return to the land of her birth.
i wrote a short story trying to explain
how it all fit together and they wanted more detail
but i had nothing to gain
so refused
and then moved
to continue my meal in a nearby farm house.
within a week i had a wild idea
to eat a literary mouse.
i dressed in my tailored tuxedo
instead of a comfortable Speedo
and thought of myself as the cat in the hat.

Everyone called him Gus

Monday was the 11th of November, 2013.
It was Veteran's Day.
It was also the first Veteran's Day I did not get
a phone call from Gostisha who had called
faithfully every year since 1972, which was the year he
returned from his Vietnam War tour.
We were both in the US Army and
 met north of Saigon in early 1970 at the
compound for Advisory Team 95.
Interesting times, those.
But he always called.
He was from Santa Clara, California.
I knew he was feeling bothered by things, but
how bothered and what things he didn't say.
He didn't want to burden me.

an afternoon banquet

the nudes in the forest
kept hiding behind trees.
i saw one rose-colored buck running
and wondered what he sees.
the leaves fell on water
and made the finest sound
like diamonds and pearls which
a friendly huntress had just found.
an overhang of rock
and ferns worthy of fame
inhabited a narrow stream bank:
no two were the same.
a cascading hillside,
a moment in repose:
the pleasure of mixing in nature
as i fondle your nose.
an afternoon banquet
of absorbing each thing
came to a pause when following birds
and i started to sing.

The Revolutionary War

sweet honey
can't you give me more of your money
i have to pay for the revolutionary war
there's a stranger knocking on my door
and i'm busy making love on the bedroom floor
sitting in my studio
watching a woman play with her stiletto
i'm trying to follow her track
the details are written all over my back
we're sitting in a red armchair
she's teasing me with her short dark hair
asking me questions about advanced math
i'm asking her for a date in the bath
sweet honey
can't you give me more of your money
i have to pay for the revolutionary war
there's a stranger knocking on my door
and i'm busy making love on the bedroom floor
sitting in my garden
watching a woman growing cold and harden
i'm trying to swim at the beach
something that nobody can show me or teach
i'm sitting in a pale blue sky
she wants to know but i can't tell her why
asking me questions about toast and ham
i'm asking her to see me as i am
sweet honey
can't you give me more of your money
i have to pay for the revolutionary war
there's a stranger knocking on my door
and i'm busy making love on the bedroom floor

Picasso's little cube

Pablo Picasso died on the field of battle,
a bottle of Spanish wine in his hand;
he went laughing his head off:
a bull on a long one nights' stand.

he once painted the Paris canvas,
made a clown inside a monkey's head.
his party rate was as high as a cloud:
he said Monet was dead.

while up in the main saloon,
he took a running jump.
his friends watched from a mountain top:
Pablo said it was a dump.

Olga was his aristocrat;
a Russian princess of the stage.
he rehearsed love with forty women:
but kept her in a cage.

when he inhaled he sketched two breasts,
fine lines drawn firm and dark:
he confidently transformed
his little cubes into art.

the last one standing before he sat,
waves washing over his blue wall.
his Spanish heart had a vision:
describe what he imagined he saw.

abstractly dancing on Mediterranean sand
or in bed with a girlfriend on top,
caressing life was what he loved:
he said he'd never stop.