Delores and her cat

There was a toilet down the hall and I went there
Before Delores could lock herself inside, which she
Often did just to piss me off.
She was watching a large screen TV in an adjacent room,
Days of Our Lives or some such shit, and didn't once
Take her eyes from the show.
Just as well, I thought, that she doesn't know what I'm doing.
I noticed she had the cat on her lap and was stroking its' head,
And that best explained my success in getting to the bathroom door.
Delores, after all, loved her pussy.
But she was the only one who gave a damn about that thing!
The framed mirror by the toilet I found newly cracked and later learned that one
Of her friends didn't like how he looked while he was trimming nose
Hairs and so hit the glass with his high school graduation ring which sported an oval
Shaped sapphire stone.  I knew this loser and couldn't believe
That he actually graduated, but educational standards over the years have
Slipped and, incredibly, the government still believed that, without exception,
no child should be left behind.
And this fellow is behind or is a behind cock sure of himself.
But Delores liked him and a couple of other guys simply because they put up with
Her furry creature and when together they'd watch television during the day.
Now she was alone, except for that purring cat, brain sucking
commercials, inane broadcasting, and a monotonous announcer's voice.
Life seemed to be in balance.  Even her wallpaper had roses and daffodils in bloom.
I wondered if I was the only person fascinated with the swirling water of a
Flushing toilet?  In which direction was it spinning?  I needed to know.
It felt really good to relieve myself without all the usual drama.

Mom, where are you going?

Remember when we were young
and i constantly ran out the back door to play?
the temperature might have been soaring
but it couldn't keep me away
from Ravic, Francis, Doug, and Joe
and all the other kids i was privileged to know.
you always seemed to stay in the house
cooking and cleaning or playing your favorite game of cards,
and i could never be bothered to come home on time,
distracting myself in each of our neighborhood backyards.
you were young and pretty and happily wed!
i never imagined you would ever be dead!!
your shining eyes deeply blue
will forever remind me of the uniqueness of you.
our last hug
so much more precious than an intricate Turkish rug.
there's nothing more from our shared decades i want to take;
i have more than enough heartache.

The Alamo, Texas

Visiting the city of San Antonio to be with an ailing mother.  I must have brought the chill northeast air along as it is cool and overcast.
My mother suffers from a cognitive impairment: Alzheimer's.

her brown eyes

Ah!  The cows.
blue on a black background
hungry bulls roaming around,
each one taking turns to make a personal visit
with an indifferent female he was about to wed.
non stopping until their appetites were fed
and the barn door closed tightly for the night.
five days later,
my favorite dog hit a terminal phase:
the vet said it was only a matter of days
and i sobbed rather noisily.
i promised to make a prayer flag for her grave
and string it by the entrance to the cave.
i will be forever haunted by her brown eyes.

Joseph Heller: "It's all fucked up."

what exactly did he mean by the phrase
CATCH-22?
from my lips directly to you:
a Willie Mays center fielder's running grab?
a discovery in the National Institute of Mental Health lab?
Joe avoided a violent military death
wrote a best selling book many years before he drew his last breath
a long, slow, measured exhale
but he got to chase the girls successfully with more than one piece of tail
his B-25, a fine airplane
coming in low and fast, weaving through heavy enemy flack totally insane
it was very sane to want to stay inside an Air Force canvas tent
crazy to fly in formation if that's what he really meant
during WWII, the thin man and the fat
the bald guy and the clown who never removed his hat
the wop and the Jew
who on Sunday morning didn't know how to act or what to do
the black aviator and the brave Mexican from San Diego
neither wanted a tag from graves registration tied to their big toe
and the freckled kid from cold Minnesota
drinking a warm coca cola
between briefings and the next flight
they all felt deep down inside their guts an incredible fright
and wondered more than once if they'd get out in one piece
to become whole again and discovered by a lover and live in peace
Yossarian.  Major Major.  CATCH-22?
it's what they did heroically and awkwardly continue to do.

the Bermuda Triangle: redo #730

Seven boxes and seven suns
Were arranged in the middle of the hallway.
Blocking me, a polite man from Asia asked me if I
Wanted to pass.  He was standing behind
A microphone, but in front of a large crowd of anxious people.
I nodded yes and he stepped aside.
As I went by he handed me a twenty dollar bill,
Then asked to see my passport.
Fortunately, it wasn't stolen or out of date.
While he looked it over,
I grabbed his mike.
"Ladies and Gentlemen," I spoke clearly above their clamor,
"These boxes are empty."
One particularly ancient woman who said her name was Helen
Shouted that she didn't believe me!
A man who introduced himself as Dan asked about the seven suns!
He said he didn't believe they were really radioactive.
What did I think? he wanted to know.
I felt the tug on my arm and saw my passport was being returned.
The polite Asian man asked for his twenty back, but I told him I had already spent it.
He threatened to hang himself with a scarf if I refused, so I gave it to him.
I picked up the first box and it was very heavy, very black, but when I looked inside
There was simply a vast ocean of nothingness.
Several people started to shout for answers, so I moved on.
The seven suns were so hot that when I used my arm as a shield, I could clearly see
My thin bones through my newly transparent skin.  When I looked around for him,
Dan was already gone, as were the other people, including the Asian man.
All the tiny hairs on my arm slowly singed.  My face burned.
Suddenly, I was very tired and alone.
Where had everyone gone? I wondered.
I fell down to my knees and crawled in the nearest box to search for signs of life.

Assisted Living

I visited an old aunt in her old room and she gave me an old smile which I tucked
Away inside my new coat pocket, before returning it to her.
Her black eyes were still purple with shades of blue and the bump above her left eye had stitches
Like little bristles found on a two day unshaven face, six of them in a jagged line sewn by a young
Doctor in a Lancaster hospital and he never asked for her name.
A cleaning woman had just left but the room was still messy.
I relocated the morning paper and sat near the small bed by a tasseled pillow.
My aunt complained, typically, about how her jaw was hurting and she didn't know
What she could do about it.  Tylenol?  She had just taken more Tylenol, she said.
She caressed her chin while she spoke.  I caressed my chin while I spoke.
She wanted to know how old I thought she looked!
I told her she looked 85 and she smiled around the facial bruises.
"I'm 89," she said matter-of-fact.  She thinks she
Has no skin wrinkles and can trick everyone into guessing she's a kid again.
All the residents and some of the staff have wrinkles, a few of which are in strange places.
I sat on her foot stool and elevated her right leg.
I tugged at her compression sock, finally removing it.
She said I was a little rough.
But then she bragged that I do the best job with her clippers and I made her promise
Never to tell anyone.  Ever.  No Matter What.
She told me she has a new neighbor, an old woman.  "Where did the former
Neighbor go"?  "He died.  But I never liked him."  "Who is the new neighbor?"
"I don't know.  She never leaves her room."  My aunt never leaves her room, either, except to
Eat.  She often skips lunch.
When I walk by the dining area during meal times, it is always full.
Most everyone visits the dining hall, and if a wheelchair or a walker is needed, so be it.  The
Food is not the important item on their menu.  Someone will see them.  In that moment, they
Are so much more than ghosts. And some of the old men can dance the Texas Two Step.
Some of the old women are incredible flirts, and they all believe I can't guess their age and I never can.
"Ouch!"  "What?"  "That hurt!" Darn, did I take some skin?
I finished the nails and struggled with the socks.  She complained I was too rough.  I said the socks are too small.  She said they're made to be small.  I said her feet appeared to be swollen.  She said they've
Always been swollen.  I asked about her jaw.  She said it was always sore.
No one seemed to notice when I left.

Tender Is the Night

Tender Is the Night,
which was brilliantly written by
F. Scott Fitzgerald,
failed to impress Gerald Murphy or his
wife, Sara, who spent her time without a book,
smiling under a beach umbrella.
she loved a great laugh, as did her husband, but did not want too much
sun or to be cross-examined about her relationship with her husband.
it was whispered he was homosexual.
Scott Fitzgerald was known to amuse himself by introducing Gerald to pretty
young men.
Gerald amused himself with pretty young men, but never once thanked Scott.
Sara was a friend of Fitzgerald's wife, who was
known to be crazy.
Zelda Fitzgerald had once overdosed on sleeping pills but they did not kill her.
an excess of alcoholic consumption did not kill her, either, but
God knows one famous summer she tried to drink everything bottled at
the Hotel du Cap, and almost succeeded.
when briefly sober, she had a blatant affair with a rookie pilot,
and often spread her wings at the local air base.
Scott would drink heavily, but he was a writer!
eventually, the couples would part ways, leaving hotel life,
and the busy Mediterranean coast for
certain mischief elsewhere.
And they could afford it!
after all, Living Well Is the Best Revenge.

"Let's stay here!"

the bare walls of my garage
should have your name hanging from the nearest hook
i haven't done a full accounting yet but when i do
i'll know what all it was you took
"Let's stay here!"
i heard you whispering into my ear.
and for awhile the winds were calm
i could reach out to you and you knew what i would do
with closed eyes while the world was mine
you especially tasted divine
but i can't hide from a hurricane
and you can't outrun your past riding on a speeding train:
young men kept coming into your studio in twos and threes
too many cocktails and sleeping pills,  "Another one please!"
and it came to an end when i opened the front door
it didn't even seem possible to reach the distant shore
but i knew i had to get away
to walk on the white sands of an innocent beach
far out to sea and out of reach
my mouth and hands and feet and eyes
no longer painted in still life disguise
the bare walls of my garage
should have your name hanging from the nearest hook
i haven't done a full accounting yet but when i do
i'll know what all it was you took
"Let's stay here!"
i heard you whispering into my ear.

Putin readjusted his tie

it's no laughing matter:
Russians are everywhere,
as crazy as the Mad Hatter
but not nearly as much fun!

at the pinnacle of his power
& capitalizing on his Olympic success,
Putin decided that very hour
it was time for his very own Gold medal.

so, he lit a big victory cigar,
took a deep Stalin-style grip 

on the bare throat 

of the Russian military machine.

he determined to make it an instant media star
inside the modern day Crimea.

he personally did not invade

(he was too preoccupied with his Italian tailors),

but his soldiers stood unmarked and masked
on the territory of Ukraine 

on a special operation,
while he choreographed their dance.

when he learned of his success,
he readjusted his tie
& readied himself for international phone calls.

as soon as he spoke the first word, it was a lie!

it's what he does for a living.

Waldman and Ginsberg

Anne, I wonder where you are?
Last I heard
You were in Colorado as an artistic writer,

Teaching especially creative writing.
It's where young people watch your every move,
Take notes.  Play notes.  Become notes.
They love being near the mountains.
I knew Allen, your very gracious friend Allen, visited several times and talked to a group of listeners.
Many in attendance would dance and sing Buddhist songs, humming in a
Spiritual way to center themselves inside the Universe.
You were much younger at that time, almost fully covered
With beads and bangles and hair.
Allen had lots of hair then, too.
He has since died, while you travel onward.
Your creative writers know the score:
They allow their thoughts often to have an
Easterly drift, to New York City.
Allen loved that city, even when it tried to beat him down.
He talked to the sidewalks with his feet and used his eyes to scrub

The worldly windshield.

His heart was open as he spoke, driven with inspiration.
I can sometimes hear him call your name!
I wonder why you don't write him more often?

lentil soup

Andy told me what i needed to know

but when i tried to read his map,

i still couldn't go.

alcohol and drugs:

under the bed and under the rugs,

sent over by my own doctor

who left me for dead;

in my body and inside my head,

i opened the front door to

hear what he said.

i had an old mother

who came to my side:

"Remember when you were younger

and took a fine bride?"

but there was a chill in the air

so i ran out the door;

everyone kept crying

we'd soon be at war.

i stopped at the clinic.

God gave me a drink;

he was off to a funeral.

i went there to think:

there were scars on my face

and one near my heart.

i was a spy for the Gestapo,

but needed a new start.

i made lentil soup at four

with vegetable broth and ham

and served it to Rene

who knows just who i am!
a wizard at mathematics,

he tried his hand at dance.

i left him at communion

and took my cross into France
where i made a few sketches,
played some guitar,
and reached up for the moon
which didn't seem too far.

high fever and beads of tiny sweat

for better or worse
i rolled down my window and gave you a smoke
i thought i heard an answer
but perhaps you misspoke
i poured a Merlot into your glass
about half full
it was a perfect summer
to sit by the neighboring pool
your body was black
well burnt by the sun
i offered you bog-myrtle
but you wouldn't have none
you noticed the bamboo
which grew near the creek
i watched you start standing
and offered my seat
your head gave way to a pillow
your ass on the floor
the coffee was empty
i offered you more
without cream or white sugar
i used an old French press
you wore a man's baggy pants
i wore a woman's dress
in a high fever
and beads of tiny sweat
i couldn't stay away
we had just recently met
and sat on the stairway
welcomed the dawn.
i woke up when i heard
you stifle a yawn.
you reached for a cigarette
tasteless and grey;
nearby a piano
continued to play.

Le Coeur a gaz, 1923

in three short acts
the last spectacle on the program
was a complete dada farce
with a trumpet in front of the infuriated audience
playing the Marseillaise.
this time around, there were no professional
actors to storm out singing
about the utter pointlessness
of playing body parts in cubist costumes
made of stiff tubing
which reduced their walking to a geriatric shuffle.
out front, the police heard the angry voices and stormed inside
where the fights between the dadaists and the future
surrealists began in earnest, with several badly beaten
and in no mood to be mollified.
shouts for order bounced off walls, hitting no one.
damage to the theater was considerable.
seats were smashed and faces bloodied.
Aragon tried to rescue Eluard while
the police arrested the entire audience,
but it all was a big misunderstanding.

facebook

had i died on the field of battle
never would i have heard of Mark Zuckerberg
and his great good fortune, which is
still going gangbusters, reaching almost as high
as the falling stars passing above my night eyes.
and he isn't satisfied with the status quo, which may not exist
except in imagination, as his two newest friends can attest.
Jan and Brian are not only eating in his kitchen,
they are now part of the intrigue and the high jinks of the facebook universe,
intensely reading the first section of their new program
and seeing the WhatsApp logo blinking with dollar signs,
sufficiently drowning out the relatively tame music of their former lives.
yes, new footlights are shining brightly on these young men,
and venture capital stagehands are busy counting heads, while the surprised
audience sits enraptured, though a few spectators
are heckling and causing a riot.
it would be hard to clamor onto the stage and outshine
this performance.

that sewing-woman

the blue train was boarded by Coco Chanel
and her friend Misia Sert, 

with or without tickets it's impossible to know.
but what is certain is that, frequently,
they dreamed of attending the last great
Ballet in Paris and were in a hurry.

they invited old friends to join them,
men and women of course, who enjoyed
rumors and gala premieres,
especially when the music was provided by a lover,
like Stravinsky, who was not on the train.

no, he was at that very moment nicely ensconced
in Chanel's apartment, working on a score for four
pianos and some voices, one of which was silent.

but on the train, a florist who wanted to hold a party
walked the narrow aisle selling beautifully decorated
arrangements and Coco bought several to share
with her friends;  they all smiled just as the train
began to move.  

they knew
a beautiful blonde Russian princess was the chief engineer
and it was she who blew the whistle to startle the passengers,
who were looking out the windows to see several
surrealists following the tracks, laughing their heads off.

Coco and Misia saw them and began to laugh, too.

the princess, perched on her forward seat, steered the train
away from the station.

it was a one-way track, but still proved easy to get lost.

and no one cared.

the widower on the roof

the widower on the roof
was what the bitchy boys called him:
it was fun to hear their laughs.

he was terrified of typhoid, it was true,
and kept his distance from a lover
alone on a death bed, who would
soon die with no one at his side.

but Cocteau held no illusions about being brave
and fled!

by being in Monte Carlo, he missed the funeral
which was talked about later as being
a service en blanc: white eyes seeing everything
in white, including the white horses hired to pull the hearse.

the young man who died was a poet, poetically speaking.

his sorrowing fans followed the horses in a freezing rain.

wet and cold behind the black band they moved

to their lively music,

all the way to the white cemetery
where white flowers
were piled neatly upon a white coffin
placed carefully next to a freshly-dug white hole.

Les Demoiselles

there was a man
who dragged along his wife
and son
but nothing pleased him.
he drove around in his car,
house-hunting and with an
eye for a young girl.
on each new street he saw more than a few
flirts and thought
"Les Demoiselles!" but did
not stop,
at least while a wife was by his side.
in any event,
he always flatly refused to pay more
than his fair share
(as his diary confirms) and
multiple girls at once would be a major buy.
he never liked to be cheated,
so his wife was unaware of what money he spent,
while his son resented them both.
then on a busy street,
when he was prepared to be tempted,
he met a woman who had some interesting traits
and life became good.
Just before he died he was heard to say
"Drink to me!"
when he died, he gave
everything away.

the beautiful Jezebel

Well, I had you in the afternoon
While the stars stayed silent in the sky
I could have held you for a thousands nights
But you wouldn't give it a try
Oh, no one was guarding our back door
So I was pushed out the ol'front way
Passing the lonely hearts club band;
I heard a love song they used to play
And was completely under your thumb and feeling blue
It was harder now to get a proper sense of you
I kept falling under a midnight spell
Turned myself into a half empty shell
While you, my dear, became the beautiful Jezebel
And when i phoned and got no answer
Your friend said you were a ballet dancer
Living from a suitcase on the open road
Hiding inside your pretty expensive pot of gold
But when I asked for a better point of view
I only got a momentary glimpse of you
Well, i gave you roses and my sweat shirt
Your left me with a letter and those thousand words hurt
I took a pill and had a drink, that's what I think
I heard no sound and soon found myself looking around
And was completely under your thumb and feeling blue
It was harder now to get a proper sense of you
I kept falling under a midnight spell
Turned myself into an empty shell
While you, my dear, became the beautiful Jezebel

more than blue

she didn't have the golden tattoo!
i looked at her over the years
and didn't know what more to do:
i might have been wrong but there was more to her than blue.
her black eyes
registered constant surprise
whenever they focused on you
They made it hard to know what was false, what was true.
and it never helped to walk on by:
she could stop you with a gentle laugh, a wounded cry,
or a smiling knowing eye
which told stories of life on the high seas.
one time standing she said please!
one time sitting she took a stance,
a puzzling one, an almost enjoyable romance.
and where better than solidly on the ground:
a kiss without a passing sound;
a dream which lasted beyond the day,
into an opening night
like the idea of Venus she disappeared out of sight
into the next room
wearing her costume.
But I liked the way she danced at the ball:
one moment short of breath, the next tall.
she did it all for show
and if anyone would ask, i'd tell them i still don't know
how she managed to have another go.
she didn't have the golden tattoo!
i looked at her over the years
and didn't know what more to do:
i might have been wrong but there was more to her than blue.

creek-side

Slow-roasted citrus salmon
And your lips basted with a reduction sauce
A hint of wild green curry
And cold wine poured generously
Into a new glass
Almost full with our reflections
An overhead fan turned slowly under a heavily painted sky
On the carpet you ate a mouth full of me
While your fork rested on the silver plate
I slipped my finger into your hot black coffee and stirred
We thought of lavender oils and Canadian geese
Flying in formation hungry for a warm place to go
We listened to our own music throughout the day
And it did not disappoint.

Owens Lake

The bourbon Manhattan was made neat,
and I like it light on the vermouth,
shaken with a sense of urgency.
Although no shortness of breath was being
experienced by my table partner,
we decided to talk about Owens Lake
and the migrating birds and the decades-long
dust clouds causing air quality problems.
She said her tomato soup was really good.
I told her a man from Bishop said the air was filled
with small particles, an immense quantity of them, and
It was dangerous to breathe.
She remarked about the croutons being baked to perfection.
I wondered about the black-bellied plovers, especially,
and the restoration of the breeding areas.
She said her drink was one of the best she's had
recently and we should return as soon as possible,
maybe when the same bartender was on duty!
I wondered if the water would be reintroduced to the basin
and eventually temper the dust, making it
less of a nuisance because of newly-introduced control efforts.
She said her tuna salad consisted of bits of dried bananas and crispy Asian noodles.
I said I once saw a pair of mating avocets swimming on the untapped
waters of Owens lake; in a gust of wind they played a ritual that had
to be courtship.
She offered me her tiny red cherry when
I told her the avocets had heads of burnished orange.
I paid for our lunch and we left in a cloud of dust.

a smoking gun

when they say it was a smoking gun,

do they really mean to imply a precocious

sexual awakening?

perhaps.

but when i went through puberty,

i never once had pants ignite or even come

close to anthropomorphic global warming. 

the first kiss was all she got from me, well,

and a little of my energy and feistiness, but 

i certainly didn't grow in stature from that single embrace.

she loved me, of course, but it was accompanied

with an undercurrent of suppressed violence.

and her latent hostility should have been adequate to

arouse my sensibilities, but i was still young,

still innocent about death and social intercourse.

or any intercourse, for that matter.

so i concentrated on the high ambitions i held

for myself and that didn't mean i

wanted to use a narcotic or get laid by an older woman.

no, i came from working-class stock, which was strong, 

simple, energetic, warm, but i was no damn fool.

still, she came on to me when i was tired and fearful of

poverty, which put me in a bad way.

the things i did to save myself were simple:  

i did not give a damn about appearances and began
to read liberal newspapers while carrying a black umbrella.
the last time i saw her she was driving a surplus military
jeep to the beach.  she saw me walking along the lane and
stopped to amuse herself.  of course i was without shoes or socks,
but held my umbrella when she said "You are very sweet."
as she drove away, smoke was puffing from her muffler,
almost, i remember thinking, like a smoking gun.

That's worth something

May to September
or winter in the wind
of a strange vortex spinning
arctic air through my front door,
when i read i enrich myself.
to my delight i saw a great collection of
stars in a deep night sky before taking my
place in front of the evening fire,
book in hand and no hurry to anywhere.
well provisioned with dry red oak which does not
smoke and has been split into manageable pieces,
i can sit for a week dreaming of Antibes in summer.
Bangu, a black cat, came too close in a feline way to my
cup of steaming coffee, but no harm was done as
he passed my arm rest with only a cursory glance
at the Peace Corps logo imprinted on my mug.
Soft, lonely nights were made for good literature, not for
petting domesticated animals, although I can not
tell two fat dogs how I really think.  Those canines seem to
enjoy the floor by my side where I flip casually the pages
of a deliciously mysterious story.
For me, it's reassuring not to rent, but rather to own a home
whether in a resort or in an undistinguished neighborhood,
hidden behind an unkempt front hedge of holly.
I once said, looking over the For Sale signs in a distressed neighborhood,
it's better to have a home, than the home have me.
I must have known something about the soul of a banker, that
beautiful shark swimming among the more blissful minnows.
Perhaps I might have preferred to buy property next to a rich English patron,
or adjacent to a hotel on the Riviera, but imagine the upkeep of
the exterior! My dogs, for better or worse, enjoy spending their days
chasing birds, squirrels and the occasional wayward person, so
it's better to be here, in perfect seclusion.  There are no complaints
heard about the cats coming home with a dead chipmunk or sad-looking
mole, so for me this really is a relaxing place to read.  And the
deep night sky holds such a great collection of stars undiminished by
light pollution, it would be foolish to leave.  During the day, I don't need
to feign modernism and can join the dogs whenever it's time for an
afternoon snack.  We can plan ahead or be impromptu.
They love to chew bones, often too quickly, and I love to use them for cooking.
And with a steep road to my door, I have few missionaries attempting a call.
That's worth something.