Dinard (1928)

in 1928, the beach at Dinard
seemed less sinister when the bright blue penis
was inside the rented house north of town
and a tempting back door was sealed shut.
but when that door was opened,
his secret shadow crept outside looking for
an eighteen-year-old blonde who would have
been an easy target for predators.
his Queen of Hearts, after convalescing,
came ashore with her single bloody playing card,
protecting their son in his costume
as they walked together to the annual beauty pageant
held for young girls in bathing suits.
a few hours later, Miss France didn't see them enter the Hotel des Terrasses
even though they made no attempt to hide from the life of the party.
the secret shadow came along, overplaying his hand with ironical
amusement and a rather long-nailed little finger.
after all, his son was in a costume not of his choosing.
in the crowd Charlie Chaplin made a face and everyone laughed.
the blue penis liked him well enough, but thought he talked
too much in a language requiring translation, which soon
became boring, even when all dressed up in furs.
a girl caught the blue penis stiffening and he handed her his key.
inside their private room, her golden pubic hair sparkled visible to his naked eye
both when he entered and when he withdrew.
inside the deadly decorum of the hotel
the judging continued for the contest
while the Queen of Hearts played with her bloody card.
in town the blue penis throbbed with life!
his secret shadow saw the bathing suits flap on clotheslines
and heard the wind around the middle of August
pick its way through the branches of a tree.
a little blonde bird was hiding in the tree.

the lark

i handed her a goat.
she placed it directly inside her throat.
i read the lovely poems she often wrote,
falling softly on my knees.
the summer air blew past carried on a steady breeze
and i heard her curse,
shifted myself into a full reverse.
she was always in high demand;
i saw her cracking open an empty hand,
bits and pieces starting to fall.
i felt myself completely thaw.
an intention was newly painted on her wall;
little bricks of iron and polished brass
filled with tears and laughter of finely spun glass;
it felt like magic was stirring the air.
i went looking for it everywhere.
people running came streaming in;
she started to grin.
there was a burning candle sitting on the floor
i saw it shrinking and asked for one more.
she tried a new technique
it faded disastrously within a week
and became a blend of blond and dark;
i found myself on a chair in her private park
looking toward the sky where i finally saw the lark
still bravely singing she hardly ever cried:
she shed a single tear the moment before she died,
leaving a simple design scribbled on my head.
i couldn't read her message but i understood what was said.

The Waltz

and on the subject of her hair
or lack thereof,
i've already commented
on several occasions that
her loose strands were set free to create sexual mayhem
and sometimes
kept dormant in the maiden style of Carol Burnett;
that's no stand up joke, my friend.
oft times there was nothing funny about a fine tuft of beautiful hair
especially when it was located in the moist center of the known universe.
in other words, it could be closer to first-rate
than that famous crack in the Liberty Bell of Philadelphia
and equally rare & precious.
i once went to a protected area near the local river
where I unrolled my favorite blanket;
i remember it was a foggy afternoon during a humid summer week
and she was already there waiting with a warm bottle
of Strong Merlot and a plate made sweet with ripe strawberries.
her hair was unkempt.
she still had on a pair of thread-bare shorts and nearby
were her leather sandals neatly placed on the wet grass.
without a shirt or bra, it was pleasing to see her oblong areola deeply pink.
for some reason, i thought of the waltz, a song made for dancing.
she wanted to dance.

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Black Rock Roller Disco
Twenty four girls in San Francisco
An even dozen around the floor
And at the entrance several more
Coming in with the entire cast
Knowing Friday will be the last
Unless someone finds a Fairie tooth
Reported outside the photo booth
Skates for rent or skates for hire
Dancing music to inspire
Come in one and come in all
Be careful of the alcohol.

Woman in an Armchair

it might have been an unprofitable project,
but once all the political guests had departed,
i went ahead and mowed my lawn.
to safeguard my reputation, i used an edger
and a leaf blower around the standing nudes
guarding my celebrated pond.
inside the backyard cabana, i used a commercial
cleaning product to disinfect all horizontal and
vertical surfaces which might have been touched
by a woman's public hair.
although it was a very private place,
i didn't want it to seem evident
that sex was on my mind or that it became an obsession.
of course it wasn't, and by placing the morning's paper
on the single canvas seat, i was disguising the cave-like
interior by making it similar to an airport waiting area.
everyone, i thought, enjoyed a good flight.
but in my haste to be neat and tidy,
i overlooked the Woman in an Armchair,
on whose lap a skinny and sharp-colored boy was being held.
he was younger and she perhaps the poet-hero older woman
full of joy with a big bronze bust and elevated forehead
which she used effectively to put holes in his heart.
i went ahead and polished that bust before departing
for the nervous streets of my hometown.
i planned to wander from one neighborhood to
the next, keeping an eye out for another discarded canvas seat.
i found one the previous summer.

a green pea

She was alive
in an elegant and secluded
hotel around the corner from
a famous church
whose name I have never known.
how she got there,
i can not guess and won't begin to try.
instead of hiding in her cozy home
and sewing throughout the day,
she unnerved friends with her untimely disappearance,
leaving no word or written explanation to
satisfy those curious few.
at first, i accepted her absence as a rumor;
however, the more obsessed among us believed she fell ill and
some even said she might be dead,
her head shrunk to the size of a green pea,
breasts flat against the wooden floor,
tiny mouth agape and lovely teeth already loose.
i went to investigate and made the trip in several
slow minutes, but she was not home, nor were there
any stray cats about or any peculiar odors to notice.
in one room, i saw new drawings and was surprised
by their highly finished aspect.
mostly, i realized, i didn't know that she knew how to draw.
her mother, who had not seen her for thirty four years,
was the owner of the hotel where my reclusive, once missing
and thought ill or dead neighbor
was now staying.
that was the latest rumor, at least as current as this afternoon,
and i, like a bloodhound on her scent, went to find her.
at the hotel, when i dashed up to the front desk and made inquiries,
a polished young man told me it was closed because
a convention was being held and all the rooms were
now filled with important monuments.
at least, that was the latest rumor.

Three Women at the Spring

if she suffered a breakdown
i didn't hear about it;
yes, she was a neighbor, but
she was a shadowy woman
who loved her sewing,
often tying herself into myriad knots.
it's possible i could still see her through the
window across the street.
she once left a rocking horse on my front porch
and a bicycle without a chain.
the bike had an Italian frame and her
name was scrawled on the down tube.
in her spare time, i knew
she planned to do nursery compositions.
she once showed me a short piece about
Three Women at the Spring which i said didn't
seem very appropriate for a theme about morality.
she insisted that i knew nothing.
to prove her point, she removed my shirt
and made it into a rag with the intention of selling it
to a New York shaman.
i can't be entirely sure, but i later heard she received a
great deal of money in that transaction.
the following rumor had it that the shaman called her a bandit,
and for months waited in ambush to be repaid.
i should walk across the road to end this silliness
since i do want to solve the mystery of her health.
and with the answer i could feel fully entitled to a few
quiet
moments
of
rest.
i'll need to remind myself to go without wearing a shirt.

The Shining in her Eyes

I've been in this position once before
Probably somewhere between the last Peace and the next World War
I saw someone beautiful coming up to my front door
And I sat thinking why does this always seem
like it's just another hazardous dream?
'Cause there's a solid pounding inside my best ear
I keep looking behind me to see if she's still here
Or over the mountains and through the foothills
And I keep getting chills and circus spills
It's a most welcome surprise
To see the shining in her eyes
To watch the spark between our fingertips
Especially when we're touching lips
And then I'm howling at the far moon
I don't want this dream to end anytime soon
And I'm left wondering if I can keep it going until the following afternoon
While near my bed by the softly glowing light
There's a little piece of candy and I reach it to take a bite
It's milk chocolate sitting on the nightstand
I hold it and it almost melts inside my hand
It has a sweetness and I have to taste it just to understand
I know I can't stay in bed forever
What time this dream ends is anybodies guess and I'm hoping it's never
I've been in this position once before
Probably somewhere between the fat cat and the new dog on the floor
When a million radio stations kept playing a tune which I never heard
I picked up the black book and tried to read each and every word
And one came charging from the pages to hit me in the middle of my nose
I saw it falling and thought, man, I want me one of those
I keep looking behind me to see if it's wearing any clothes.

One sip for the yellow dress

Let me take a quick guess.
Who is that woman in the yellow dress?
She is sitting belly up to the bar;
Under her right eye is a petite scar!
A knife fight or a friendly cat?
I'll sit here and wonder about that.
Oh, another sip of whiskey.
Pretty soon there's nothing more that I can't see:
A buffalo and a blue bird
Whispered but the crowd never heard a word.
A black President and a powdered king
Opened their mouths and started to sing
An anthem, each trumpet shop-worn in the shade.
The music grew louder but nobody stayed.
On the road a BMW threw open its' door
Killed a young man inside a neighborhood store,
Gunning the engine wanting to kill more.
A hummingbird with a ruby-red throat
Sipping sugared water read a new note:
Please bartender won't you draw me a beer
One more for the road.  I can't stand it here.
Dust in the rain drops and chill in the air
Blood on the midway of a county fair.
My crazy uncle rode his wild horse;
He started out normal but soon went off course.
Here is my beer filled to the brim:
One sip for the yellow dress and one sip for him.

President Ho Chi Minh died in 1969

And they all died!
Any further consideration would be postponed
Until tomorrow.
A total of twenty two hundred men lied!
One was big nosed Charles de Gaulle
Who was last seen sipping heaping teaspoons of arrogance along
With ripe strawberries which came from Dalat.
Who else?
The French legions at Dien Bien Phu.
That's who.
The Emperor, Bao Dai, constantly smiled 
But never went wild
when the sneaky Japanese sat eating his rice.
They weren't very nice.
Uncle Ho knew which way to go.
And millions of peasants soon followed.
The Buddhist Group went up in flames
Playing gasoline games
In the public square.
I wasn't there.
Ngo Diem was, however, along with his brother and the
Dragon lady, who wasn't very blue.
Who else knew?
In Saigon, Nguyen Van Thieu,
Continued to work on his resume.
Kennedy and the CIA
On the river's embankment,
Ordered the bogeymen into action.
And the rain might have stopped as suddenly
As it started, but the B-52s
Were just warming up on Guam,
Their cold bomb racks filled with misery for the
Vietnamese on the ground, without qualm.
It became very clear that death could drop from
Thirty thousand feet
And kill a thousand people as they sat down to eat.
Truman had no policy, Eisenhower none, but Johnson
Pulled his pants on like a true Texan.
Nixon was no Texan, but in 1972
He celebrated an early Christmas
With Henry who flew home from Paris
With a secret merry card.
On the cover it mentioned that Hanoi and Haiphong
Would not have a merry time
tonight or for the next several weeks and
Not a single word made a rhyme,
But the men acted as though one did.
Whom did they pretend to kid?
President Ho Chi Minh died in '69.
He was no friend of mine.
The US Embassy lost a sign.
It was carried away by a staffer, who jumped
On the last helicopter leaving for the coast.
Where is it now?
That's what I want to know the most.

The sweater

And when the telephone began to ring
No one was home to answer my call.
The kitchen was empty and down the back hall
The bedroom was perfumed in shades of cool pink.
In the bathroom a brown wig dried in the sink.
A weeks' worth of papers by the studio door,
Each in a wrapper dropped on the floor.
Ends and odds and cigarette butts
Turned and tossed by an obvious klutz;
A note from the laundress pinned on one shirt,
Bloodied it hung from where it would hurt.
Upstairs for ten minutes and no one could speak;
I once sat there dreaming and stayed for a week.
Breaking a fast in my mind with a start:
I wore a frayed sweater with a thread for a heart.

The Party

throbbing with guests,
the intimate deck overlooked an insignificant creek
alongside of which 5 goslings foraged for bugs in the tall grass;
nearby, the gander and his mate seemed ever watchful,
but their enjoyment of the babies was not so obvious.
party music splashing from the small house tumbled over their food search,
eventually reaching the distant courtyard where a collection of expensive cars
and hungry women sat polished and ready for action.
black humor and white pants full of deception hung in the air
inside the house where the gathered men disregarded loyalties,
went swimming to the bar and back, and repeated the same four
letter words over and over again, devaluing their own powers.
one man's huge face leaned to kiss the lips of a waiting woman who had
a nose like a giant morel and the man almost bit her, confusing the
pockmarked mushroom for a tattoo of a striped snake.
another woman in tarnished finery came from the kitchen wearing candy
floss hair and began yelling at the amorous male so he shot her a look
of puzzlement, but his confusion was likely to have been intentional.
a whirlwind of legs and laughter soon went bouncing from the front door
into the lap of all the hungry women wearing caked makeup and began guessing
where they might next celebrate the perfection of a carpenter's square.
the expensive cars were soon relocated, too.

Port Antibes with the Murphys

By the summer of twenty six
Many hotel guests ran out of tricks.
By October  of '28
Those remaining realized dinner was being served late;
Even their dessert put out to sea
Where it sank ignominiously
Like the crumbs of a banquet from the prior week.
Few looked back or cared to speak
When they saw pictures of Mussolini on every wall.
Some memories the Murphy's cared not to recall,
Like the sale of their Weatherbird boat,
Which faded with time and seemed fairly remote
When viewed from the depths of Fifth Avenue in 1942.
The Spanish civil war was over and Picasso spoke
From his studio as the levee broke
for Gerald and Sara, Scott and Zelda, and Hemingway.
In America they would all have their final say
After leaving the twentieth century of Paris in flames.
Picasso remained to continue his games!
First one wife, then two:
Countless ladies but what could a modern master do?
Meanwhile, Sara kept a rose in a tall vase in her New York entrance hall;
it was what Fernand Léger pointed to when he saw
the simplicity and exclaimed "The value of that!"
Everyone agreed and tipped a collective hat
for Gerald, who wanted to go outside to play.
He put down his brushes with nothing more to say.
He painted when he was younger, but not often or much.
He always felt he had a second-rate touch.

the modern movement

wanting to be good
i did the things i thought i should.
wanting to be kind,
i peeled the orange rind
and gave all the sections to you;
it was what i was made to do.
wanting to be brave,
i learned to shave
and shine my shoe;
it was what i was made to do.
wanting to be wise,
i sacrificed the lies
and lived a life of tragic dignity;
it was what i was made to be.

candy from the street

inside your left ear
you only hear what you want to hear
and in a hundred other places
there are a half dozen other people you want to be
some part of our times, some part of history
i used to think you were such a fine mystery
when your face was hard and lovely
but i'm a Sunday driver in my own little corner of the room
a brash young man from the country side of the moon
where the news is eaten cold and dry:
i searched without success for the bottom of your eye
from the comfort of my easy chair
i started from the absolute top and couldn't find it there
no person in the world would have that much more to spare
i threw confetti everywhere!
what a difference between a Champion and an also-ran
i picked up candy from the street with the passing of the band
and found little glances i was never able to understand
one, a heart so milked of compassion
it had no need for immeasurable passion:
now you only want to sip and taste!
but i am the detective on this case
and anything less than a big bite becomes an interesting waste.
inside your left ear
you only hear what you want to hear

a Simple Shopping Trip

She walked over the narrow bridge
She walked alone to her car
I didn't try to interfere
The distance seemed too far
There was a lonely man on her path
And I could hear him cry
When I asked for an explanation
He told me he didn't know why
I couldn't see beyond the dark cloud
A shadow had fallen across my face
When I heard her drive on down the road
She disappeared without a trace
The lonely man said he would give me a hand
I told him I didn't understand
He said sadness is nearly a laugh
A broken heart like a new birth
When life seemed to hold no value
There was always a way to find new worth
And I walked away from the bridge
I walked alone to my car
When I saw a flying butterfly
I reached and it didn't seem too far
My radio began with the news
I played with the stations but found I couldn't choose
my car started but mostly in reverse
and I began to think it seemed like a lingering curse
the tires rolled smoothly over the gravel
my life started to unravel
so I grabbed the wheel and steered
it wasn't nearly as bad as I feared
everybody waved as I drove past
there was the King and the Queen and the rest of the cast
but I kept going when they gave me their smile
I think I made it for another mile
then I saw her again in a convenience store
looking for an easy way to love once more
and there were lots of customers in her long line
each holding something that I thought was mine
I didn't try to interfere
and no one noticed when i came near.

Freddy

Freddy
Freddy
my friend, you always kept it steady
from morning sun coming around to ever ever ready
the complete showdown or a gypsy mouthful
you sang about it and made it seem so cool
white stripes, white sheets, red pants, 
hot tongue, long legs, bare chested, day long romance
the burning man didn't stand a chance
when you jumped on the world's biggest stage
adored, never bored, often locked inside a Queen-sized cage
but no matter what the London critics said
you never gave it away or lost your soul giving head
the piano dreams came with you to your final lover's bed
under covers like THE CHAMPION and it's hard to believe you're dead.
Freddy
Freddy
my friend, you always kept it steady
from morning sun coming around to ever ever ready
the first time you were early and had the crazy hair
and the young silly fillies followed you everywhere
and nice fat bottomed girls, you swept them off their feet
and pedaled under pressure and stopped on easy street
with a tight little fist in all the right places
somebody to love removed all the traces
Freddy
Freddy
as a friend you always kept it steady
from morning sun coming around to ever so steady

Practically at a Standstill

inside the door
go past the Missing in Action sign
a couple empty bottles of foreign wine
beyond her uncorked smile and the oh-so-perfect hair
if you drive another mile
she'd still be trying to get there
starting to do what many people do
in the summer or anytime
jumping her garden wall
to pick up the pieces after a great fall
worried deeply about life
playing with a Bowie knife
under the wheels of a little car
her heart tattoo a bleeding scar
resting on a railroad track
she's not looking forward
no longer interested in looking back
until early the next morning
but never completely buried
the signal light kept on blinking
she wouldn't be hurried
there were moments in her hour
like smashed seconds inside a year
practically at a standstill
i watched her shed a tear
inside the door
the highlight of her overnight trip
a sudden decision or a slip of the lip
in a hundred other places
echos could make or ruin a life
playing with a Bowie knife
under the wheels of a little car
her heart tattoo a bleeding scar
resting on a railroad track
she's not looking forward
no longer interested in looking back
inside the door
go past the Missing in Action sign
a couple of empty bottles of foreign wine
beyond her uncorked smile and the oh-so-perfect hair
if you drive another mile
she'd still be trying to get there.

What religion are you?

Are you still seeing that guy
who wears blue jeans that
(at least one of his pair)
has an obvious hole
over a knee?
There are fine
white treads
like scrambled roots
unwinding around the entire circumference
of that hole
and each time he
wears that specific pant
the hole in question is definitely larger
than it was the last time
he wore them.
Back in my day when
men really were men and
women
took their lead from what men
who really were men
had to say,
only bums or hobos wore holy pants.
So is he Catholic?

Vincent van Gogh: Painter (1853–1890)

i took my shovel from the shed,
also the wheelbarrow 

and a garden rake;
i loaded bark mulch in full sun thinking of you
sitting on a cabin porch 

overlooking a secluded lake
one could only reach with a slow drive over a rutted road
deep into the back woods of Maine.

it proved to be a long drive for a quiet time with a special book,
but you had nothing to lose 

and everything to gain.

i cleaned nesting houses for the wood ducks and chickadees,
found a fallen feather from the red-tail hawk by the slow-moving creek;
it repeatedly circled low overhead with broad hunter's wings.
the field mice sensed the danger and seemed too afraid to peek.
you asked me about Vincent van Gogh and i mentioned Theo,
as you drove away packed with gear and a GPS device
plugged into an outlet like it had been the previous summer.

you had the driver's window open for a kiss and i gave one to you twice
and i thought about that when i cut the dead evergreen branches,
scattered the mulch and the dried leaves over dry, bare ground.

there was so much work to do to prepare for a healthy garden!

you would soon hear the wild loons make their most enchanting sound.

i sat alone at my evening table while you made a distant vegetable soup
with zucchini and tomatoes and yellow corn and kale.

i read your most recent letter and would happily accept your offer,
but also knew i didn't know how to blue water sail.

i took a look at the online guides about being a Captain and a mate
and made mental notes about the purpose of each special knot
and how wind could be harnessed to propel our boat when it was in perfect trim.

i wrote you a reply in which i simply said "Yes, why not?"
and thought that together we'd get to read about Vincent and his days in Paris,
which were spent largely with his brother in a tidy apartment along a busy side street:

like he, i worked many days and weeks alone and when asked 

would always or usually say i wanted my art to feel more wholesome and complete.

and i waited for you.

do you remember this?

i'm sitting with a beer
and a fine shot of desperation.
you no doubt were with me as
we walked the cobbled streets when they were crowded.
people pushed and moved in ever so close, but we were not afraid,
although i saw you pull your purse tightly to your body.
i pointed to the church steeple
and the bright red door.
the steeple became the high point of my day!
you saw hundreds of pigeons and their droppings.
you said the fountain was full of warm water and countless pennies.
i tried to count the pennies.
the bright sun went behind a passing cloud.
i saw a man feeding the birds and he looked tough,
not at all bothered by the momentary shadow.
the hundreds of birds were hungry and scrambled for the feed.
you were careful when you walked, and told me
to watch where i stepped, since shit was everywhere.
i wanted to climb the interior steps of the church and
look out from the steeple, to see the world.
you wanted to sit at the white linen-covered table to
order a strong coffee and light up a smoke.
i saw the cloud move and so did i.
do you remember this?

Cole Porter

I tried my hand at music in 1923 but
there was no one near enough to judge me.
My dearest friend kept entertaining theories about
notes and harmonies and late night dinner parties,
and told me not to worry.
So I waited until the summer of twenty six,
when the Riviera was full of curious Americans
ready to try their hand at anything new, especially when
it included other people's feelings.
When they weren't being infuriating,
they could be affectionate, or so it seemed.
When not idle, they were off visiting small mountainside cafés,
dancing without a partner, listening to Negro
spirituals, listening to jazz played on old pianos, and
lounging on the white sands of a nearby small beach.
Their gambling was constant and, for some, almost ruinous.
A few seemed to enjoy my honest attempt at experimental songs,
but no one ever mistook me for Cole Porter,
who made a few appearances wearing his tie.
His wife, Linda,  favored serious stuff, so hated my songs.
But Cole took them largely and without suspicion,
as though they were friendly ghosts at his banquet.
He later made an important name for himself on Broadway,
as well as a great deal of money, which i never saw.
He didn't return to the Riviera, but his ballet,
Within the Quota, came appreciatively near.

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.