in a chaos of mouth and eyes

it was like a fire
when beauty trembled;
that's what i learned
when everything smoked
and burned
and nothing resembled
what i once knew;
even the blackbird flew.
so, i settled into my new studio;
there was no way for me to know
how to wear my dominating dress.
i saw many people who woke up to success
as well as to a cup of coffee,
but not to me.
i couldn't be entirely sure
who would enter and who would leave!
i held nothing up my sleeve.
there was no known cure
for indecision,
or for lack of precision,
or for impersonating a bull;
my dinner plate was completely full.
periodically someone would call
from their wallpapered wall
but the phone would go immediately dead:
nothing new was heard or said.
i'd draw my kitchen knife
and the hanging still life
had no way of knowing in its' zeal
what it felt like to feel
out of reach sitting on the beach
or in the grocery aisle with a contented shopper's smile:
there are enough ideas to last a lifetime.
at least that's what i learned in school.
and i'm no fool;
but i could return to my room
to indulge myself in imagery,
acting goofy and totally free
in a chaos of mouth and eyes,
his and hers smiles and lies;
and maybe i'd try to appoint
just to make a point
a bit of color, a half tint,
where all that would remain is a passing hint.

it might have been God

acting on my own behalf,
i might have been interested
in meeting God
but in the end He went to a tailor in Memphis
while i visited my sister in San Antonio;
seriously, how was i to know?
we failed to communicate.
was i too early or was i again late?
and once at home,
i removed most of my doors
and painted a few walls
a new color or two;
well, what's a man to do?
other
wise
i might have returned to my promiscuous ways
which on most days
i'm able to ignore.
i scrubbed the basement floor,
had a chair embroidered,
and determined to learn how to make bread
with The Italian Baker.
thanks, no salt and pepper shaker:
i wanted to watch the yeast rise!
well, what's life without a surprise?
my very favorite one was in 1952
when i was turning four:
my father told me we were poor
and no one would ever notice me
even if i wanted them to!
button your shirt and tie your shoe!
yes, pop.  it would eventually stop.
back then, my family had a glass tumbler,
a dust mop, a sofa of thin blue cloth,
a solitary fig,
and for my mother's bald head, a dime store wig
which made her look like an Comanche warrior,
but we had no grand idea of what comes next
we couldn't easily hide
well, maybe hope for a rising tide?
one going, say,
to the third floor
or perhaps more.
and after i went off to war
i wore a sign on my chest
which someone later showed to a local banker
and he gave me a job
but never taught me how to legally rob;
i saw money piled in a box
it was the biggest box ever seen
like in my post-traumatic stress disorder dream
and i stood mesmerized
i saw huge gold pieces
and found them amusing
but i knew deep down inside that i was the one losing.
well, i had some friends to see
and they would welcome me
and no amount of house cleaning
could replace the meaning
in that.
should i take my car
and acoustic guitar?
i was tired of wishful thinking
but my belly stayed full
well, what's life without another fool?
i remember very clearly twenty years later
the beauty of a loyal dog
who followed me when i walked:
she was always the quiet one when we talked.
she would snuggle up
while i read my book;
and when the wind picked up
i wouldn't even look.
it might have been God coming back from Memphis
or, to make this clear,
a dear
jolly man in a red suit with his flying sled
led
by a red-nosed reindeer
all coming with gifts.
i always wanted the presents,
fearful as i was of the God
and his crippling rents.

Mandolin Wind

a few patches
of hair
here and there
and color
with a hem and a haw
a bit of dye
and a passing why
a second sketchbook
is what it took
before the third
a ram's head
or a happy man
showing skin at a local park
arranging his basket lunch
ripe tomatoes and an apple
picked from the dwarf tree
the orchard nearby
beguiling and gently
Ronnie Wood smiled
"Mandolin Wind; it's wild!"
Rod Stewart
whispered not too vainly,
"It will be instantly salable!"
and my fruit dish
brimming with flavors
was my first of that summer
i arranged the table cloth
with clean napkins and a large paper plate
which made me feel great
an additional instrument
was her soft voice
a 12 string
with a melodious ring
rather more subdued
than the British rockers
her outline in muted colors
tickled the fine grass
she peeled my apple
and gave me a piece
i grabbed a tomato
and watched what happened
when i gave her a squeeze;
she said please
and we talked for almost a hundred years.

painted like a kiss

the woman's smaller face
and huge breasts
painted like a kiss
on my bedroom wall
so i kept looking
and guessing
and looking again
it was only
a few months earlier
and i was doing a lot of work
a whirlwind of legs
a whirlwind of writing
confetti on the floor
cigarettes like wild mushrooms
on the backyard deck
wine bottles
and corks
and a cheap silk bowtie
underneath a turquoise umbrella
wearing an outrageously starched shirt
they turned out to have more in common
than might have been thought
i blamed myself
for the visceral images
in my mind
drawn from an adolescent prankster
who had given way to a more dramatic
allegorical still life of a man
his tiny arm clutching a pen
like a thunderbolt
like a beach towel
with the figure of Jupiter on top of it
and a clock wound down to the gum line.
have you seen the latest movie
about an alien world
with a hidden agenda,
stripped of any significance
an economic system slowly disintegrating
like a useless utensil?
lastly, her lips were bright red
glossy with temptation
two pieces of a puzzle
hiding from prying eyes
but open for my own.
it would soon be summer and the
celestial weapon of the sun
might burn my skin
but i could use her bust to hide my face
like a carpenter's square can hide
an angle,
and we'll become oranges
sucking all the juice we can
from life,
like architects
who imagine the fantastic.

a woman in his lap

a large house
in a large garden
and flowers,
a great many hours
of spring time showers
a lazy dog
with psychic power
licks the kitty
outside of the nearest city
and in the end
he got little
but another cat fight;
the leading light,
despite bouts of manic drinking
and attempted thinking,
was a busted
but trusted
college grad
at times both happy and sad
who cleaned the litter box
washed socks
searched the sky for Venus
played with penis
confessed in autobiographical writings,
his entire face covered in stainless steel,
exactly how he wanted to feel
many a morning
without warning
when he had to get back down to earth
satisfied that he knew exactly what he was worth
dancing to ragtime
Louis Armstrong
what more could go wrong?
he had the lucky number seven
like trying to live in heaven
black tiled floors
minimal chores
cafe chairs
an abundance of greying hairs
phone calls not returned
piles of wood unburned
until an alfresco dinner one winter eve
with nothing up his sleeve
but there was a passing rumor
of black humor
sitting by the fire,
a woman in his lap
considering a nap
after having given a kiss
one he especially liked to taste
her lips around his waist,
and he could hear her sighs,
see her vaginal eyes
sparkling like a unconventional art lover.

what more did we need to know?

and the other ballet
it came and went
like some other day
but not tomorrow
and not today.
what should i say
to back up my claim
that there's very little to lasting fame?
you certainly can't remain
dreaming in the south of Spain
taking pictures on the distant beach
far out of reach
from what all the teachers' teach
as they blend stories into time;
hey brother, can you lend me a dime?
so sensitively in a long soup line
i hear a starving man speak!
he wouldn't be returning for another week
and you didn't fare any better
i threw away your attempt at a romantic letter
when i noticed it was left unsigned,
but i had already told you i resigned.
we had a famous scene from a cancelled show;
what more did we need to know?
you wore a mask and an old swim suit
and had friends who told you you looked cute.
i went to work playing on my flute
and it was bad enough
our exchanges seemed just like trading stuff
when we went from easy to impossibly tough,
like two gods clustered around an old piano
and what we knew we really didn't know
our mistake was beautiful but it came to an abrupt end
like passing the coffin of a dying friend,
i see your silhouette out the back door;
not necessarily what it meant once before.
a crucified Christ sits upon the floor
and it would be hard to overlook
his written words in an unfinished book
but that was then and this is now
you went shopping and i refused to bow
and then somehow
the center shifted and the roadshow began
you took a walk while i ran
and the other ballet
it came and went
like some other day
but not tomorrow
and not today.
what should i say?
we had a famous scene from a cancelled show;
what more did we need to know?

Watergate was playing again

the faithful jester
came to the podium
and gave his spiel;
i expected him to do no less!
in gratitude,
i said he seemed real,
but he was a phony
dispatched to lie and cheat
and do whatever,
while the star of the show
stayed hidden out of sight,
trying to act clever.
he ate two scoops of ice cream
and fired the Director of the FBI
before ten.
the public heard the news
and wondered if Watergate
was playing again.
but this was a new ballet
with gestures of the hands,
a dance of deceit
with obstruction and ego
tossing ethical standards of conduct
out into the street.
and to cure a headache
i asked the Russians to explain
what they knew;
they said to check the tapes,
the tax returns,
and how his modest fortune grew
into a mighty pile of dough;
like a mountain topped with snow;
like a belly filled with sweets.
he stands and greets
his interviewer with a smile
and says
"i'll let you live for a little while
and your news is fake;
my supporters are the reason
i'll never be tried for treason
or for being incompetent"
and in that he finally spoke some truth.
James Comey before he was axed
said the boss wanted loyalty
and wouldn't accept simple honesty.
the CIA
stayed inside to play
and an independent investigation
might be launched or might be killed
and the waiting public
being conned
were no longer acting thrilled.
it was a time for the adults
to clean the romper room
to end the dangerous show,
but they couldn't seem to agree
on a single unifying direction
in which to go.

east front street

ah, and with a quiet breath
out of my depth
i found myself over my head
remembering the last words you said
rolling with the punches
making guesses
playing hunches
playing without you
but it's not what i'm looking to do
i'm just a guy asking myself why
there's no easy street
no short cut to the top
no pie in the blue sky
still can't get my dream to come true
i'm looking out for myself
but i'm looking for you
feeling blue
i'm painting the town red
remembering the last words you said
in the dark whispering
east front street
will we meet?
and i'm hoping the lights change
life's strange
but
still can't get my dream to come true
i'm looking out for myself
but i'm looking for you
running while standing still
trying to chill
trying hard to keep my nose clean
it's hard not to be mean
the tables are turned
how much have i've learned?
rolling with the punches
making guesses
playing hunches
playing without you
but it's not what i'm looking to do
i wonder why won't the sun shine
you once told me you were mine
now i'm walking with empty pockets
and you're still on my mind
behind the door i'm standing
for you to find
there's no lock
no ticking clock
i'm painting the town red
remembering the last words you said
in the dark whispering
east front street
will we meet?
and i'm hoping the lights change
life's strange
rolling with the punches
making guesses
playing hunches
playing without you
but it's not what i'm looking to do.

Miss Liberty & Masters of War

and on their way,
fully dressed to kill,
up and over the top of Bunker Hill
they climbed the Stairway to Heaven
for a better view of the steel woman with spiked hair;
they knew she was there
with flames in her right hand,
as she talked to a former lover
a month before his unexpected death
when he tried to run but ran out of breath.
and peering closely, the gum shoes joined arms to see
the woman urgently singing on the stage of Bohemian Rhapsody
the songs "Tired! Tired!"
and "Poor! Poor!"
her eyes falling away from her forehead
when she laughed at them and wished them dead
crowded together on their ludicrously small perch.
they guessed she must be a Black Magic Woman
when she disappeared behind tight lips
and the passing sailing Wooden Ships
only to reemerge in a swirling cloud of fog
fashioned in the image of Miss Liberty
hoping for a complete victory
when she hit them on the head
in an attack so vicious
they bled for several hours.
i'm convinced had they not meddled
Another Brick in the Wall
would not have been made to fall
and she would have seen them stoned on
Cocaine and not political power
In The Midnight Hour.
the new Sultans Of Swing finally got a hint
and began yelling back,
but never really understanding
they were now on the wrong side of the history track;
her copper tablet came crashing down on
each man's head,
demeaning them as well as their friends
who stood helplessly by,
too afraid to cry,
too cast down by misfortune to even smile.
the Masters of War, as they now came to be known,
wished the woman away,
made a daily effort to pray
and tried to stop the press,
made everyone else guess
what they had up their sleeve;
they wanted the electorate to believe
anything their crazy leader said
or did
even when he blew his lid;
and in the ensuring riot,
a momentary quiet;
an Immigrant Song
like steam rising above a spreading chestnut tree,
huddled masses yearning to breathe free
spread from sea to shining sea
in a slow dance winding through the streets,
within concrete canyons,
over fertile fields of plenty,
no one dressed to conform
looking for
a Shelter From The Storm.

what will my country do?

codependence
or are you sitting on the fence
since we've come a long ways
fighting from the roof tops
listening to the conductor call out the stops
exiting and entering the maze
when it seemed the right thing to do
we ran from the false gods and embraced the rational true
and so i have a passing question for you
are you willing to gamble on a roll-the-dice ramble?
are we living in a free land with rules
or are we only consumers and slaveholder's tools?
well don't look around
the little guys might be stealing your ground
obedient small men are sneaking up without a warning sound
and they'll grab you by the scruff of your neck
toss you complaining and shrug "Well, what the heck!"
they'll sink the ship of state and hang you on the quarter deck
and it could be a fine Sunday and you'll hear your neighbor curse
but the priest is a sinner and his bishop is much worse
a child abuser and a known mysterious user
but the president is the greater fool
using his ignorance like a tyrants penetrating tool
his boys with their guns come knocking at your door
and it's no use hiding on your bedroom floor
there's no safe haven anymore:
they hear you talk and watch you walk
and if you don't complain
you'll be forever stuck in the slow lane
they're passing gas and passing fast
and the stink is like a big city garbage dump
well, Mr donald j. trump
women are more than a piece of meat to hump
and the rule of law
is more than a missed phone call:
i'm gonna take my dog to the nearest mountain top
if she sees a running rabbit she'll never stop
i'll have water and a bite to eat
a sunshade hat to ease the afternoon heat
and i won't miss you
but what will my country do?

before leaving for the summer

before leaving for the summer
i watched a film about Woodstock
and heard the White Rabbit music by the Jefferson Airplane
but when night fell it began to rain
and it rained for forty days and forty nights
i had an itinerary and booked my flights
saw a few friends pass California grass on their hand-rolled time,
Brother, can you lend me a dime?
and rolled slowly down to a hot food tent
where i was politely asked to pay the farmer's rent
i said there must be a mistake
no one is having a bad trip listening to the Grateful Dead!!
there are innocent babies sleeping in a nearby bed
and the jungles of Vietnam are thousands of miles away
American soldiers are being killed there
while Buddhist monks continue to pray
high on a shining mountain
at the intersection of hope and despair
tens of millions of gentle people camping through the 60's wearing
nothing but long hair
not far from the New York Thruway
and the Golden Gate bridge
a country fellow on the Choctaw Ridge
welcoming Earth Day
all across the nation
people smoking homemade love
as did the Peace dove
so i grabbed my bags when you finally reached me
i saw the sparkle in your eyes
better than any early morning Christmas surprise:
and in the winter we'll stack our wood for the fire
filling shelves with our better Selves.

the best i have eaten

there were Two Nudes
and a golden doodle
and they did more to lift my spirits
than Johnny Walker and his wife
who frequently lived in the apartment above my
basement shop.
i dealt in paintings of Old Masters,
sometimes being confused
by what i was looking at,
trying to divine the notion of movement
which is a quality i value.
i've often wondered if Adam and Eve ever saw
an apple tree in a classical garden?
or did the clever serpent finally achieve a likeness of a poet?
there is little to be learned from the reviews
of my life
and the orphan that went to school alone
with his Donald Duck lunch box
reminded me
to always suck on a monumental scale,
as he handed me an unused cube of sugar.
i still have that cube, hidden in my bedroom closet.
yet i was embarrassed by a feeling of
emptiness,
but it never filled me completely;
i often shouted when reading instead of
using my whispering inside voice.
and the terrible war had ideas that i tried to avoid
because boys should not hit other boys,
especially strangers
who may have wounds or may not.
i once met a black cat sleeping on my kitchen carpet
and several fish that i had adopted
but then i got lost on my afternoon drive into
the smallest near town
looking for a change in direction,
and the very next time i was washing dishes,
the cat was nowhere to be found but the fish were
nearby
reading a Julia Child cooking book.
everything changes according to circumstances
and the dinner that night was the best i have ever eaten:
it was grilled red snapper and the woman stayed close
while she ate her ripe red strawberries.

we weren't going to go anywhere

i'm gonna give you the latest word
and it'll probably be the worse thing you've ever heard
but it's better than a field knife
taking away your precious life
or that stale oatmeal cookie
the day you decided to play school hooky
or the afternoon we watched the rising moon
by our secret lakeside shore
when we heard about the start of yet another world war;
we meditated on the bloody grass,
skipping class,
and we feared they would take away our fine horse.
but of course
there are better ways to die,
kissing the sky!
you and i kept wondering why
the stars came out at night;
for a moment things seemed to be alright.
a breeze blew and we tried to stand tall
it wasn't an easy thing and i saw you fall
there was a moment when i almost lost my shoe
but we lost ourselves and didn't know what more to do:
too many men came into our tent and wouldn't go away!
they read a proclamation which gave them permission to stay!
we wouldn't allow ourselves to pray
but in your bag you found an American Indian arrowhead
while i pretended to be dead
you sang your song and washed your hair
we knew we weren't going to go anywhere
and in the latest news
we heard how young lovers with nothing to lose
in the City of Men are encouraged to choose
between darkness and the ever more growing dark:
a strange walk in an overgrown park.
you sang your song and washed your hair
we knew we weren't going to go anywhere.

he couldn't even tie a shoe

there is little to be learned
from his rallies and all the pompous talk;
i adopted a wait-and-see attitude,
wondering if he could walk the walk
but he didn't know a thing or two:
he couldn't even tie a shoe.
too much of a chauvinist
and too well-known to be a mechanic,
i waited in the wings far from the party,
calmly breathing to avoid panic;
i was horrified he'd be a fool:
drain water from the public pool.
and now we know the story;
the large portrait is a picture of HIM
without any cogent plan for anything;
he keeps promising WIN WIN WIN WIN!!!!
but he didn't know a thing or two:
he couldn't even tie a shoe.

at Harvard

and to reinvent myself
i became a dog
not just any dog
but a world-class product
of high quality egg
and slippery sperm
who would head off to Westminster
with my parents
who had
settled in Paris many years ago
when rents were cheap and croissants
plentiful.
i imagined the promised land
and didn't know if i would get there
but i was an instant success
with the ladies of the street;
i was handsome, cultivated, and able to
control my bladder-as long as
my mood was good.
i aspired to live a life
that would be the envy of artist and star dogs,
working like a dog.
i would sniff out a bitch who was beautiful, intelligent,
creative, and fertile;
she had to be a good mother to the pups,
and would recognize my fundamental
soundness and pedigree, entrusting
her fidelity.
i carried no trace of my former life as a homo sapiens,
since my apprenticeship as a dog was very productive and short,
and sweet, too.
i found i
actually liked peeing outside and i did it
in a hard-edged style, three legs in the air;
it would have been out of character to use a toilet.
years later, i became a circus clown, after
having studied architecture at Harvard.
i was the first dog to get accepted there.
ah, it's a dog's life.

from room to room

one heart
with four chambers
the blood moves from room to room
it comes in at midnight and leaves at noon
but you don't have to be wealthy
to be healthy
one knife
with four twists
the pain stabs at the quiet soul
it penetrates and leaves a deep hole
but you don't have to seek wisdom
to realize
there comes a time when the size
of your hat
isn't really where it's at
and all the sacrifice
wasn't all that nice
there comes a time when the hands
of your clock
take a walk around the block
and all the secret care
doesn't get you anywhere
which means,
it seems,
that i fell flat on my face
and you decided i was a basket case
then things got messy
it didn't help when i got dressy
and sang on the public stage
you locked me in an anxiety cage
and juggled the key
is it any wonder i no longer wanted to be me
and you
still with good health
sat me on the kitchen shelf
but my bread wouldn't rise
my swollen eyes,
with a glass of whisky near my lips,
whispered your name between sips.

making our own weather

it was in a mocking spirit
that she said to me
she wanted to be free
to climb any tree
in the forest and at dawn
i was already gone
packing a bunch of stuff
wondering if it was enough
to see me through
but i had a great view
of the fields ahead
and remembering what she said
i shifted my load
continued tramping down the road
wondering what else could go wrong?
i heard a harmonica play a comforting song
and saw a man climbing up his extension ladder
he couldn't reach the top but what did it matter?
he seemed to be satisfied
so it wasn't for me to ask him about pride
and if i did he might have lied
or he might have pretended not to have heard
i didn't want to have the last word
i was afraid of being confused
feeling wrapped up, tossed out or abused;
and then there was a dog who started to tag along
she shook her head as though i was doing something wrong
it just seemed to me she was acting like a judge
i didn't know her but already held a grudge
i quickly learned she wanted to be fed
and when nightfall came she stayed near me in my bed
she had no name that i could find
when it became dark i became totally blind
and yet in the morning i found she was quietly sleeping by my side;
it wasn't for me to ask her about pride!
so down the highway we went together,
blowing like tornadoes making our own weather.

Brazil

Brazil
baby

Rio de Janeiro
Campinas
Cocal
São Paulo
Itaguara
Rio Claro
Belo Horizonte
São José dos Campos
Feira de Santana
Itaquaquecetuba
Paraisopolis
Teresina
Feira de Santana
Londrina
Curitiba
Maua
Arrifana
Carapicuiba
Catanduva
Belém
Recife
Porto Alegre

Brazil
baby
on the Atlantic coast or the interior
wild and delightful
enticing
the carnival parade
the beach
a son of
Portuguese or daughter
of the full moon
dancing with
easy hips
sweetly to the samba
from the regional batuque
and Sabrino Sato
laughing echoes
in the far distance
the Amazon
the mystery in plain sight
a multiple vastness 
the aroma of
home cooking
which tantalizes 
hot music and heat
body sweat on the frontier
wildness in the street
the naked beach
energy in a footstep
the perfume of love

they all come to look for America

My generation
on the road again
let us be lovers
counting the cars on the New Jersey turnpike
soul sacrifice
summer of love
the hippie movement
white rabbit
FREEDOM
one two three four
what are we fighting for?
Arlo
walking down the line
The Who
we're not going to take it
strawberry fields forever
Timothy Leary
turn on
tune in
drop out
Civil Rights
Voting Rights
Housing Rights
ten years after
with a little help of my friends
i'm going home
country joe & the fish
moon walk
Neil Alden Armstrong
Janis
Grateful Dead
on the road again
back to the garden
let's go get stoned
Jimi
a change is gonna come
mother earth will swallow you
Blackbird
don't let the man get ya
wooden ships
a long time coming
one day at a time
born on the bayou
i put a spell on you
southbound train
idiot wind
America

waiting for the next picture show

so we're gonna go slow
waiting for the next picture show
hey, Joe
she taught me what i needed to know
on the nearest high hill
(where) she showed me her special skill
and it was a wonderful surprise
made me open up my sleepy eyes
hey, guys
she's a woman who takes but gives it hard
she'll deal in her own backyard
but that's not her only playing card
she'll comb your hair
(and) you'll want to climb the nearest stair
up to Heaven for a better view
there's so much more you'll want to do
(when) she wraps her arms completely around you
and from somewhere there's a quiet voice
says "Did you really think you had a choice?"
hey, boys
her street name is Mabel
there's plenty of food left on her table
and maybe you'll think it's alright
sitting down with a hearty appetite
don't worry, you won't have to check the books
she'll give you her bedroom looks
but there will be plenty of sharp hooks
and you'll need to stay alert
her love gives comfort but can really hurt
(and) you think you'll win but you can lose your shirt
so we're gonna go slow
waiting for the next picture show
hey, Joe
she taught me what i needed to know
waiting for the next picture show.

and that guy

i saw you on the street
walking down memory lane
there was no threat of thunder
no chance of rain
and there were people smiling
laughing voices filled the air
when i saw you slowing
i shouted "Stay right there!"
and remembering us together
i whispered movies and the old dance hall?
Sally and Wendy,
Peter and Paul
popcorn up the nose,
much more of this and some of those
and scary stories and pillow fights
post-prom parties
and chocolate delights:
your eyes gave you away
i saw you wanted to stay
you still had the sweet smile
we lingered for awhile
as the traffic lights turned
well, what have we learned?
you went inside a store
and i wanted to know more
but the evening was coming on
soon there'd be another dawn
you'd see in your mind's eye
a brief moment in time and that guy;
i'd have the aroma of your freshly-washed hair
looking around but you wouldn't be there.

she talked and talked

you've heard of the lady who walked
into the pool
and fell face down
no, she wasn't a silly clown
she wasn't fat but neither was she cool
her cell phone was stuck in her ear
like a cutting spear
she talked and talked
she should have been watching where she walked
someone said her legs were flashy
someone thought her hair looked trashy
when she hit the water she seemed surprised
someone said she needed to be analyzed
but she didn't miss a beat
she was dripping water but got to her feet
that girl was totally soaking wet
she either lost a bet
or lost her connection to reality
i heard she walked into the spreading chestnut tree
her nose was black with shades of purple and blue
her dress was torn but her cell phone seemed new
she said she was tired and lost her way
eating cake and talking all day
her ear was swollen like a sperm whale's lip
someone said she talked in her sleep but that wasn't hip
in her car her phone stayed taped to her head
she drove so slowly it was easy to hear everything she said
her cheeks blushed and her teeth grew large
she talked her way onto an ocean-going barge
someone said she lost her pants
so what?  she talked all the way to France
she bumped into the famous Eiffel tower
she said it was the late hour
and too many men following her around
she turned up the volume of her sound
i saw her talk to a buttered snail
she ate the head but left the tail
she talked about her sensitive mouth
she said she'd feel better if she went south
in Africa she fell into a watering hole
and talked and talked to the far North pole.

At The Other End: Bob Dylan, 1975

i saw your face by the brickyard wall
you stood tall but still looked small
with one eye wide on the old piano
it was the night of a new moon
the piano was black and perfectly out of tune
they gave you the last call
the house bouncer, who was a struggling poet,
stood to read your latest stuff
but he didn't really know it
he had tattoos across his etched forehead;
his girlfriend's face was incredibly tough
one glance from her and i almost dropped dead
soft guitar notes filled the smoky air
i felt like a drunk beneath a midnight New York bridge
but i knew you wouldn't care
your pen was busy with a German beer in hand
Allen Ginsberg laughing by your side
a Buddhist symbol on his neck he once tried to hide
his boyfriend a member of your current band
in his grasp a silver flute 

his face alluringly cute
i asked you for a hurried autograph
you abandoned me on the winding path
you muttered something about having too much pride
your buddy Jesus when He awoke asked you for a Heavenly ride;
you said it was time for him to go
Patti Smith, yes, she wanted to give him some really good blow
and his giant rock trembled and the dirt floor shook
he figured i stole your seventeenth century Italian poetry book
but a hand-rolled cigarette was the only thing i ever took
i heard you howl and curse and saw you pound the stage
and jumping outside from inside his lonely cage
wild William Burroughs got so damn crazy mad
he burned his book but you kept the final page
and the ladies-in-waiting pretended to be sad
no amount of money could ever make them glad
Mr. Tamborine Man seemed to be my only loyal friend
he came to my emotional rescue
i asked him what should i do?
he came to watch the late show At The Other End
i came out from the bottom to the now-where-am-i top,
heard your old songs of liberty and mild abuse
that tore Old Dixie Down and finally cooked the golden goose
well, they never seemed to stop
now i know why you ate the yellow cocktail fruit
wearing nothing except your Minnesota birthday suit
when you took a lady across your big brass bed
used ten words to keep a hundred thousand people fed
and all that next winter your handwriting paved the way
sweet Joan Baez knew better than to stay!!
her river flowed with loose debris and hard ice
you didn't even try to be that nice
your skies remained cloudy and grey
for once you didn't have anything clever to say
but no matter what you did or how you eventually fixed your hair
the times they are a'changin everywhere
the times they are a'changin everywhere.

i'll wander mostly out of sight

the dwarf danced in the courtyard
as part of a mock bullfight
late one summer night
while his partner with her fancy leather strap
sat in his tiny lap
and held on tight
they were quite a sight
for the assembled crowd
who became fans of this new ballet;
at intermission, everyone grabbed a bite to eat
and were heard to say
"hell, there's no one here to pray;
we might as well settle in for a longer stay"
and even though the house was packed
the landlord wanted to toss them out
but he was quickly sacked
and went away.
a fevered applause grew into such a maddening clamor
so no one heard when a stage hand struck his golden hammer
on the shaking floor boards
and soon more and more hordes
of delighted people acknowledged the popularity
of dancing at night under a fragrant tree
with wild bands of roving gypsy
and priests wearing starched white vests
and ladies of the evening pushing up their breasts
so much that they shook violently!
a special trance descended completely
and it soon became clear
that an invitation to attend would always be considered dear;
no one would ever have to guess
there would be no code for how to dress
the bullfight would be so ornate
nobody would ever come in late
it was soon accepted and unanimously agreed
no one would perish before they were freed
all the people said they were fairly certain
the show must go on even without a fancy curtain
and that was more than forty years ago and now what little i know
is in my old age all the mindless rage is blinding me
and like a lonely maitre de
i'm hoping to be set free
in the dancing courtyard late at night
where i'll wander mostly out of sight
it won't matter if I'm wrong or right
when the gypsy hands me a drink and asks me what i think
i'll simply say sometimes it's nice to pay the dues
and sometimes it's nice to put on the dancing shoes.