her home was Mississippi but she lived in Tennessee

she leapt from her chair
she sprang across the avenue
a young woman with purplish hair
she said she had no interest in going back down there
her parents were judgmental and the preacher seemed unfair
her home was Mississippi but she lived in Tennessee
she had no problems with her boyfriends but she came right up to me
and i saw her alcohol stare
felt her pinch my pretty nose
and when i failed to show any interest
she torn into my clothes
well, we didn't have time for a quarrel
i hardly knew her first name
there were plenty of country hillbillies
who loved to play her game
but i was a traveling cowboy
looking to make a quick buck
i felt life was dealing me a strong hand
but now tragedy struck
a southern woman was doing more to me than flirt
she pulled on my western pants and pressed my buttoned shirt
her home was Mississippi but she lived in Tennessee
she had no problems with her boyfriends but she came right up to me
and i saw her alcohol stare
felt her pinch my pretty nose
and when i failed to show any interest
she torn into my clothes
well, we didn't have time for a quarrel
i hardly knew her first name
there were plenty of country hillbillies
who loved to play her game.

nobody was saluting Man Ray

a silver label
of black and blue,
a solitary rock
and a bird that flew
when nobody was saluting
Man Ray
who found nothing new to say,
although he looked into his pocket
before he walked away.
the following week
in a fancy dress
he ran his hands through his Paris hair
to create another mess;
he later jumped into the night
for a cigarette or two
and as the fragrant smoke blew
he took a photograph
looking for you,
and what he found,
as the Dada band struck up,
was an old recording of a Beatles' song
and an empty cup
from the summer of '74
before the avant-garde party ended
and the final world war
found disbelieving people sleeping on the floor,
but the deed was done.
i finally walked back in
in the eyes of the watching world
and maintained my boyhood grin
when nobody was saluting
Man Ray
who found nothing new to say,
although he looked into his pocket
before he walked away.

stars like a kiss

the pink sneakers
turning on the floor
an island washing white sand
with foaming bubbles of timeless blue
there's music playing inside your head
with sun
glasses
and dances and gestures
elsewhere in the garden
there's no end in sight
with the other guests
singing
in place
spinning
in place
with no point
without beautiful songs
all around
the girls picking jasmine
the boys, too,
with flowers;
and smiles
are real mountains
shimmering
while the great oceans swim
and away in the distance
a whispering
so close by
it becomes a lovers' hug;
stars like a kiss,
resting on your quiet lips,
sparkle in the sky.

won't you pack your bags and come?

i know it's not time
there are more summer nights to come
and i can already hear a friend
playing on his kettle drum
and there's a hot campfire
near plenty of ice cold beer
i might dream of being somewhere else
but why not be content staying here?
in my small town
with the FM radio
the mountains are flat
and there's no sign of an early snow
the grass is pasture green,
the boys wear their proud red necks
the sweet girls do their square dance
jumping off backyard decks
for their big chance at romance
stopping only to laugh at simple jokes
yes, we're having a river party
thinking of ourselves as simple folks
where the back seat is a great place to meet
and bright red lip stick is a famous country music lick
for Bobbie Sue and me and you
and don't feel bad because we're not sad
it's okay to pull up an easy chair and stay
no one has to be profound or have an important word to say
the night air
gets us high and in that evening sky
the harvest moon shines for lovers
who get the silly shivers under covers
and a kiss from a favorite Miss
or a Mister, becomes a permanent memory
this ain't no time for breathless brevity
it's time for lingering by the open window
with what you know and i know
it's when swinging on the front porch
is still the best way to carry the torch
for your special someone
so, don't ask me what i've done
won't you pack your bags and come?

James Comey and the donald

Genghis Khan
would gut you
but Jame Comey like a constrictor
will squeeze the life
from your lying body;
he won't mess with your mind:
that is already worthless.
so donald, hire the best lawyers
your family can afford!
bring in your old buddies
from New York and spin
stories into golden yarns
while
your twin tower sons
spew crap out of their mouths,
having learned from you
how to prevaricate
and embarrass themselves.
but you need help,
more than they can possibly provide.
see a shrink!

remembering the songs of his youth

i had a chance meeting with an umbrella
on the town sidewalk
near the front door of a church
and we both joked about the pale blue patches
of sky
and the tiny puddles of water in the street
as the Sunday sermon was ending
a strange thief walked by
looking at us
as though we were responsible for hiding his loot
even though we didn't know it was already in the ditch
out of sight and out of reach
covered by sandy gravel
so we followed his footsteps
to the summer playground where we saw
him play with his own umbrella
making a powerful face as he tried to
turn it into a sewing machine
but in spite of all his efforts
with the thimble and the thread
only a single school of fish appeared
and
blowing bubbles they surfaced
directly into a room for smoking pot
rather than tobacco
and much later when they asked the thief
to surprise them with an artificial lake,
he put on a pair of sunglasses and went for a swim,
remembering the songs of his youth.

we all want to go to Paris!

we all want to go to Paris!
we'll dance around that terrible sound
of black gold gushing
out of the ground
& watch the tiny mad men go rushing
like Peeping Tom
through their telescopes;
the self-promoting dopes
in a tangle of dying pine trees
choking on their crooked knees
in once a peaceful neighborhood
but now we have a tragedy
and it wasn't just me
watching smoke pouring from a stacked chimney
my unbought eyes can clearly see
the ocean tides' chest high
and no one need wonder why
in the middle of the room in a wet dress
and no one has to wonder or guess
shaded lamps and warm black shadows
and so it comes and so it goes!
all the way back to the garden
when we did not draw or paint
even Eskimos feel the heat and faint
so someone has to answer questions:
who will become the Saint?
we're hopelessly muddled in a quagmire
swallowing brimstone and oak wood fire
beauty, it's been said, is in the eyes of the beholder
both the younger and the older
wildflowers wilt and green fields smolder
we're hopelessly muddled in a quagmire
swallowing brimstone and oak wood fire
we all want to go to Paris!
we all want to go to Paris!

Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man

balls on a cold hard anvil
instead of in a soft feminine hand
and that's a tremendous difference
especially for an atheist
who is already six years
into reconstructive heart surgery,
so i kept reading
with growing interest
and a head for details
of the give-and-take of a battle
which was embarrassingly brutal
except for a moment of kindness
when a nurse went looking for water.
Hiroshima was months away from
the arrival of Little Boy
and his uranium 235 slug of booze
which would be dropped
from a B-29 piloted by the son
of Enola Gay,
and the timing would be text-book
perfect,
followed by an abrupt aircraft turn
and a swirling mushroom cloud:
the cloud proved to be completely inedible.
ground zero was plotted to be near a major hospital
which immediately ceased to exist,
the patients inside never to know
how beautiful their personal pictures could become.
Fat Man,
meanwhile,
stayed in a secure cabin on Tinian island,
reading whatever he wanted
stuffing his mouth with plutonium 239
instead of LSD:
he said he didn't want to experience
Foxy Lady or have any recurring bad dreams.
a major exhibit of his works
would be on display
in Nagasaki, Japan, a short
3 days after
Enola G
put on her show for all the local dealers
and other gallery artists.
i paid less than twenty bucks for the book
and spent most of my free time between readings
holding a tambourine behind my head,
imagining a halo.

i mounted it and signed my name

and in a haze
i caught her gaze
and she called to me
and there we were
in our uniform of fur
marching in a corner of the kitchen floor
cooking up some hard noodles and something more
was boiling in the rising steam
like an ironical dream
and all i had to hang onto was a single nail
piercing the roof in a vertical space.
she leaned in and took a taste;
i happened to notice when she smiled,
her face became jungle wild
and i wanted a spoon and a tall glass of whisky.
the shadow was hers but the hunger was inside of me;
we tried to remember all that was known
as she tossed her stick and i threw my stone
but like a sorcerer's apprentice it touched nothing but air!
she set her mind to eating lunch
i needed to frame a painting but had a hunch
there might be something for me to eat as well
but i still needed to gather things to sell
to help defray the costs of the drinks and dinner
i grabbed a picture of myself as a past sinner
and in a rich-looking frame
i mounted it and signed my name.

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.