the streets of Chicago burned

where did you march carrying the flag
in the summer of '68
when the streets of Chicago burned
with a passion beyond hate?
could you hear the voice of your daddy
say "Where is my son?" "Did he die?"
before you took another breath
did you ever wonder why
there were police surrounding Lincoln Park
and a cold wind blew from the lake?
were you enrolled in a great course
or weren't you even awake
when the helicopters flew at night
and the citizen soldiers fought?
when the songs were duty to country
which were the ones you were taught?
did you turn your back and run away
as the smoke burned your lungs and eyes;
and air filled with shouts of wonder
did you hear a mother cry?
into madness with a purple heart
in the summer of '68
when the streets of Chicago burned
with a passion beyond hate
did you take a seat while other boys
in their enthusiasms played
but could not stand the growing noise
and fell silent as you prayed.

the Vietnam war ended

baby
maybe
i am not offended
that the Vietnam war ended
as it did because for my part
i gave my heart
i danced, had a drink
fell into the Mekong stink
cried, lied
felt terrified
lost my arms and feet
tasted numbness and defeat
it grabbed me by the hair
forced me into a razor-wire chair
laid me bare
until i sat dreaming
& steaming
in the afternoon breeze
muttering please
save me, honey
but i don't need your fucking money
i don't want your morning kiss
i prefer my worn mattress
and the cigarette burns on my polyester suit.

Larry Bird

Larry Bird
with much love and tenderness
and a killer jump shot
far from the hoop
a three point bomber
like a tight rope artist
an in your face dunk
and an Ovid-the-poet passer
like Apollo's first love,
the mountain nymph, Daphne,
striking fear
into the taller players hiding in treetops
unceremoniously
dreaming of defeat at the hands of the white kid
from French Lick.

Birthday Bash

was it
a backstage drama
or a pair of happy breasts seen through an open second story window
or a modern artist
displaying in a courageous manner
to her biographer?
well, the shift from memory to myth
requires a change of heart,
instead of a simple switch from Shiner Bock
to Sierra Nevada Pale Ale.
but i do remember a blue ice chest filled to the brim
with party hats
and a lime pie with an assortment of flaming candles, most
of which were dripping wax onto the peanut butter cake,
bought with small change and massively disappointing.
and while i wouldn't step into a dead man's boots,
i did drink inexpensive Chardonnay
because the price was right and the ensuing conversation
full of enthusiasm,
as was the spectacular bean salad.
a very costly link of sausage made from pure maple syrup
tasted sweet to one young musician called
Igor and his wife was Sally, who promised to use
saddle cream on his ass if he went for a bike ride
with his friend, Rodney.
Rodney was not interested.
but there were three exuberant ladies of the church who sang
in falsetto but were not really women and a dancer
who sang on an elevated stage as a real woman
and probably missed the bingo game scheduled for later.
initially it was a great blow to sit at a table which wobbled,
and i fixed that with a serving plate borrowed from an adjacent table
and no one seemed to mind;
after all, it was my birthday!
so before i ate dinner, i recited Lincoln's Gettysburg Address or, at best,
some of it
and i didn't know how good halibut could taste until i swam
away with it as an experiment,
hair flying in the breeze.

one night in a local hotel

all my friends
some in the pond
and some i don't know
what they're up to
i certainly couldn't guess
but i digress
far from the social scene
where i sit down for an evening meal
and my iphone rings
but i am not at home
with no extra time to spare
i've almost completely cut my hair
in search of further guidance
i won't answer letters on principle
my hands are nervous but they're full
pouring beer and cooking with gas
i won't drink red wine by the case
toasting the massacre of the human race
or i'll suffer horribly
reading a recent catastrophic letter
questioning whether i'll take a sad song and make it better
during a final summer family trip
to the shores of southern New Jersey
which even now seem far away
i'm often obliged to be on the east coast
where i'll spend at least one night in a local hotel
hoping in the morning i'll feel well
after wondering throughout the night about the voices of the dead
and all those snarling, biting words they said
about a lifetime of overindulgence
in very rich food
i'm sitting beautifully by my bed kneeling
with a lover asking me how i'm feeling
knowing within days i'll be on the brink of death
sucking air as though each inhale could be my last breath.

she had the last word

i managed to keep my distance
but saw my dog jump the fence
she disappeared with no time to spare
i looked everywhere
she wouldn't answer me no more
i searched the ceiling; i swept the floor
it was like a game of lost and found
but i wouldn't give up on that hound
maybe she chased an anxious deer?
well, i sat and drank a Coors beer
and thought of a ski trip to Colorado
hmmm, which way did she go?
is she still in the neighborhood?
i'd find her if i could
and finally, i saw her near some old tombstones
in a nearby cemetery filled with Masonic bones
she looked like she had rolled in fresh dirt
her mouth filled with a sugary dessert
it was an over-ripe peach from a local orchard
as usual, she had the last word.

the descent of Man

working on my health
spending the summer undercover
i'm avoiding a tongue-in-cheek lover
dealing in cheap money
i entertain thoughts of a Los Cabos honey
while waiting for the total solar eclipse
and religiously following the nightly news
i ultimately choose
to see her slow motion hips
her beautiful face flashing behind her tantalizing lips
her whisper like the horny beak of a bird
and i try to understand each flying word
but there are times when the day simply washes away
and she has nothing rational to say
i look at all the empty cigarette packs
to remember what my life lacks
and every visit to the grocery store
gives me a reason to shop for more
before
leaving for a long affair
and i wonder when i'll ever get there
i look at my old hands and all i see are bones
i fill my pockets with memories and feathers and stones
i am told over tea not to be too mean
but have already decided to leave the social scene
ten minutes is all i need
to answer her letters and start to bleed
and i take off my shoe
knowing nobody knows what i'm up to
the evenings come to visit with a Sports Illustrated magazine
but i'm already reading on my back deck and stay unseen
in search of further guidance
i swallow some Don Juan peyote and go into a trance
there's always a full moon somewhere in the distance!
and i see steady light inside my studio
so that's where i should go
to watch a film about the descent of Man
but i don't think i can.

i can't walk out

in the bright blue sky
two cone-shaped breasts
and in a series of anatomy tests
i finally satisfied my first taste
snapshots of your mysterious face
and a slender leg
well, i got down on my knees to beg
pointing my photographic head
to cool furniture and a hotter bed
and baby, on the edge of the cliff
i didn't want to be left with the questions
"What's for lunch?" or "What if?"
and you told me your favorite destination
we went for a summer vacation
a lovely dip and a delightful swim
you were laughing and beautiful and trim
and the tides gave me no room for doubt
i can't walk out
we stayed for an encore and watched the waves
in the bright blue sky
two cone-shaped breasts
and in a series of anatomy tests
i finally satisfied my first taste
snapshots of your mysterious face
and a slender leg,
well, i got down on my knees to beg;
i spent more time on the make
we had much to give and much to take
from each other
and in the end we found a new beginning,
hit a crazy streak and kept on winning,
making the rounds
in the color and texture of dark roasted coffee grounds
looking out to sea
contentedly
by a table and a little lamp,
feeling slightly damp.

the batter's box

thanks for listening
some years later
when i played second base
and caught a line drive with my backhand turned
to the pitcher's mound
and later threw a runner out at home;
it was a fetish!
a gloved defense against loss and despair
and you were there
with a wide mouth,
a question forming on the first base line:
would he make it to the pros?
like virtually all the girls
with two eye-holes and a soft heart
standing guard over my fate,
i didn't try to stave off your advances
while in the batter's box
taking practice swings at your curved breasts;
i saw your speeding vagina
coming inside high and tight
and the ump, once again, making the hand signal
for a strike, too flagrantly, i felt,
and i fantasized about pitching a no-hitter
in Yankee Stadium
when your sat on my face,
between innings,
as though i were the team bench.

listening for an encore

Sydney
and the opera house
at dawn
was singing 'Good Day' to a
regatta of sailboats
which i saw
while walking to the famous bridge
out of my way
but not too far
at the end of the summer of
1970.
for nearly a month
i waited for my flight from
Saigon;
in spite of everything,
i was able to board
and on landing
the Aussie girls were waiting
after i cleared Customs and
found my army duffle,
their big round eyes shining
brightly in fresh happy faces.
they waited to dine and dance,
to walk and talk,
to peek and probe,
to be close to me, to touch.
did i ever say how much
it meant?
and in the crisp springtime, months away,
with the opera house filled with song,
the evening harbor aglow with lights, sails and stories,
i'd be waiting under a misty jungle canopy
far to the north,
listening for an encore.

by my campfire

in Hiroshima,
it's a quiet evening
with a fiery red sun,
sitting stoically above the tall mountains
far to the east,

there are Japanese ghosts nearby
who dance in the deepening shadows.

a few years from now,
from my front porch,
looking up,
there will be fewer stars visible
in the night sky
because of persistent light pollution.

populations are expanding globally,

bringing cares and concerns and cities.

i'd rather see numerous stars than
sudden fear in any child's eyes.

there was certainly fear in the eyes of Japanese children

from Hiroshima and Nagasaki,

once.

do the adults they have become see the stars in the night sky?

these two cities have been re-born.

the children?  there are stories.

i must acknowledge Edison, perhaps,
or Tesla,
because there's darkness
beyond the nearest strip mall,
some welcome and some not so much,

but the shopping centers are fully alive with

artificial light.

it's still possible to find an absence of light,

but outside of the cities.

how far?

in parts of the Mekong delta,
for instance,
water buffalo still roam
without headlamps or streetlights,
stepping into fertile mud,
raising rice,
raising their heads with huge horns.

the Viet Minh have buried their dead
in that land,
along with their black sandals
and black shirts and black teeth.

they claimed a victory
over US Marines who came ashore at Da Nang,
splashing onto China beach like confident predators,
while keeping a watchful eye at dragon clouds
swirling atop Monkey Mountain.

the American troops were to protect innocent
civilians and corrupt Vietnamese generals
by force of arms and
with accurate shooting,
if possible with an unreliable M16.

but a Marine sharpshooter, living in the World,
sat high atop a campus clock tower
in Austin, Texas
shooting at people
far below who were
not Viet Cong
but were waiting for the Texas Oklahoma game to begin
or going about their morning business.

he might have been in Da Nang,
where killing was expected.

Iwo Jima, in the Pacific,
also had a pretend Marine,
John Wayne, a hollywood actor,
who got his feet wet in the black volcanic sand.

but he
didn't climb a clock tower to kill friends
or strangers,

even though he was said to grow a flower from a seed.

the Duke faded away, holding a stiff deck of cards,
a stiff drink,
and a smoking cigarette,
anxious to begin his shuffle toward a new beginning,
where he could act without killing,
without pretending to be someone he wasn't.

and the war to end all wars might have come and gone,
but it failed to end the madness.

the predators often eat their assigned prey,

sometimes wearing a type of uniform.

and sometimes they eat each other,
naked ambition dripping off chins like cooking grease.

i don't remember if there were any predators
at my high school back in the 1960's,
but once, at a post-prom party,
i wanted to read
The Stranger by Camus.

i was told
by a blond cheerleader i was kissing
to quit acting absurd,
and i thought that was funny!

when i met Picasso, a Spanish painter,
he told me at that exact moment,
blond was his favorite color.

the conclusion of our conversation
was a discussion about war:

we both agreed it was a sexual thing.

he liked hiding in French beach cabanas but i'd go anywhere.

the following summer i returned,
anxious to look for him.

i found that he was busy growing the nail on his little finger
while avoiding the subject of the German invasion of France,
though he did mention an earlier bombing of Guernica.

it was only after Salvador Dali
died that i took a renewed vow of sobriety,
excepting for, of course,
the better French wines which i couldn't afford.

i had seen too many ticking clocks melt into distorted shapes
like the faces of small children who
were once seen at play in the narrow streets
of Nagasaki, Japan one surprising morning
while a silver predator flew silently far, far overhead.

i read about Dresden, Germany
and that ugly fire bombing
and got sick, really sick,
as i had many times in the past

while reading about wars.

i've now been in bed writing for over a month,
give or take,
and will soon go outside for an evening walk,
hoping to find at least one
hungry stray cat,

which might once have been a tiger,
or a dog
which once upon a time was a wolf,
a type of predator,
and yet wants to be by my campfire
under a conspicuously starry sky

where we'll both howl to the moon.

we'll travel like gods

i saw a little sun
and i told my mistress
grab your overnight bags
give me a little kiss
we'll travel like gods
to another shore
to places we've dreamt of
but have never seen before
looking for a passage
to awe and inspire
a cavern of secrets
filled with romance and fire
our arms wrapped tightly,
buttocks and breasts,
no reputations to consider
like simple nomadic guests
in the spirit of the chase
laughing at the moon
we'd check in early
and check-out too soon
the highlight
as someone new might say
we'd be together
arm and arm each day
i saw a little sun
and i told my mistress
grab your overnight bags
give me a little kiss
we'll travel like gods
to another shore
to places we've dreamt of
but have never seen before.

she is myself as woman

she was running a temperature
i had a memory lapse
she held me in her master's grip
i felt my will collapse
she said we'd spend the summer
in each others' hungry arms
with a special sort of magic
and i'd fall into her charms
there were no clever whisperings
my head oddly erect
she said i wouldn't remember
but i could never forget:
i thought some things were funny
other moments seemed so sad
that doesn't mean pure darkness
there were other things i had
she said she was a sculptor
showed me a traditional bust
she said don't seem romantic
but i told her that i must
and i wrote her a love letter
in a fanciful design
she is myself as woman
and i wanted her for mine
she was running a temperature
i had a memory lapse
she held me in her master's grip
i felt my will collapse
she said i had a prideful nose
as she looked into my eyes
just a shade below androgynous
a serious disguise
she said she was a sculptor
showed me a traditional bust
she said don't seem romantic
but i told her that i must.

thankfully it feels healthy to be

i could be blind
but i continue to live and work
into my ripe old age
while in my mind
psychic forces
like the roots of a healthy vegetable, build!
the world outside my window
has moved on from draft horses
to cybersecurity and Russian hacking,
to the functioning of IBM's Watson and NASA toilets,
to the dysfunction of democratic elections,
and to what craziness is the NRA backing?
i decided to stay in bed
at least on one occasion
when the outbreak of total war seemed imminent
and an excited young Presidential press secretary said
she would send me lots of money
if i'd talk to the writers at Saturday Night Live
emphatically stating that the White House
didn't find their sarcastic jokes funny
i was thinking her suggestion cute
just as an elegant chauffeur stood
and waved his finger pointedly in my direction;
i told him i was newly destitute
and couldn't afford his first world ride.
but, of course, i lied
i was going to winter in the south
where i wouldn't have to listen to any loud mouth
offer me a competitive auto insurance loan
or a high spending limit on an airline credit card
no, i wanted a living fence growing in my yard
without the glitter and glamor
of an unsustainable corporate Thor's hammer:
thankfully it feels healthy to be
uninterested in the fate of Apple or Google
while going to bed early, cautious and frugal.

in a gentle breeze

at times intimidating
and at times fulfilling
was the lovemaking
in a gentle breeze
and what excited me the most
were the hints and the tease
the rubbing against each other
tearing ourselves to bits
in starts and fits
the intensity and the immediacy
and being uninterested in passing fashion
while totally consumed by passion
it's what i've put into my sketchbook
for a later wistful look
when i had a chance to take everything
this was the only image i took
the one to have an impact
a lasting fact
of remembrance
like opening a new door
and finding a silhouette
dancing lightly across the floor
in a ballet of sex
to mystify and perplex.

kissinger, the lover

Henry, the lover
Kiss of death
light-skinned and dare i say
foul of breath
unafraid to push people out of his way
stepping over tombstones
guilty of bleaching their bones
all in the course of a busy Washington afternoon
like a drunkard with his flask
or a junkie with his spoon
selling his mind like a whore sells her body
so filled with luminous pride
his mouth moved and he fashionably lied
infatuated with power
with an accent designed to beguile the press
who overlooked his foreign policy mess
understanding nothing beyond the fact
that he screwed them from the front and humped them from the back
their bodies entangled in barbed wire
he set them on fire
continued to make his deals
either foul or fair
he didn't give a damn or care
his favorite affair
infatuated with power
every second and each hour
and there's no room left for applause
his favorite cause
Henry, the lover
Kiss of death
light-skinned and dare i say
foul of breath.

at the Flamingo

jazz at the Flamingo
wearing dark glasses
from the deepest south
a harmonica slipping
all the way across my wide mouth
all the way down to the county line
looking for someone who's exclusively mine
winning her confidence
with my nightly dance
nude pictures dangle on the studio wall
in high heels i showed them all
in the Marquee Club
sitting on a simple chair
dressed in jewels and fine mohair
quite the dude but never rude
while live at the Pier Pavilion
the girls were very different
big eyelashes and a passing hopeful hint
a faint smile
in character and hearty morale
starched shirts and thin ties
curious make-up and stranger eyes
they watched me play my 6 string guitar
humming on the front seat of my beautiful car
and in the pub after a quick ride and tune
it was already very nearly noon
but the young ladies didn't give me a choice
they wanted to hear my sweet singing voice

The High Numbers at the Railway Hotel

The High Numbers at the Railway Hotel
playing 8 tracks
jumping jacks
hiding in a hand-dug well
can you finally tell
me WHO?
and i'll tell you why
the best damn drummer
Keith Moon
died too soon
an empty drink in his stick hand
and a rock and roll band
WHO ran out of breath
his death
a lonely mountain
pennies in the water fountain
a deaf dumb and blind boy winning
pinball swimming
not intended to be silly
Pictures Of Lily
how do you think he does it?
with smiles and smiles and smiles
I Can See For Miles
and miles and miles and miles and miles and miles.

"Get ready to get ready!"

and the sculptor said
"Get ready to get ready!"
it sounded so absurd
the interviewer had to laugh;
but he was not feeling well, either.
his face had an oily look
and his nose oozed wet,
but, sitting in a rocking chair,
he composed himself and carried on.
the sculptor had bright pink fingernails
and wore expensive Chinese extensions
which seemed to make her long neck
disappear under naturally kinky hair.
she wanted to become famous,
standing by a polished piece of rock
in her famously relaxed manner.
i sat and listened to them,
sipping pomegranate juice,
and waited to ask my questions,
but they ignored me.
"Shit," i said, "Look at this!"
and they immediately turned
and said in union
"That's not how to draw attention to pain."
i considered that significant
and quietly left the room.

Kiki de Montparnasse

kiki
who were you?
maybe the girl with the
golden shoe
at the railroad station
late one sultry night
darting in and out of sight
while dressed up like a child?
(as an artist model you were
daring and wild!)
i lowered my hand
and stuffed it in my pocket
as you went swiftly by;
i heard your anguished cry
fall upon disinterested ears!
all those living dreams and dying fears
are not faring well,
fleeing the room,
fetching a hat,
posing for a photograph,
looking this way and that
like a hungry poet
who doesn't understand
what it is to be one
and can't seem to know it.
kiki
on your return
would you burn
the words written on the platform wall?
of course,
burn them all!
to whom do they belong?
the lyrics of a 1920's song?
like bits of ribbon and cloth
and patches
and discarded matches
and candle grease.

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?