The White Rose

they said
"Stop it, damn!"
but with pamphlets in her hand
the university student ran
down a poorly lit Munich street
where no one stood to greet
what she knew
to be true;
and they wanted her dead:
they cut off her German head,
tossing it on the 3rd Reich floor,
and soon several more
who refused to eat Hitler's bit
got hit
with a similar fate.
were they too early or too late?
The White Rose
knows
that each voice
makes a choice,
some to take a stand
and others to hide their head in the sand.
what to do?
you?

but joey, i gave it my best

i don't want to scream
but joey
you're a nightmare instead of a dream
sticking fish hooks into my chest
too bad i gave it my best
so, walk a mile in my shoes!
do you know anything about the English poet Ted Hughes?
he's not some mild hoax
not a cheap target for your lame jokes
not a London tart without a heart!
could you guess
he's a genius?
no, but too bad
am i starting to sound rather sad?
a puff of frigid air up your ass
might fill you further with gas
and see the white rabbit stand fully alert
no, i wouldn't want you to get hurt
but joey
seriously dude
why so rude?
since you can't see infinity at least comb your tangled hair
remove the diapers for a pair of clean underwear!
but joey
i'm not undressed;
nor am i impressed
with your version of a cooked goose or seductive eyes
it's not me standing in central Paris wearing a cheap disguise.
it's you
i want to review.

fuck your AR-15

there was a flying fish inside a brown bottle
waiting on the street corner
and the night was cold where i sat.
looking out my window, i saw hard rain come
pissing down like blood.
i earlier heard on the news about the students
running from their Florida class
and yet their story seemed old,
but i'm giving it one more try to pull on my shirt
before someone else gets hurt.
on the radio, sweet Jane sang to a guitar player on a distant stage
while trapped inside her cage:
a puzzled President who kept her there
sent his fleeting thoughts and a insincere prayer,
but his real bag seemed totally empty of care.
in Parkland, the angry children began  to run,
confronting the bastards who were aiming a loaded gun
at the beauty of the noon day sun.
people screamed at the satisfied fat cats
who dressed like robotic beady-eyed rats
scurrying down narrow hallways in the political dark,
their toothy grins resembling a sneaky tiger shark
looking for public places to hide;
they shuffled into polished chambers with hungry mouths and lied:
more children and their parents cried.
there was a flying fish
inside a brown bottle
and it was hard to swallow,
like a bloated promise filled with hollow.

the bear would make a dandy rug

the bear sniffed the tree,
scratched at the old bark,
twisted loose a white grub,
and acted very macho with his red teeth.
he ate some early spring flowers,
sniffed a running doe,
sneered at a low flying eagle,
and shit over small blades of grass,
seeing that they were softly green but in need of other color.
he fancied himself a possibility!
he had no difficulty tearing into the earth:
his sharp claws were recently polished when he
evaded capture
by hiding inside a troll farm near St. Petersburg,
his identity disguised behind bad breath
and a fake accent filled with slavic vowels.
he whispered to one of the frustrated American hunters
"You can't catch me!"
and it wasn't the first time he narrowly escaped,
but this hunter wasn't nervous or sad.
he had heard similar words,
and they again fell on ears still listening
to The Battle Hymn Of The Republic
and bits of Abby Road by the Beatles.
only the lucky few who had knowledge of the
hunter's tools knew what he had planned:
the bear would make a dandy rug.

Woman in an Armchair

the woman in an armchair
with a large, fat dog,
was terrified of animals.
she had to be careful not to leave
any spare food on her front porch;
a passing cat would steal the meal,
or a fox would grab an egg.
the egg would be whisked away,
eaten at a later moment,
raw and uncooked.
but the woman never tried to conceal the egg,
despite the worry etched on her face.
she had stolen treasures stashed in her
huge closets, along with any extra clothes.
she had to be careful where she stepped
when the lights were turned down low;
cleaning was done only once a month,
but with the same old broom.
a little walnut piano sat in one corner
near the sunroom, by the fireplace.
a faint smell of ivory would waft
whenever anyone played an African song.
although she was always happy about
one thing or another, her most favorite things were
necklaces, bracelets, and ceremonial masks.
she wanted to maintain face,
even while having an afternoon tea.

Gery Pieret

in a small room

in the basement of The Louvre

near a sleepy guard

i took possession of a 

small stone head

which was chiseled

white and brown

without apparent prejudice

in a tribal way far less modern

but no less real

than a working windmill

near the Bateau Lavoir

and it must have been

close to 1907 at all events

and i was hungry and inspired

and put the statue under my arm

arranged my heavy coat

raised my collar

walked out silently

and that is how i remember it

before i sailed for California

and became a cowboy

riding on an Apollinaire saddle

into the surreal sunset of a western sky.

"Fuck you, you Jew son of a bitch!"

a Kennedy is dead, but which one?
the shooting was in the news,
it was American made,
and the FBI searched low and high,
but found not a single straight line.
immediately, a law and order shout
smacked into the crowd of angry people,
caused the ensuing phenomenon,
and all the screaming
political conventioneers
became delirious.
red blood ran in the streets to become the color of dried blood.
i remember George Wallace carried the deep south
with his Atlas racist mouth
while his running mate, Curtis LeMay, had sensible people
running for newly built nuclear bomb shelters.
so who had the bigger button?
later, Nixon, the tricky political junkie who
overdosed on his own hubris,
conjured ghosts of the Civil War from a foggy bottom
while tripping over weathered confederate tombstones,
yelling into his hot line to the war criminal
Kissinger, a fancy secretary of state
interested solely in his own legacy.
Gerald Ford as president acted like an old
pickup truck burning morning toast
although there was that thing with East Timor,
and the pardon and pardon me for mentioning it.
and skipping ahead, Donald Trump lost the popular vote
but became a celebrity apprentice and commander-in-chief
with his small hands and big mouth
cursing shit hole people who
seemed proud to be from shit hole countries
other than Manhattan, New York, America.
he won an election, barely, taking his hairy comb-over to the top floor
of the white house,
along with his kids and Michael Richard Pence of Indiana!
and this should have terrified everyone:
tolerance and equality started acting like flushed poop,
swirling down in a purple haze,
like a last breath with Jimi playing his crazy guitar,
his teeth biting into the Star Spangled Banner
like angry victims of mindless prejudice.
i remember i wore my sandals to Vietnam,
as it was hot in southeast Asia in the late 1960's,
and i brought them home in one piece
in the early 1970's, after the Embassy attack,
but couldn't get anyone to autograph them.
i'm still asking for signatures, wondering why
so many of my contemporaries didn't become more liberal,
but then neither did their parents, so the upbringing was successful.
old prejudices never die,
like old soldiers
they just fade away,
along with the hippies from Woodstock
and the Summer of Love.
once, we all heard Lyndon Johnson say "i will not seek and i will not accept..."
and then he died at his ranch in Texas, old and alone except for Lady Bird,
long after Jack Kennedy died in Dallas, with Jackie by his side,
not too terribly far to the north.
i heard someone shout
and it was again suddenly the summer of 1968,
"Fuck you, you Jew son of a bitch,
you lousy motherfucker, go home," and i was in Chicago
and Richard Daley, the city mayor, moved his thin scoundrel lips
as he sat with his henchmen under the hot air balloons
stretched to limits unusual for a Democratic convention!
he displayed some nerve
as he drew a sharp white finger across his throat:
he looked directly at Senator Ribicoff!
so who had the bigger button?

his red beret

with a yellow sun and a brilliant green sky,
this small village
on the Mediterranean coast of France
has blue boats and streaks of hot sand

fish in wet nets at dawn on a busy beach

deep-teal color in the harbor's water.

a tall man wearing his red beret
carries two easels,
one with tiny points of paint across the stretched canvas.

his wife sits in a rented room.

old cobbled streets

a steep hill to climb,
and a narrow view from the open window.

Collioure,
summer of 1905:

warm!

and it rained in July.

Vlaminck held the letters which he read
over and over:
the wild beasts had escaped!
one certain mustache,
unshaven,
pipe in mouth;
another with glasses the better to see invisibility.

unnatural minds,
looking without success for dark shadows
while finding light,
intensely,
vividly,

pointing to open space on a splendid line,
while the fish were eaten whole.

in Naples all the women are beautiful

when Olga was being difficult,
Picasso knew that
in Naples
all the women are beautiful
and everything is easy.
in Paris, his rose period finally came
when it climbed a steep hill,
and puffed past a rundown windmill.
his sketchbook and cheap rent
both looked down to the famous nomadic river,
saw a passing barge,
and heard the future tie up softly at a landing.
then Matisse finally sold something
to a dealer,
who sold it to a German collector
standing on a street corner
near the Agile Rabbit,
but his wife wasn't so sure.
jugglers, acrobats, brothels, and boozers
stayed awake until four
painting posters, posing,
erasing lines drawn in the sand,
looking for their gypsy connections,
warming themselves within their fiery imaginations.
the genteel Russian girls
danced in the opera,
painted faces smelling of vodka and caviar.
the post-Impressionists
went searching for Cezanne,
peeking under the vermillion trees
where nude women bathed,
their wet hair falling in loose strands of scarlet yellow.
cheap wine and riotous song splashed below the breaking clouds,
and a strong urge for a new day,

a romance day,
which could come at any hour,
left the city breathless.

into the night sky

with lobster eyes,
i see that you exist
as no other.
but i am not your brother,
nor a lover forever.
on the ensuing weekend
when i was in London,
i had you by and by;
as far as i'm concerned
i should not lie
on a Saturday.
Sunday might be different,
passing by,
but i should not lie.
i split myself
between two women or more,
and at my most essential,
at my core,
i feel you stir
like a cat might purr
for food on a hungry night.
i spent many hours
picking flowers
especially for you.
there came a soft knock on my door
which i needed to ignore
because it was a ghost
with a voice i knew;
but unlike
a curious bird,
it flew
into the night sky,
beyond the night sky
where i
could no longer reach it
when i tried to reach it,
and there was no cage.

poetry at the mermaid

poetry at the mermaid

on a water slide to hell;

a little whisper from a big mouth

with words i can’t retell;

the cold sticks to my teeth

and i bite each syllable 

in a frenzy of disbelief, 

i was not feeling well.

the greasy cup of coffee

and the ash cloud of a sun

invade my breakfast table

as i’ve become undone,

sipping strong-willed fantasy

for a brief moment of relief:

there are buckets of pure emptiness

where i’ve hidden in my grief.

Herb Gold

Herb was golden
in his San Francisco chair
certainly grateful
for the few strands of grey hair
he found in his bathroom sink;
well, at least he could think
his way out of a wet paper bag,
and he didn't need a chest tag
to remember his own name
as he walked past the hippie lady with her two small poodles
to a late night diner that served tasty Chinese noodles;
he was excited to read Home Boy
written by an old Park Avenue friend
who used drugs like a friendly toy
until his untimely end
when, very drunk, he crashed his motorcycle!
Herb, on the other hand, rode his Huffy bicycle
which was much safer
sure and slow;
he often knew which way to go
divorced
and solo
into the streets of San Francisco
cruising the world.

what is important

the head of a woman
her strong arms
long and slender
silent summertime charms
and twelve years later
i'm checking for changes
check, please, waiter!
her forehead and hair
falling loosely from an easy chair
gouging my cheeks
delineating lines
old cobblestone signs
and i'm on the road to creation
looking for Mr. Jack
but he's not coming back
with Alan or Paul
and i read them all
earlier in the day
before she modeled for me in an adjacent hay field
monumentality
i was forced to yield
johnny on the spot
like a figure of a man
a passing tiny dot
with flattish breasts in the background
and my treasured book
she took another look
in her androgynous pose
and nobody knows
better than i
how her breath becomes tender
when it wraps itself around my mouth
remembering what is important to remember.

when it rained

i wanted to know

when it rained

why on earth

that man thought it was snow.

his pregnant belly

like a plastic bag

of hot pants

and peanut butter jelly;

his silly laugh

flat as a FOX tongue

late at midnight

in a lukewarm bath;

by the public door

of a big white house,

his orange hair

on a bedroom floor

wild as a deer heart

but dead on arrival,
sputtering,

and never to start:

i wanted to know

when it rained

why on earth

that man thought it was snow.

in his masculine pose

one big hand small

advertising

like New York broadway shows

i wanted to know

when it rained

why on earth

that man thought it was snow.

the neighbor's cats' cries

the headlights flooded my studio
with a light so bright
i had to protect my eyes!
i heard the neighbor's cats' cries
and watched her arch her back
with a feline intent
she wandered into my gatehouse
curious and slightly bent
looking for a tray of tea
but all she saw was me
without knowing what i was for
what should she do?
i had painted my face green and blue.
looking out my window in the spring
i was astonished to learn the cat could sing.
sitting on the alley wall
there would be a terrible price to pay
if she should fall,
so i kept her in sight
throughout the night;
and in the background were bare trees,
stark and lonesome in the quiet breeze
as she crouched like a sphinx
her nose visibly pink
her giraffe-like head
like a sculpture resembling a primitive bed
slightly larger than a breast in heat
she sat confidently on her own four feet
for the better part of the coming week
modeling for the purpose of an extra treat
which i secretly provided
when our glances at each other collided
and it seems so bizarre
but that's what we are
and back to back, we looked at each other
sister and brother
dualities like the sun and moon
late and soon
sea and sky
her and i
night and day
closer and closer and further away
until our hungry lips got in the way.

the winter hare

concentration camps
think seriously;
they hang kerosene lamps,
light multiple gas ovens
in a barbed wire haze,
and bones sleep on hard wood,
hear gun shots and shouts,
and a winter hare runs from a chasing white dog
through the tall drought-resistant grasses
scampering into a hillside burrow
into darkness
hiding
because it needs to hide
and the trailing dog's nose becomes filled with dirt
while digging
persistently
when it discovers frightened people
like a giant throbbing lump of clay
hiding in the deep burrow
and suddenly
the nearing nuclear war
doesn't provide any relief
between the two.
close by,
under cover,
the commander in chief
wore his peaked cap
to protect his eyes
from the flash and nobody realized
his shadow was the only source of light.
on his last day in office
he looked unusually tentative,
devoid of charisma,
and filled with a Big Mac melancholy
which he shared with the white dog
who had come into his office
to escape the out-of-doors.
the people remained frightened,
staying in the background,
along with the vanishing winter hare.

the sea is a wall

self-referential
i'm a sunny Presidential
and the sea is a wall of busted blue
at the dawn of creation a single flying fish flew
and this should come as no surprise
i now have two naked eyes
and inflated body parts
a seesawing figure with two unconventional hearts
two balls and a Paul Bunyan hat
looking for a woman with a chest that's looking flat
a blind man found my steaming bath and sat
he waved from his pile of bubbles as he sank
up to his head he swallowed while we drank
to a woman whose pet name was Myrtle
her hips and breasts to my mind were fertile
and our harvests promised to be bountiful
we sang and ate our bellies' full
establishing a personal rapport
painting still lives on the living room floor
to satisfy our hunger for a sensual war
and in a tangle of tendrils
yet-to-be executed thrills:
all the bad girls wearing bleached blond curls
piling their bowls with fresh fruit
wearing sweaters tight and oh-so-cute
a pitcher of beer and a happy face
in a New Year's letter a piece of lively lace
and a curving candle stick
i took another look and took a lick
self-referential
i'm a sunny Presidential
and the sea is a wall of busted blue
at the dawn of creation a single flying fish flew.

if someone came for you today

i've fought with the army,
and fought with the devil in hell,
had people ask for an answer
but i've promised never to tell
when the clock strikes midnight
and shadows appear on my bedroom wall
the nightmares call for me to remember
but i don't want to recall!
i've seen hearts that are broken and blood run in the street,
tears on every single face i meet,
the sounds of war playing exclusively for the young;
battle cries written and perfectly sung
and when i raise my head above the shouts and screams
it always seems
that all i see are old mens' dreams:
sad faces stitched with military laces,
frightened souls hiding in desperate holes
and the war which never wants an end
will it come for you, my friend?
will it come for you?
well, some books ask you to turn all their pages
before you can escape from all the cages
what will you ultimately say?
what will you say
if someone came for you today?
i've fought with the army,
and fought with the devil in hell,
had people ask for an answer
but i've promised never to tell
when the clock strikes midnight
and shadows appear on my bedroom wall
the nightmares call for me to remember
but i don't want to recall!
i've seen hearts that are broken and blood run in the street,
tears on every single face i meet,
the sounds of war playing exclusively for the young;
battle cries written and perfectly sung
and when i raise my head above the shouts and screams
it always seems
that all i see are old mens' dreams:
sad faces stitched with military laces,
frightened souls hiding in desperate holes
and the war which never wants an end
will it come for you, my friend?
will it come for you?
well, some books ask you to turn all their pages
before you can escape from all the cages
what will you ultimately say?
what will you say
if someone came for you today?

swirling clouds of blue and grey

i pretended to take a walk
down an alley where i heard you talk
and you called out my name
but you need to know, this isn't our only game
chatting to friends on the back street
hanging them with a rope by their black feet
exactly like we did before the Civil War
a monument to a lonely time that once before
painted us in swirling clouds of blue and grey
and we got down on our knees to pray:
someone had a dream and knew just what to say
the police are already here
arresting suspects suffocating in fear
for the benefit of Mr. Kite
it should be okay but it still doesn't feel right
i heard them say move along
so i began to sing my favorite country song
about a wild neighbor's dog
who ran into a fight and got lost inside a fog
covered with a secret tattoo
no one believed it was true
but stranger things have come to pass
i picked up a piece of broken glass
and got down on my knees to pray:
someone had a dream and knew just what to say
he may not get there after all
but you don't have to fall
i pretended to take a walk
down an alley where i heard you talk
and you called out my name
but you need to know, this isn't our only game
chatting to friends on the back street
hanging them with a rope by their black feet
exactly like we did before the Civil War
a monument to a lonely time that once before
painted us in swirling clouds of blue and grey
and we got down on our knees to pray:
someone had a dream and knew just what to say.

hell to pay

once there was a time
i went for a long walk with a beautiful friend of mine
and it was dark
there was a serious small time dealer in the local town park
they said his bite was worse than his bark
and he was furious
well, a month later we all became curious
and it was after our first big bite
yeah, we started to feel alright
didn't want to get out of bed
i had a moment when i forgot everything i just said
and there was a terrible noise
all the girls and boys tossing their church house toys
and it was party on
as the man said, from dusk to dawn
and to settle the point we stayed inside the joint
singing songs watching the news
feeling painful while playing indiscriminate blues
falling on faces and falling on knees
thanks largely to trying too hard to please
lamented poets' ashes being very discreet
i had a moment when i forgot how to cross my neighborhood street
and would you admit you didn't crave a beautiful hit?
hell to pay trying to get over it
i had to buy the heaviest hammer to get over my handsome stammer
where people seldom go
it's not what i believe its what i know
and would you admit you didn't crave a beautiful hit?
hell to pay trying to get over it
so once there was a time
i went for a long walk with a beautiful friend of mine
and it was dark
there was a serious small time dealer in the local town park
they said his bite was worse than his bark
and he was furious
well, a month later we all became curious
and it was after our first big bite
yeah, we started to feel alright.

in how many languages?

in a small yellow room
with a small glass dish and a water bowl
sweet flowers of autumn red and summer blue
and a lovely soul
listening to the classical piano
and in no time at all
summer had given way to fall
i saw you board the bus and ride away
in how many languages do i have to say
please, stay?

and through the open window
the harvest wheat has been cut and piled high
sweet flowers of autumn red and summer blue
and a southern sky
dancing across the floor to you and i
and we finally kiss
all our moments led up to this
in how many languages do i have to say
please, stay?

during a starry night
i saw a spinning light and a strange moon
sweet flowers of autumn red and summer blue
passing too damn soon
eating at a table with just one spoon
and in no time at all
summer had given way to fall
i saw you board the bus and ride away
in how many languages do i have to say
please, stay?

finally to thaw

her voiceless breath
and i reached for the ready door
a lonely sidewalk with no footprints
so i followed
to frost crystals in a forest fortress
and an abundance of shelf fungi parade ground straight
overhead cracked branches and brazen crows
opening an open window wider and full of snow
making quiet noise
in no time unable to speak
a poetic hiding place without poets
a postcard perfect drifting
pure and simple and possibly perilous
smoothed out of a raw country
smuggled out of the prior spring like rare jewels
and slipping underneath an overhang of glacial rock
hardly ancient yet darkly old
once again the subject comes up
with a far more telling image of solitude
hidden away inside the cold cold cave
far from a burning hell:
our shivering skin,
shaking like an early alarm,
struggling to grasp heat from a faint sun,
but wrapped together in a warming embrace
mingling air
nose to nose
one into two without mathematical calculations,
having drifted from a pillowed room
into unmapped territory
blown by circumstance up a gentle hill
on a winding path that the deer have trimmed
finally melting
finally to thaw.

there is always the moon: a memoir

there is always the moon
dropping light
like bright pebbles
or like an extravagant  ball
racing above the clouds in regular lunar phases
blurring the gap like opium blurs the brain
perhaps of a famous schoolboy poet
who wrote a memoir about a voluptuous woman
with a skill giving French lessons
to the poor
instead of using her beautiful voice to teach diction
and how
without a penny
and only a single friend
became a successful actress on stage
and early screen,
who spoke with her golden voice on the radio
from where it was heard
by Gertrude Stein
who immediately wanted to visit for a book idea,
but the hour was late,
the suggestion less than honest,
and the moon had already fallen from the sky

on a star-filled night.

the local bull

the local bull
his balls heavy with top spin
his pasture field too abstract for grass
the hard dirt like an engraving on stone,
scratched by hooves and horn and
bursts of penetrating rain
a gun metal grey sky
smoking puffs of clay clouds
swirling around his wet ringed nose
roots and rocks as well as sand
the twisted tree
a white shed for shelter while the
cold winds blow:
so sure of himself
he went to work on his rest day
using the unlocked back door
of his favorite arena
not too far from the herd
stuffing himself with momentary pleasure
between her legs.