They will come, you know!

some day
They're gonna come over that
border fence
stepping over their
neighbors' dead
bloodied
but unbowed
bodies
that you shot dead
with your sniper rifle
aiming for their faded blue jeans,
printed t-shirts,
or the neck scarves
or hair coverings,
the faces with sweaty desert dirt,
their bright angry eyes,
all heads held high at that last moment
before the impact of your steel tipped bullet.
They will come, you know!

everybody hurts

everybody hurts
if only they'd tell the truth
watching the balloons come crashing down
burning down the town

fighting on the floor
mad as hell at soap operas
when a doctor doesn't know his lines
and still pays no fines

traveling circus
jugglers with great balls on fire
the ringmaster with his big black hat
great fat lady fat

at the popcorn stand
hot butter flowed like honey
tumblers and clowns and the magic tent
money paid the rent

as the big top closed
the audience fled the room
breezes blew each head into the night
soft as candle light

everybody hurts
if only they'd tell the truth
watching the balloons come crashing down
burning down the town

tossing the summer dog his wishing bone

X-ray
in the landing zone
her sleepy eyes
tossing the summer dog his wishing bone
blowing on a tenor sax
in an all-night shift
waiting for the passenger car
to give that girl her lift
in a famous back room seat
outside the machine gunners' door
hot shells are exploding,
bouncing off the bouncing floor
in the tropical air
her hands dancing everywhere
i took a full nose dive
coming out the other end alert & alive:
colors on the bedroom wall
i tried to count them all
but the high noon sun was bright
her hungry grip too tight
i wanted to eat but lost my appetite.
X-ray
in the landing zone
her sleepy eyes
tossing the summer dog his wishing bone
blowing on a tenor sax
in an all-night shift
waiting for the passenger car
to give that girl her lift.

i never tire of watching

there was a young cowboy
who wore a Red Ryder hat
and carried a small gun
into the nearby woods
where he found an old fallen log
and sat
with his faithful dog
by his side,
alert to anything that might move;
they pondered a future
when snow might cover their tracks.
in the space of seventy years
the small gun has been lost
but the dog,
with a new name and a new license,
maintains a nose for interesting scents,
and a keen eye for any movement
far removed from
the global financial markets
or fluctuating interest rates.
the dog loves digging
into dirt
after the chipmunks
as they dive for cover;
and squirrels of any color
always provide an exciting rush
as they scamper to the nearest tree
scolding the pretentiousness
of the canine pursuit,
which i never tire of watching,
even in the dead of winter.

grateful to be dead

it's about time to ask the question,
trying to understand my next life lesson
before the night gets too dark and cold and damn,
i can't remember who i was or who i am.
so, there's plenty of fear and nerves and grief;
i can't seem to get enough relief,
flipping through and turning each page
while reading about the days of constant rage
with young blood on the school room floor.
well, no uniform needed to fight the next war?
but, hey, there's the national song!
i wonder if those lyrics are simply wrong?
i'm getting so old,
feeling tired and bought and sold,
walking away from the bull without a fight:
tell me what is it we all agree is right?
i'm dancing wearing pearls with a drink in hand,
grateful to be dead, listening to that passing band.
this glass half full that i'm holding high
it's filled with tears; i'm no longer wondering why.
just one more for the broken road.
my head stays high while my back is bowed!
it's about time to ask the question,
trying to understand my next life lesson
before the night gets too dark and cold and damn,
i can't remember who i was or who i am.

when you're not here

baby,
when you're not here
my head's just not thinking clear
'cause i'm spending all my down time
wishing you were near
and dear,
here comes the night
how can i feel alright
out walking my thin dog
when it all feels like a thick fog
and i can't see without a torch:
are you waiting on your front porch?
baby,
when you're not here
my head's just not thinking clear
'cause i'm spending all my down time
wishing you were near
and dear,
here comes that song
and it took much too long
it's the one about you
when you're wondering what to do
and the story goes that we met
the winners of a romance bet
baby,
when you're not here
my head's just not thinking clear
'cause i'm spending all my down time
wishing you were near
and dear,
here comes the night
how can i feel alright
out walking my thin dog
when it all feels like a thick fog
and i can't see without a torch:
are you waiting on your front porch?

the girl with the deep brown eyes

the girl with the deep brown eyes
filled with wonder
and surprise
she sang to me
and set me free
on a walk into the deepest wood
i was her big bad wolf
she was my little Red Riding Hood
her basket filled with sweet treats
we walked together down the leafy streets
hand in hand out into the town
she kept me up and i kept her down
our secrets like an open book
we turned the page for another look
the girl with the deep brown eyes
filled with wonder
and surprise
she sang to me
and set me free.

"Brave New World," whispered Huxley

"Brave New World,"
whispered Aldous Huxley
when the president went golfing
under a clear blue Florida sky
with the foreign wife carrying his junk
and a bottle of fancy dye
for his orange hair;
he used a net,
(somewhat like a devout Mennonite woman
with her fancy mustache
that she tried to conceal from the adoring crowds
gathered on the steps of a Christian mega-church
hoping for a sight of baby Jesus
heading to the back nine)
to scoop his balls from the rough,
tickling,
placing them in a more advantageous position on the fairway.
across the pond
beyond his driver's range
there was a rumored chemical attack
that wasn't due to an expired box of hair coloring
or a missed putt on the 18th green
or a recent attempt to hide an old affair with a young porn actress;
no, an actual barrel bomb dropped from the clear blue sky
onto a suburban street of eastern Damascus, Syria
and if very young children happened to be playing in a pile of their broken dreams
or busted stones, or watching a skinny bird pick through rubble for a crumb of food,
while noxious fumes of chlorine
sought out noses
pried open lips
groped lungs
invaded throats
well,
that would be too damn bad
assumed the adults who planned the attack,
piloted the military helicopter,
assembled the bomb,
and the men who gave the order to launch,
because they would expect a pleasant evening
surrounded by pleasant family,
amazingly untroubled by disturbing visions or nightmares
or threats of demotion or stories of demolition,
imagining themselves playing golf with the President,
whatever President,
regardless of his country of origin,
applause greeting their every easy step to the waiting clubhouse.
"Brave New World,"
whispered Aldous Huxley,
as everyone swallowed their pill.

no hair covering my eyes.

i wasn't Sampson by any stretch
being too small and young
and without a full and flowing head of hair,
but still my dad grabbed me,
hippie as i was,
forced me into his car
and drove off
headed straight to his favorite
perhaps only
barber
and there i was given no choice about cut
or trim or color
i was told to sit in the chair
and thought that i was lucky it wasn't
electric
and then again that
i didn't have to wear a dunce hat
like i once did in second grade,
oh, i remembered Miss Barnes,
all right, and how i was forced to go to the
front of the class
to the blackboard
where i found her piece of chalk,
that was the only piece i was thinking of
in second grade,
before writing "i will not..."
and i can't remember exactly what was
my awful transgression
or perhaps i was simply being a willful boy
as we did often try to be
but i wrote
over and over
top down
bottom up
in a sort of white scrawl
on her hard green surface
until she was satisfied
and i was tired
and the stool in a corner of the
old classroom
waited for me
and i sat on it
while she placed the
dunce hat on my little head
which had short hair
and now my father was trying to
imagine what i must have looked like in
second grade with the buzzed flat top,
a bit of wax to the stiff front hairs
so they stood ram rod straight to the sky
but i was no longer in elementary school
now being 21 years old and a freshman in college
yet he had his way
as i looked around for the stool
and the chalk and Miss Barnes,
who i heard had moved to Japan
married to some guy with short hair
and my father cast a big shadow
in the barber shop
from which it was hard to see the light,
even with no hair covering my eyes,
and i felt small
in the big swivel chair
with the red faux leather seat.

but what was true?

by '68
the hard bricks went flying
and revolution marched into the streets
where surprised people kept dying:
napalm tortured children's melting skin
burning the village doors
so they couldn't get in
for a breath of perfect perfumed air
and it didn't seem fair
that seemingly everywhere
the dogs of war were running
with abandon and totalitarian cunning
more hot bombs and artillery fell
poisoning the fresh water in the well,
the hands of each clock counting all the passing hours.
baskets of discarded flowers
floating on a swollen river,
fleeing the taker looking for a giver,
and a soldier running down the dangerous street
escaping piles of rotting dead without shoes and missing feet.
and each day awoke with a terrible worry:
broken shovels seemed tired of digging just to bury
bits of bone,
broken and all alone,
in shallow graves dug in a hurry.
and the news was seldom good by '72:
in black and white they proclaimed the old was now the new,
but what was true?
and who knew
if tomorrow the skies
would be covered in sweet smelling lies?

rumors of war

there was dark and it turned to light
rumors of war in the middle of a starry night
a friendly breath
breathing songs of an eventual death
but no songs of good cheer
no one coming near
sounds unfamiliar but i'm trying to hear
and in the mirror a ghost
walking in from the east coast
carrying bags of pure gold
slaves cheated and bought and quickly sold
working from nine to well after five
barely making it out alive
head to toe
looking for another way to go
finding shadows instead of a sun
bodies in the street and a smoking gun
paradise lost and found
beating hearts barely making a sound
six feet under the cold cold ground
there was dark and it turned to light
rumors of war in the middle of a starry night
a friendly breath
breathing songs of an eventual death
but no songs of good cheer
no one coming near
sounds unfamiliar but i'm trying to hear
and in the mirror a ghost
walking in from the east coast
carrying bags of pure gold
slaves cheated and bought and quickly sold
working from nine to well after five
barely making it out alive
head to toe
looking for another way to go
finding shadows instead of a sun
bodies in the street and a smoking gun
paradise lost and found
beating hearts barely making a sound
six feet under the cold cold ground.

a sketch book

and he painted lots of scenes
of boobs and an absolute ass
both of the lowest and the higher class
past midnight
up until three
in their faces i was catching a glimpse of you
and one of me
passing by
and passing through
when he had a period of red
and one of darkest blue
coveting the young girls,
their bohemian faces,
one with unconventional blond curls,
inviting pubic hairs and satin laces,
looking for a heart
inside the roving Russian ballet
i saw where he wanted to go
tip toe...tip toe...
but was surprised when i heard him say,
"i can't speak French but i can paint!"
he hated phoniness and death
but could never be called a saint,
for on the gallery floor
he had admirers and many more
who stepped aside under his intense gaze
and cigarette smoke
which curled his confident lips.
i saw him check out your small hips
but you assured me he was a harmless flirt;
he then wore a loose bandana
made from your favorite skirt.
and he painted lots of scenes
of boobs and an absolute ass
both of the lowest and the higher class
past midnight
up until three
he kept a sketch book filled with images
of his unfolding destiny,
partly out of neglect for the memory of you
and me.

no one you know

and don't you know
it's not a cold rain,
it's another warm spring snow
drifting the city street,
your wandering feet,
wondering which way to go.
no one you know
pushing their friendly shopping carts
down endless aisles
looking for bargain smiles
hearing the registers' sing.
what will another day bring?
and don't you know
there were once blue skies:
clear streams and steady eyes,
soda pop; black & white tv,
birthdays and flowers for free,
stories of mom and dad
and all the treasures they had,
dreams instead of schemes,
and don't you know
it's not a cold rain,
it's another warm spring snow
drifting the city street
your wandering feet,
wondering which way to go
no one you know.

Putin

Putin
KGB
FSB
hiding in plain view of Red Square
and across the bridge
Heartbreak Ridge
near Piccadilly Circus
and the London Times
which almost rhymes
with Theresa May
and the Parliament
one fine day
a special delivery letter
will get her
to vist St. Petersburg
where Stalin's ghost
with the most
astonishing Soviet smile
full of polonium
and caviar
ah, a former home of the Tsar
and the famous black mustache
bags of untraceable cash
and offshore accounts
invisible to all but the fastest hands
deft
theft
and meanwhile the peasants toil
over Motherland soil
and Pussy Riot
once loud
now all is quiet
on the Western front
far from Butyrka prison
where a waiting sunbed
(more dead
than alive)
rots,
surrounded by cold cots
of empty dreams
and Trotsky's shoes without feet
silently walking the Grand Kremlin's bloody street
far from their villa in Coyoacan, Mexico.

all i want to do

all i want to do
is talk to you
crawl out of my messy bed
with a consistently clear head
tie my shoes
to the softest rhythm and blues
while trying not to scream
remembering my last nights' dream
and missing your laugh
all bouncing bubbles and bath:
yea, yea, but you weren't there
and i looked everywhere
and then the day can begin
drinking whisky and gin
and an old tavern door
a polished dance floor
yea, yea, but you weren't there
and i looked everywhere
a female voice with her solitary breath
and i saw my own death
yea, yea, but you weren't there
and i looked everywhere
beyond the horizon and inside my heart
looking to make a new start
yea, yea, but you weren't there
and i looked everywhere:
all i want to do
is talk to you
crawl out of my messy bed
with a consistently clear head
tie my shoes
to the softest rhythm and blues
while trying not to scream
remembering my last nights' dream
and missing your laugh
all bouncing bubbles and bath.

feel like i'm living a drive-thru life

feel like i'm living a drive-thru life
listening to a frustrated, angry wife
holding my warm beer in the noon day sun
her husband chasing me with his loaded gun!
i can't find my horse in all this dust
and i hate to leave but i know i must;
she was good to me in her gypsy way
but i never got to have my final say.
she liked to dance and ride that cajun bull;
i pushed away but felt her pull!
most Friday nights she'd drink the table down
with country songs i'd be her stomping ground:
a wicked smile in a friendly face;
whiskey breath wrapped in bridal lace.
she'd toss me out and charm me back each time:
she'd wear my boots and squeeze this heart of mine.
feel like i'm living a drive-thru life
listening to a frustrated, angry wife
holding my warm beer in the noon day sun
her husband chasing me with his loaded gun!

45th

i went once at sundown
when there was nobody else around
and on the forty fifth floor,
i looked for less but found even more:
piles of mighty volume and possibly dead weight;
crooked lines almost impossible to set straight;
young students not afraid to resist ;
a ship of state shuddering before it begins to list.
it need not even look like the real thing,
but it's all branded as fake news.
come along and all too soon lose
and try and fail to escape the joint.
i used binoculars for another viewpoint
establishing distance
and in a trance
i went once at sundown
when there was nobody else around
and on the forty fifth floor,
i looked for less but found even more:
piles of mighty volume and possibly dead weight;
crooked lines almost impossible to set straight.

Mr. Garfield

echoes
and what are those
things going bump in the night?
Mr. Garfield not only lost his sight,
he lost his life
under the blissful surgeon's knife.
with a lead bullet through his back,
he took a special train and rode the special track
to the busy Jersey shore.
he wanted love but eventually struggled no more,
with his wife by his side
he was peaceful as he died,
as much as he could possibly be,
while looking out his expansive window to the sea!
the tide gave way to a new dawn,
and the people cried like rain drops before moving on.

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.