the pot of gold

she stuck a stick in my nose
i sucked her toes
she played me for a fool
i tossed her into the backyard pool
she wore a pout
i watched her fancy twist and shout
i drove a VW bug
she grabbed my sleeve and gave a tug
and though it seemed
we were sometimes mean
she combed my messy hair
i gave her her fair share
and when we fell
it was always hard to tell
who would get up first
who was the best and who was the worst?
we stopped at nothing to enjoy the ride
upside down uncertain side by side
when the grass was green
she was smart and i was keen
and in the cold
i was timid and she was bold
young or old
always looking for the pot of gold
never feeling bought and sold
hunting for bargains in every convenience store
taking turns to open the door
sometimes running and sometimes slow
never knowing exactly which way to go
fun and games without pretense
we searched for love and some good sense:
she'd read her favorite book;
i'd take a glance but wouldn't look,
we gave it everything it took.

you were almost ten

so long ago
and yet it seems just like yesterday;
i can't recall everything
but i remember what you had to say
about the time we kissed under the bright moon light!
How could it be wrong when it felt so right?
we both laughed with childish delight!
you told me you were almost ten
while i was going on to the big great eight.
we didn't exchange autographs
and we didn't stay out too late.
there was a chill in the autumn air
as we acted like kids without a single small town care.
imagine that, we laughed, while rolling on the hard ground.
all the forest animals stayed quiet:
we were the only ones making any sound.
you said i was pretty and i said your were neat!
ice cream would never again be our favorite treat.
there was a tingle and a blush;
we knew somehow there was no reason to rush.
and the next day
you told me again you were almost ten
and could we please do it all over again?
so long ago
and yet it seems just like yesterday;
i can't recall everything
but i remember what you had to say
about the time we kissed under the bright moon light!
How could it be wrong when it felt so right?
we both laughed with childish delight!

but without you

i laid down to cry
and now i know why
through the darkest night
you moved out of sight!
i felt this heavy weight
keep me from opening the gate
and you waving goodbye
from the other side of my dream
i'm no longer what i want to be or seem
without you,
without you
there's an arrow through my heart
knifing me
tearing me apart;
i can feel your sweet breath
but without you,
without you
my life is a lonely death
and where have you gone?
i can hear your sighs;
i can almost see your shining eyes
and hear your soft voice.
why do we have to make this choice?
no one has to tell me how it might have been
but without you,
without you
there's an arrow through my heart
knifing me
tearing me apart;
i can feel your sweet breath
but without you,
without you
my life is a lonely death.
i laid down to cry
and now i know why.

Roger Stone

i saw the shadow of Roger Stone
digging deeply it seemed
into the dark world of Nixon dirty tricks
sucking a pixie bone
dripping with the gay fat
of Roy Cohn,
the famous anti-communist lawyer
who in early 1954
swept the dusty Senate floor
along with his good buddy Joseph McCarthy,
searching for total access and power.
Stone
spit out the bone
on the top floor
of Trump Tower,
before all the phone lines went dead,
or so the FBI said,
when he
crawled from behind a borrowed desk,
no jury or open trials
would remember hearing this:
the soon-to-be President speaks
about what he hopes WikiLeaks
will spill.
i still see the shadow of Roger Stone.

A couple of ounces

A couple of ounces ruled your life!
no loyal dog or faithful wife,
sometimes the brutal Siberian air
was the only thing there;
a few white lies
could make it hard to categorize
all the frozen finger tips,
the stiff upper lips,
and shuffling feet
plodding over an forlorn prison yard street:
a vast expanse of squeaking snow and ice.
no four-legged rats or healthy field mice;
hardly anything of substance to eat or drink;
no time to truly think
while being strip-searched like a lonely feral child,
punished for being alive and running wild.
A couple of ounces ruled your life!
a small piece of thin bread without the knife.

Janis Ian

Janis
at seventeen
a literary beauty queen
lovely in her own way
searching for the most poignant words to say
isn't it remarkable
that her moon is still full
and her seas turquoise blue
and you're left wondering how she ever knew
the tv
wasn't where it was meant to be,
at twenty three!
growing old and growing young
counting all the words she's ever sung
so baby, please don't go
there's more we want to know
like a little bird and a lullaby
singing all the way
down the forgotten highway
glowing under the sunrise
in blue jeans and a t-shirt
haunting with your words that heal and hurt
and in peace
a guitar plays and will not cease!
Janis
at seventeen
a literary beauty queen
lovely in her own way
searching for the most poignant words to say
isn't it remarkable
that her moon is still full
and her seas turquoise blue
and you're left wondering how she ever knew
the tv
wasn't where it was meant to be,
at twenty three!

a happy dog and i

it's been a long time since
walking in the primordial woods
 hearing the latest news
grabbing girls by the hair
polishing cheap leather shoes
remembering how the day comes undone
watching the setting sun
dripping through the misty rain

soft clouds hanging low
forgetting the mayonnaise
forgetting where to eventually go
a happy dog and i sitting on a fallen log
feeling restful with some love to give
imagining a lady and a life to live
holding her hand
she is holding mine
we're sipping wine
red in the nighttime and white during the day
remembering what else she had to say
looking to our future
shadows on the high stone wall
seeing the wild ravens fly and listening as they caw
wondering about lost arts:
valentine candies eaten like tiny hearts
 a top hat and low-rent landlord cries
boyfriends and great-grandmother's pies
my transistor radio playing scratchy sounds of American trash
lost in the middle of the Lincoln tunnel
looking for Mega Millions jackpot cash
reciting Shakespeare and his thoughtful English verse
stuck in both forward and reverse
flying on the busy boulevard
the world in my rear view mirror and traffic noise
second grade recess and rowdy boys
a price tag hanging around our necks

saying NO CASH!  please include checks

 Louis Armstrong and his drummer keeping the beat
shadows on the empty small town street
looking for my future in a cab, which i grab.

give me a kiss, baby

give me a kiss, baby
i won't take a no or a maybe
give me a gentle squeeze and a warm hug
a little love making on the living room rug
listening to the rain drops fall
soft footsteps coming down the hall
your eyes
filled with the sweetest surprise
all whispers and contented sighs
the music turned low
no where we'd rather be or go
reading poetry from the classical book
giving each other that special look
wine and food
taking a hint getting into the mood.
give me a kiss, baby
i won't take a no or a maybe
give me a gentle squeeze and a warm hug
a little love making on the living room rug.

in walked

in walked this man!
he was Bud

with an open can;

he tapped his toe,

pointed a finger

to where he wanted to go:

over on the stage,

a lady inside her cage.

when he opened the door,

she swept the floor

with her piano;

at the beginning of the show,

all ripe blues and jazz,

he showed her what he has

inside his hard case,

a beautiful string bass.

and they began to play,

everything they ever wanted to say.
and out on the dance floor
everyone asked for more.
the sounds filled every head
with what the music Gods said.
all night long
like a beating heart each song
kept pounding away
and no one was asked to pay.

picking up the pieces

but remember, the brick fence idea is dumb and should be broken!
like a cheap subway token
no border wall is so tall
it can't be climbed and left for dead
regardless of what the boss man President said
with a blue sky overhead
children continue to play
while their parents pray
among the ruins and poverty dreams,
picking up the pieces, picking new teams
with a blue sky over head
changing colors from blue to red:
a country club lawn
is awakening to a new dawn
of passenger and driver with scolding sounds
in a rush,
making the rounds,
sweeping through rough city streets
slicing prejudice to pass out like candy treats,
like fast food
to quickly inflate a defiant mood!
but remember, the brick fence idea is dumb and should be broken!
like a cheap subway token
no border wall is so tall
it can't be climbed and left for dead
regardless of what the boss man President said
with a blue sky overhead
children continue to play
among the ruins and poverty dreams,
picking up the pieces, picking new teams.

what Miss Universe said

here's how it goes man
sitting on my piano bench with a whiskey in hand
sipping one for you
tapping my foot with nothing else to do
touching the sky while romancing the keys
playing guitar with a little gypsy strip tease
the band cranking out the hottest blues
living large outgrowing our baby shoes
reaching into hearts and finding something for everyday fun
lots of Hollywood lovelies and a western setting sun
a bottle of the finest French red
remembering what Miss Universe said
shivering at the sight
reciting poetry in an art house late at night
over and over again until it feels just right
custom written for her ears
erasing all her hesitations and fears:
the joys of life and happiness tears!
here's how it goes man
sitting on my piano bench with a whiskey in hand
sipping one for you
tapping my foot with nothing else to do
touching the sky while romancing the keys
playing guitar with a little gypsy strip tease
the band cranking out the hottest blues
living large outgrowing our baby shoes.

you cannot dance tango alone

you cannot dance tango alone,
like two dogs trying to share a single bone
their bark becomes worse than the bite;
the lazy afternoon becomes the frantic night!
loose women and crazy men fight
spitting on the ballroom floor
"well, you're a dick! but i'm a proud whore!
there's a lot to share, but you're not getting anymore."
the kicks hit where the tender parts rest;
nobody is invited in except for the unwelcome guest
dancing in the street,
no polite company ever wants to stand up and meet
dressed in powder white and speaking neat
"you go your way and i'll go mine!"
feeling so good and feeling so fine
you cannot dance tango alone,
like two dogs trying to share a single bone.
acting like a hell cat flying upside down,
married in a bra strap without a wedding gown,
all the women running around;
all the men reaching for a buck;
they're running undercover but mostly running out of luck;
you cannot dance tango alone,
like two dogs trying to share a single bone
their bark becomes worse than the bite;
the lazy afternoon becomes the frantic night!
loose women and the crazy men fight
spitting on the ballroom floor
"well, you're a dick! but i'm a proud whore!
there's a lot to share, but you're not getting any more."

An American flag

the old man
swinging from a live oak tree,
combing his fake orange hair
like a wild chimpanzee
looking for a trap door score,
is still rolling on his golden bedroom floor.
he doesn't mind the latest news:
he's standing tall in Brooks Brother's shoes,
all the way to the Texas coast
with crazy cowboys he loves the most.
these are the days when cash is king
and dirty rats refuse to sing!
the local crowd sitting at the local bar
stood to look but couldn't see far:
an American flag
with a Made in China tag
tried to stand but couldn't rise
weighted down by countless lies.
on the sacred beach a soldier died,
his widow and her children cried.
the white tombstones buried in foreign sand,
dreaming of the promised land
far from the homeland shore:
they weren't marching home no more.
clever lawyers kept writing in their books,
covering tracks from inquiring looks.
bags of money and a fashion show honey
in a tower passing minutes and an hour
while around the block
a shepherd, searching for his flock,
shook the ground as he walked,
listening as the boastful old man talked.
each word a lie scattered into thin air,
meant to hide the truth everywhere.
the old man
swinging from a live oak tree,
combing his fake orange hair
like a wild chimpanzee
looking for a trap door score,
is still rolling on his golden bedroom floor.
he doesn't mind the latest news:
he's walking tall in Brooks Brother's shoes,
all the way to the Texas coast
with crazy cowboys he loves the most.
these are the days when cash is king
and dirty rats refuse to sing!
the local crowd sitting at the local bar
stood to look but couldn't see far.
An American flag has a Made in China tag.

watching caravans of immigrants

i see new blood on the early winter snow
and lost souls
looking for a better path to follow.
i can't speak the tongue!
am i simply too young
or willfully old?
with my poisoned lungs, perhaps i'm the spy in from the cold,
in a country of all things
constantly bought and sold,
watching caravans of immigrants bringing their young children and tiny sprigs of hope:
not tattooed criminals with illegal bags of dope,
climbing the high wire, scaling the border wall,
seeking answers before their fall,
much like another group once before
seeking justice from shore to shining shore
but the native Indians are mostly dead:
the buffalo soldiers took their land and their horses and i can't remember
what the Great White Father said.
those words are on a page but i can't find the history book!
millions of eyes are searching but where exactly should they look?
a young man is swimming across the Rio Grande river;
in the heat of summer i can see him shiver.

Phnom Penh

Phnom Penh
was hot as hell and filled with the nervous shadows
of dry bones and sick smiles
on the narrow streets of blood and broken glass,
memories of ancient temples
and the smell of escaping elephant shit
floating on the monsoon junk of another endless day
filled with acrid war smoke and sour piss,
as Kissinger sat in his cloistered Washington office
surrounded by his ass-kissing apparatchiks
who demurred when he plotted an invasion across a neutral border
with his tanks and his guns and his bombs and his helicopters
to bring random death and mayhem and marauding murder
to the rice paddies and the huts of peasants
speaking a language Henry never understood,
with power his only purpose.

remembering how i lied

okay miss Mary Lou!
i won the race,
so how about you?
it snowed as i drove hard,
skidded and slide
into your front yard.
you took a cold look;
took another hard sip,
and closed your book.
i handed you my letter.
it simply said
i was finally feeling better.
you gave me a stern gaze
before saying
that crime never pays,
and i knew that
as i sat
by your side,
remembering how i lied.

the boy from Manhattan and Miss Mary Lou

oh, i'm heading uptown;
gonna try keeping my baby bottle down!
feeling so smart,
holding onto my heart;
gonna get me another battery jump start
heading to the next Apprentice show,
onto the nearest street corner where i need to go,
where i heard about the boy from Manhattan.
he came to a party dressed in freshly pressed silks and polished satin;
loved his glittering gold and bought and sold
handsome new Miss Mary Lou
who
talked like a girl from the deepest south,
or was she a foreigner with a slippery tongue swimming inside her mouth?
she walked the straightest line in her latest fashion and sharp high heels,
looking for a sugar daddy to buy all her next meals;
she wanted a fast ride and he had the wheels,
all shiny silver and black;
he had his and wasn't giving any back!
Miss Mary Lou took him by his favorite arm;
he flashed a sullen smile and went looking for some charm.
he called the press and told them the greatest news:
he wanted Miss Mary Lou and she couldn't say no or refuse,
changing all his stripes and his Wharton School underwear;
she eventually said she loved him but in the end he didn't care,
oh, i'm heading uptown;
gonna try keeping my baby bottle down!
feeling so smart,
holding onto my heart;
gonna get me another battery jump start
heading to the next Apprentice show,
onto the nearest street corner where i need to go.

where the hell is the hand to ring the bell?

and maybe you thought you knew
tying strings
pulling on your shoe
that there were no afternoon classes on social intercourse
holding your bridle
riding your horse
but on the city street corner there were smaller protests
about the secret meetings
about the secret beauty contests
and the fake news printing all the momentary truth!
i read every damn page
passing through my local toll booth
paying my fare
hoping for a seat on the crowded town square
with sweet Jane and her bible and her temporary lover
there were plenty of white sheep shouting out in the nearby pasture
and others playing under cover,
fireworks on the 4th of July and a rousing patriotic song
shivers jumping up my spine
i'm holding on to everything that's mine
carrying a military combat assault rifle and loaded magazines
hearing angry older people yelling at angry teens;
so, what could possibly go wrong?
watching the ship of state and Clarabell the Clown
they're both smearing makeup on the famous American Constitution,
while asking their adoring masses to look up while pointing down!
and maybe you once loved the beauty of an orange autumn moon
the setting sun
having a quickie at noon
or wondered to where all the mad insurgent poets have gone
flames in their words
souls of brawn
teeth of steel and sentences ablaze,
trying to make sense of the dangerous maze!
hell yes, you might be wondering, where the hell
is the hand to ring the bell?
the sound is of muffled marching feet,
but the shaking is in the center of main street.
can you hear it?
do you fear it?
hell yes, you might be wondering, where the hell
is the hand to ring the bell?

"Bombs away!"

"Bombs away!"
you heard the mad pilot say,
and there's nothing you can do to stop the fall,
so don't even try to count them all!
it's impossible
to know the final score,
from the high ceiling to the lowest floor;
the angry men are wrapping their favorite gift
when the ground beneath their feet begins to shift!
what can you know about the day after tomorrow?
will it bring happiness or will it bring sorrow?
you're out on the street looking for a clear blue sky
wondering how hard you should try
looking for a safe place to shop?
or wondering how fast you should drop
your bag of groceries to take a dive?
wondering how you can tell if you're dead or still alive?
"Bombs away!"
you heard the mad pilot say,
and there's nothing you can do to stop the fall,
so don't even try to count them all!
It's impossible
to know the final score,
from the high ceiling to the lowest floor;
the angry men are wrapping their favorite gift
the ground underfoot begins to shift!

Mr. Vladimir

so tell me Mr. Vladimir
is another nasty cold war near
or will it turn hot?
tell us everything you've got!
we know your teeth are black
carrying nuclear codes in a secret Russian sack
sipping potato vodka
with comrade Miss Natasha
not far from the Baltic Sea
you've grown up to be everything you never dreamt you could be
murdering the free press on the evening news
wearing spotless Stalin shoes
never crossing a Moscow street
to grab a quick bite of hot borscht to eat
making lots of bloody money
laughing at things that aren't historically funny;
anyone who feels your famous stare
disappears while you're still standing there
talking on your phone
like a king upon his throne:
you're the man in total charge
with balls not big but overly large.
the boys watching you march in Kremlin hall;
the girls don't swoon, they completely fall:
their red lips signifying socially high class,
praying for a chance to kiss your made-in-Lenigrad ass,
and they feel a rush
before they blush!
so tell me Mr. Vladimir
is another nasty cold war near
or will it turn hot?
tell us everything you've got!

after Guadalcanal

the last sea victory of the war
came and went
as ships sank and ships sped
away
but i was long gone,
watching the beautiful blond
at her table
by the street-side window
during happy hour and the crowd was
getting juiced
while loud music jammed
and the high seats where people sat
kept getting shoved around
during epic journeys down memory lane
where the wine was dry,
the beer fresh and cold,
and no one stayed old
wearing bright sneakers, chasing youth
talking about playground bruises
or writing a possible book
about puppy loves
or a loose bra strap
hanging from a high school shoulder
giving some thoughtful boy a wink.
i heard them think
above the cocktail noise,
so many years after Guadalcanal,
and grabbed my paper and wrote
sentimental lines,
too many to be a simple short story,
too few to be a one night stand;
i stuffed that paper in a side pocket,
stood firmly and with much delight
took a lady's hand,
held it tight,
waiting for an evening traffic light
to finally change
into something we knew;
crossing the street,
walking under the rising of a harvest moon,
fresh air on a fresh face,
to see a movie called The Wife
while sitting on a sweet sofa
eating hot popcorn with just one hand
surrounded by
other members of the art house audience
and the faint smell of another quiet night
in Stockholm, Sweden on the screen:
sea breezes and limousines,
a burning cigarette,
crisp champagne,
literary lounges,
and a Nobel Prize ceremony;
she wrote the books but he signed his name,
then died of a heart attack on the hotel bed,
and she told her children everything,
later,
it was said.

donald trump predicts

donald trump predicts
that his penis is bigger than Tweety Bird's
penis and he doesn't need to
provide evidence
because Larry King found a new prostate pill
in France
on Bastille Day
while looking for Meghan Markle's
half-sister
so that proves his point.
but if you can't follow the linear progression,
it's because Melania is in Africa
wearing a colonial sunhat
to help prevent her glossy lipstick from fading
in the sub-Saharan heat.
donald trump predicts
that he'll ball her at least one time in the White House
before he's no longer President,
but she's betting against it.

it ain't working right

it ain't working right
the doctor checked my sight
said there's too much going wrong
well, Tom Petty played his final song
about Bobby Sue
who thinks she's knows just what to do
when the lights go dim
she has her eyes set straight on him
no, she doesn't see me
but i'm holding a sign offering myself for free
i'm in a party trace
can't sing and i can't dance
want to wear a big cowboy hat but it won't fit
saw a passing joint and took a hit
saw a whiskey drink and didn't have time to think
got some courage and got it fast
felt pretty intense but i knew it wouldn't last
said, hey girl, have you heard about Pablo Picasso?
i could tell you about some other things that you don't know
it's another Friday night
it ain't working right
the doctor checked my sight
said there's too much going wrong
well, Tom Petty played his final song
about Bobby Sue
who thinks she knows just what to do
when the lights go dim
she has her eyes set straight on him
no, it's fine, it's perfectly okay
she looked at me but had nothing new to say
and all the other guys stood around
i held firm standing my ground
can't go forward and can't go back
can't surrender and can't attack
i'm in a party trance
can't sing and i can't dance
want to wear a big cowboy hat but it won't fit
saw a passing joint and took a hit
saw a whiskey drink and didn't have time to think
got some courage and got it fast
felt pretty intense but i knew it wouldn't last.

where Picasso went

few people knew where Picasso went
but he certainly had a drink in hand
on his last day in southern France!
by his comfortable bed stood a skinny flower
dressed like a woman,
her hair falling to her shoulders,
her garden smile growing without weeds
near the tall blue mountain
by his old chateaux.
he kept his steady eyes
intense like a Spanish dream
of a brave matador's gaze:
they were full and round and strong
and massively inquisitive,
but they wouldn't reveal any secrets,
and he had a lot of secrets,
including many from inside the small beach front cabana,
where a girl was often down on her knees,
while he was never down on his luck.
the frequent winds there spit salt across the sea;
he watched a small kite aloft in the breeze,
its' string held by a young, soft hand,
a hand he would often use to comfort himself.
if he made a mistake,
cigarette smoke would spiral
around his studio easel,
shaman-like, chanting steadily,
while paint fell on his canvas.
he was always painting,
inside his head and in the still air of a busy room
where lines and colors formed;
a flat breast grew full and voluptuous;
pubic hair vibrating as though gasping for breath.
a penis embracing the large feminine nose,
a green face scowling like a difficult woman in shades of fracture;
a circus clown juggling memories,
a cube without ice melting inside a summer apartment,
a town crying for sanity during the bombing,
lovers looking for love without restraints,
painting over his mistakes,
painting his death mask,
painting his life.
he took a full sip from the glass,
after having cried
at the thought of his mother's funeral.

drink to me, he said.