we're the lovely dancing pair

wondering
if it's what i see
wondering
where to go to be free
as i look at you
you look at me
inside the rainbow
sweet currents of fresh air
white clouds swirling:
we're the lovely dancing pair.
she with a voice as gentle as a cat's smile
whispering for me to stay awhile,
cruising the open road each day
up every flight of stairs, down mysterious alleyways
dressing in party clothes
to a bum's rush or Hollywood shows
anonymously,
famously
watching how it all goes
under bright spotlights
wide-open skies or quiet nights
picnicking on the beach
everything seems to be within our reach.
wondering
if it's what i see
wondering
where to go to be free
as i look at you
inside the rainbow
sweet currents of fresh air
white clouds swirling:
we're the lovely dancing pair
she with a voice as gentle as a cat's smile
whispering for me to stay awhile

Beware of Mr. Baker

beware of
Mr. Baker
when walking down his lane!
there's wild rumors swirling
everywhere
that he's not well
and could possibly be insane.
the mad drumming in his head
is not all the Cream that he once said:
those fiery needles stuck inside his arm
are from when he was riding on his polo farm
on his speedy horse
but, of course,
there's African sand underneath his wheels,
heroin dealers and cocaine meals,
a desert sun,
black hookers and a British machine gun
ticking off the friends he used to know
before the big time and the Ginger Baker Show
came to town
in a flashy white limousine sporting a red-headed frown.
beware of
Mr. Baker
when walking down his lane!
there's wild rumors swirling
everywhere
that he's not well
and could possibly be insane.

a white dog

in the soft afternoon rain,
summer almost to bed,
a field covered by recently spread
fresh cow manure
mingled
with the sight of young
winter wheat
while a white dog rolled
her eyes in merriment,
licking what she could
without getting her feet muddy.

Jerry Garcia sitting on his stool

Jerry Garcia
sitting on his stool
laughing at himself
when he started to drool
so he asked me to play his guitar
but i'm no fool
i'm just waiting for the moon to fall
or the night to end
and my mom to call
she knows my number and my name
every road we took together looks the same.
there's a girl on my front step
she's still waiting, yet
when i've called, she said yes
but where she lives i'll have to guess:
there's no fortune teller in the band
no tinker bell in my left hand
no simple songs i can't simply understand
when the music rolls into a highway truck stop
i'm slowly eating food that tastes like slop
watching Jerry clean the floors with his famous mop
sitting on my stool
laughing at myself
when i started to droll
so he asked me to play his guitar
but i'm no fool
i'm just waiting for the moon to fall
or the night to end
and my mom to call
she knows my number and my name
every road we took together looks the same.

everything is not what it seems

behind the front wheel
there's so much more
to feel
looking for the easy road
while carrying a curiously heavy load
talking to my best friend
about the disturbing daily news
now asking her to choose
which way to turn
or stay straight?
we don't want to arrive too late!
there's a dangerous hurricane
and biting rain
flooding the center strip field
i can't see beyond the speeding windshield
it's a quarter past four
and an angry petroleum war
on the horizon sinks the ocean floor
all the children slipping off to bed
to read what the green meanies once said
before they packed to leave!
oh, the air is hard to breathe
and our eyes grow sore
it's a quarter past four
i ask her to read some more
heading west or is it east
into the prairie or the belly of the beast?
heading north or is it south
into the highlands or is it the monster's mouth?
the tires are rolling past my hometown
speeding up and slowing down
page three and page five
when the sun sets we're barely alive
each city full of fading lights and whispered dreams:
everything is not what it seems.
it's a quarter past four
playing music on the  hotel room floor
classical and rock
she teased my hair
i removed her sock
it's a quarter past four
when i shut the door.

in the scheme of things

dead pigs in the barnyard
stink,
tossing everything
at their former life but the kitchen sink,
hanging a blackboard on their
bedroom walls,
hearing their captain make his final calls
before the line went dead!
nothing could be remembered of what
was said
or what was done
before the loading of the biggest gun
and all the marching bands stopped,
playing their national notes
while watching the boarding of the immigrant boats,
all setting sail for the new world,
each holding dear to the lucky number seven,
dreaming of a future kingdom of Heaven
and a free fish bowl
from the nearest county fair,
hoping to break even and breathe freedom's air:
i saw a fleeting comet shoot
across the sky
while standing atop a rocky outcrop
with one sure eye
peering into my telescope;
did i see a message from a Roman God,
a prophesy of hope
or simply a shimmering motion in the scheme of things?

long kisses and short near misses

in the backyard pool
she looked at me
and i'm no fool
it was just her and i
underneath an east coast late summer night sky
and that damn high board would be my first chance
to do a mighty swan dive and maybe a triple backflip dance
to land in her waiting arms
full of promising adventure and mysterious jungle charms
i'd be a young Superman and she'd be Wonder Woman
swimming down the waterfalls to where all the mighty rivers meet
drying ourselves with soothing body heat
and i didn't really know what was in store
but we both left wanting more
a special song we'd sing and a movie we both love
long kisses and short near misses
maybe a bite to eat and laughs in the dimly-lit backseat
walking together where the pretty flowers bloom
together each night in our own bedroom
remembering how to swim when the lights turned low
and there was no where else we'd rather go.

evermore

there were helicopters buzzing in the air
and automatic rifle shots,
people scrambling, screaming everywhere;
a fallen child;
a dangerous madman in black armor running wild!
warm blood flooding the hot street;
midnight heat;
slipping feet,
their dreams for the future flailing on the El Paso ground;
an empty exhaling sound
of hopeful promises newly lost that never would be found
over and over again like random pieces of shattered glass
cutting short every sacred Sunday mass;
a reluctant revolving American door
in constant motion sounding evermore
seeming to say there is no end to the endless hate-filled war:
melting pot?
more like soul rot.

in a floating bottle

Blackstar
book of death
fading eyesight
and out of breath;
dreaming at night
while sipping tea;
solitary visions
lost at sea;
in a floating bottle
a yellowed note,
far from the waterfront,
where i once wrote
an off-broadway play
as a parlor game
for the wildly odd
and strangely tame.

i'm taking the family keys

saw my mom

sipping gin

she tried to stand

but couldn't win

out on the floor

she blocked the front door

and it seemed so sad

and then my dad

had his usual fit

when he took another hit

and it all became a mess

so i tried to guess

which way outa town

excuse me, please

i'm taking

the family keys

playing the radio

Billy Joel style

mile after mile

totally top down
beyond the town

volume way high
torching the sky

and the starry night

kept my head right

at ninety five

naturally alive

head lights searching for a destination

one that couldn't be found

driving around and around

thinking of how

i could justify throwing in the towel

when i had dear friends

to change my tires

and put out any emotional fires

with all eyes toward the front

pedal to the floor

listening to the steady engine roar

feeling the breeze

excuse me, please

i'm taking
the family keys
playing the radio
Billy Joel style
mile after mile.

i'm pretty sure it's mine

well, i went to the laundromat
looking for my old Beach Boys hat
and a little bit of this
and a little of that
and in the far right corner on the hardwood floor
i saw a group of lost boys and just one more:
an old friend sat sitting by the dusty coin machine
trying to remember his recent midnight dream
swaying steadily on a cheap three-legged seat
waiting for a passing washer woman to meet
when he asked me how my life has been:
i saw he was wearing my favorite hat underneath his toothy grin;
ah yes, I didn't have to guess,
and thought what did he know about the fateful cycles of life?
do they spin dry from the first husband to the last wife?
and is anything ever truly lint free?
does anybody fold their dirty laundry under the weeping willow tree?
well, in the village square
i no longer know any living person there
and in my Ford truck when the radio blows
i remember all the old vaudeville comedy shows
and at half past five
i'm usually ticking but barely alive
thinking of a quarter buying a pack of menthol cigarettes
and that's about as happy as this young man gets
heading down the road inside my head
dreaming of my cozy unmade bed,
carrying a pocket full of memories and a couple of bucks
thinking, ah, what the hell, aw shucks!
so, crazy as it sounds, I replied to the man that life has been steady and fine
and thanks for the hat because i'm pretty sure it's mine.

your favorite song

it's too soon to want to die
but it's okay to sigh
when the day is long
and your favorite song
is no longer played
and there's a helicopter is the air
full of black ops escaping their lair
ready to pull your hair
for looking good without overhead control.

the mighty algorithm

hearing the sound of sharp screams in the air
but it's only me that i see
falling from the Serengeti monkey tree
onto the fertile African plains
seasonally soaked from the recent rains
and there's my newly heavy brain
watching the overhead stars
long before the advent of fast cars
and electricity and the internet of all things
when my cell phone rings
pointing a finger and with a quick glance
i see myself do a tribal dance
to the tune of the mighty algorithm
when i say "Hello."

rowdy gladiators and all their liberal kills

there was a green goblin glint in his piggy eye
as the global warming sun kept approaching high noon:
his curious crowd came deferentially into view
watching him pretending to know what to do!
and they held a spelling bee but found he wouldn't read,
(a fatal flaw that he simply wouldn't concede).
the next day came slip-sliding in a Fox Mountain time
asking for poetic justice but then he couldn't even rhyme.
Humpty Dumpty said he'd pay for that Mexican wall
or perhaps a social platform from which to take a mighty fall.
and several diplomatic ladies dressed in Siberian shades of pink
heard he was color-blind and couldn't tell the truth or think;
the busy Washington wheels kept spinning and spinning
their tall tales of wine and easy winning
while an enormous coliseum fills
with rowdy gladiators and all their liberal kills.
farm animals in an Orwellian barn continued to boast
that they stoned a hippie coming in from the west coast,
as the nuclear clock keeps inching ahead,
because it's what the Alice-In-Wonderland caterpillar said.
BUT i do solemnly declare
i see citizen soldiers everywhere
marching on the village green:
one light if the British can be seen,
and two if they have to guess
there is extreme peril to our freedom of the press.

fire in my toes

fire in my toes
following the sun
whichever way it goes
and not to be outdone
my slowing walk
breaks into a run
striding to the wild
over the hill
but never enough
for getting my fill.
the babbling brook
playing the part,
an free-flying bird
comforting my heart.

no longer a virgin

and there was his ghost

spreading lies between the woman's legs,

sipping a Mar-a-Lago sour,

eating cheeseburgers and patriotic eggs,

counting down from five to almost six

playing stupid White House tricks,

looking for a safe place to hide:

one for every time he's lied

and 1,984 for the times

he asked his fixer to cover-up crimes.

and at the historic desk he sighs;

when the phone rings he takes her call.

"What do I care?" she says

from her fashionable bedroom down the hall,

counting down from five to almost six

playing stupid White House tricks,

with an accent from the European east,

in her Lincoln bed she tries to sleep
as John Wilkes Booth boldly makes his leap.

and flying turds

Barr, the dog, came to the hill
looking mean
unshaven
wearing a fancy suit
with an alligator cowboy boot
on one foot
while the other foot
stuck in his mouth.
he said he knew
what he was doing
sitting in his testimonial chair
muttering,
bewildered and pooing
words
in the shape of flying turds.

so full of moon

oh June,
under the stars
so full of moon,
the steady nighttime tune
of a whispering wind
sampling a taste,
keeping it real,
all pansies and lace.

like a water soaked log

factory by factory,
strip mall by strip mall,
the crumbling begins
from heartless border wall to wall:
a gasp for breath;
a sea level rise.
the richest people
in happy disguise
on their mountaintop summit
sitting down for a drink:
they toast to success
and defy you to think.
the migrants still crossing
scorching deserts at night,
no freshwater sipping,
no horizon in sight.
the coastal cities
submerged in a fog,
buried under the oceans
like a water soaked log.

just a regular guy

i'm wandering the fertile garden path,
fleeing from the big city block,
having spied Christians passing out holy literature:
shepherds for their flock.
my heavenly doorbell rings;
a nervous bird of paradise sings.
such a wonderful surprise
i'm watching with wide open eyes:
shopping feet scurrying into the crowded street,
going from commercial door to party door,
seeming to be satisfied
but always wanting more:
so, had i passed this way before?
i'm just a regular guy
trying to stay relaxed,
trying to stay high.
my pockets are empty;
there's an arctic chill in the air;
the flowers could be blooming,
but i haven't got a prayer.
several days before me,
with eternity far behind;
a joker shines his name in light;
i've almost lost my mind.
i see a banquet on the table!
there's a starving baby without food!
hooded solders in marching order:
everyone in a good mood.
well, i'm just a regular guy
trying to stay relaxed,
trying to stay high.
my pockets are empty;
there's an arctic chill in the air;
the flowers could be blooming,
but i haven't got a prayer.

suburban life

nowhere are there Main Battle Tanks
tearing up manicured yards in my middle-class neighborhood,
shooting fat cats
chasing pedigree dogs
netting Monarch butterflies
while plowing thru walls
and nearby strip malls
spraying toxic fumes into chlorinated backyard
swimming pools
scattering landscaping tools
running over leaves of grass
busting fancy windows
kicking ass
smashing Cadillacs
while shifting into low gear
snaking in reverse
smoking children holding simple tinker toys
little girls and boys
fearing a menacing diesel motor noise
lugging heavily armored steel
and a damn big long-barreled cannon
proving that
suburban life must still be pretty sweet.

tapping time with both my knees

i'm the man in a winter coat
reading 'Dear Johnnie's'
on all the returned love letters i ever wrote
sitting in my frozen chair
satisfied without a care
breathing on my own for free,
tapping time with both my knees;
stripping off my clothes,
picking my teeth, picking my running nose
but remembering how my momma said
that's sometimes just how it goes.
i've got to walk the narrow beach
to figure out what i can reach.
so i'll spend my time to read a book;
first chapter needs a second look,
it's running hot,
taking everything i've got.
picking my teeth, picking my running nose
stripping off my clothes,
i'll visit eternity
for a better view of the open sea,
tapping time with both my knees.

since i was a kid

so what don't we know?
there's a lot being hid;
the missiles have been pointed
since i was a kid.
there's angry old men,
they point and they shove;
they fight about peace;
they quarrel over love.
they trade in their blues;
they expect you to lose.
they'll lie to your face
and call it the news.
there's a sound that they make;
they'll want you to hear
all the songs that they sing,
and what words you should fear.
all the clouds in the sky,
a bright sun burning thru.
i'm putting faith in myself
and i'm relying on you.
don't heed their calls;
tear down the damn walls.
so what don't we know?
there's a lot being hid;
the missiles have been pointed
since i was a kid.

already after noon

i'm running on an empty tank
nearing the end of a very short track,
the nearest sun is behind the moon,
the land under attack;
it's already after noon
and the clouds are grey
but i asked you to stay
before you melted away.
the circling stars are black,
and i tried talking to you,
but you weren't talking back.
i'm falling through our relationship crack
towards a safer place to hide:
no one of consequence standing by my side,
maybe to sleep in a heartless shack,
a nearby magazine unread,
headlines reporting what other people felt and said.
i'm running on an empty tank
nearing the end of the short track;
the nearest sun is behind the moon,
the land under attack;
it's already after noon
and the clouds are grey
but i asked you to stay
before you melted away.