so who's the fool?

there was blazing prophetic fire falling from the sky
the embers burned my eye
i didn't need to ask why
the fire was falling from the sky
hot tears kept falling from my face
there was no one nearby to embrace
and when the night turned cool
without love life is cruel
so who's the fool?
look around
and tell me what you've found!
do you know more than your own name?
what the hell is this awful game?
there was blazing prophetic fire falling from the sky
the embers burned my eye
i didn't need to ask why
the fire was falling from the sky
noise kept banging in my ear;
i took a breath and watched storefronts disappear
and when the night turned cool
without love life is cruel
so who's the fool?
look around
and tell me what you've found!
do you know more than your own name?
what the hell is this awful game?
green skin, blue eye, black ball,
short gnome, abnormally tall,
female, male, long inhale, long exhale,
foul odor, sweet heart beat motor,
bearded and bald, unknown and called
cruel and just, polished and rust
reinvented and bust, fresh air and dust.
there was blazing prophetic fire falling from the sky
the embers burned my eye
i didn't need to ask why
the fire was falling from the sky
hot tears kept falling from my face
there was no one nearby to embrace
and when the night turned cool
without love life is cruel
so who's the fool?
look around
and tell me what you've found!
do you know more than your own name?
what the hell is this awful game?

breaking into nordic sweats

eating possum with my pork
sipping moonshine
calling Mary Lou mine
while slurping with a knife and fork.
i'll make my mom and dad proud
wearing riot gear in a Friday night crowd
and heavy boots polished teeth pearly white:
everything i do is right!
yelling hard threats
sipping moonshine
calling Mary Lou mine
while breaking into nordic sweats.
hanging racial memories with a double rope
my calloused hands tearing at thoughts of hope
and heavy boots polished teeth pearly white:
everything i do is right!
eating possum with my pork
sipping moonshine
calling Mary Lou mine
while slurping with a knife and fork.

violence and war!

violence and war!
i gave you everything i've inherited
and still you wanted more
like flowing champagne,
a drink you used to love,
but now it causes only pain
with corporate greed dancing
and empire lies
it's not my idea of romancing:
there's bodies on the floor
looking for truth and consequences
while there's an ambulance standing by the door;
haven't we been this way before?
dream devices
and people growing fat and happy,
unwilling to make sacrifices,
making lazy decisions down on their knees
between politics and technologies.
violence and war!
i gave you everything i've inherited
and still you wanted more
like flowing champagne,
a drink you used to love,
but now it causes only pain
with corporate greed dancing
and empire lies
it's not my idea of romancing:
there's bodies on the floor
looking for truth and consequences
while there's an ambulance standing by the door;
haven't we been this way before?

"Please, I can't breathe, officer"

gentlemen
start your engines
Barbies and Kens
guys and dolls
gangster molls
don't ask why
hang'em high
or let'em fry
forelocks
dreadlocks
late night door knocks
blonds and reds
traveling deadheads
cheese in your pocket
the orange man Davy Crockett
boycotting subways
golfing the fairways
long naps short work days
playing rough
(i'm) more than enough
small guy tough
won't take any guff
stuff
from trailer whitey,
ol' God Almighty
running down the road
loosening the load
coming to a cruising stop
hip hop
bumper crop
hey, a dirty cop
the art of the deal
underneath a boot heel
to make a score
someone's wanting more
do the time
petty crime
he's a friend of mine
but now he's dead
like i said
getting my full share
shouldn't be unfair
pristine wedding gown
goose stepping all the way down
semi-permanent frown
rising from the project
having your racist knee on my neck
and now
"Please, I can't breathe, officer"
who's next?
send a text
it won't matter to me
if i'm not free;
who's it gonna be
when all the blacks are dead?

Led Zep

blacked out cobble streets
firebirds
yardbirds
tires squealing past the ghosts
blasting the voice of Elvis
touring America 1969
singing Delta blues
with an amplified small club white tongue
full of power and passion
balls banging off the wall
hips shaking center stage
baby please don't go
how many more times
for years and years
well, well, well
an exploding train on the downtown tracks
dishing out Pepsi and lines of coke
the station house in a blaze of speed
pretending to be a monk with 40 shots of vodka
listening to a black dog bark
under the passing window
but i don't know
staying dazed and confused
and oh, yeah, on the streets of Tampa
the stadium steps in 1973 were as hard as rock.

if no one's left alive?

people are invisible
on the edge of the dragon field
where their ears grow cold;
their silent eyes grow a protective shield;
they sleep under the night stars
eating pockets of toxic air,
trying to see what needs to be seen,
but they'll only sit and stare
like friendly ghosts
looking upside down to nowhere,
missing an angel's wing,
having an imaginary argument with God,
believing in a little something or perhaps anything,
finding no reason to be mad
or catch a deeper breath;
they're lulled into complacency
with great stories of a hero's death.
closer and closer their fate
to the Bikini Atoll nuclear test,
these remaining survivors of a terrible mushroom cloud
stay silently screaming, crying out loud
as fallout ash spreads, their day becomes dark.
the common flowers lose their color,
healthy trees lose their protective bark;
many of the floating ships sink
into their burial vault
but where are those responsible
to accept the fault?
the killer of man and his mate?
no one is willing to be first in line,
others show up much too late!
what will happen to the children
as the seasonal rains fail to arrive?
who will be left to tell the story
if no one's left alive?
and while the solitary sun glows fiery red,
there's still no roaring at the sky.
words are created to comfort and reassure,
but any rescue promise is a lie!

memorizing all the tales

it was raining on the south lawn
reporters were asking questions about the dawn
a fake leader was oozing a yellow yawn
the warm wet drops fell
and his strange voice came rising from a little corner of hell
trying to speak coherent words but you couldn't tell
and the seasons changed
then it snowed
far and away down the open road
prairie grass lands had been completely mowed
so the buffalo sitting in their zoo
keep forgetting what it is they should do
finding it impossible to heed nature's call
to migrate under or over the border wall
and there's an ocean spinning around the sun
the fish are shooting each other with a gun,
are slowly walking up the beach on the run
the tide has turned:
what once was taught is now unlearned
there are hearts that have been burned:
refugee ships loaded with all manner of humanity
sail the rising seas expecting to be free
and there's you and me
memorizing all the tales of brave Ulysses.

nothing up your sleeve

3 little pigs
and a black knight
on television
where there's static from a passing car:
who do you think you are?
changing channels like used underwear
from red to blue
wondering on a fine Sunday morning
what to do
if in an emergency the glass is broken
and you're looking for another subway token
but it's not in your pants,
it might be your last chance
before the clock strikes twelve.
what to do when the game is called?
if your room is papered with cheap confetti
and your head is walled
there's nothing to see on the far side
no where to run
no where to hide
you've held out hope
wrapped in a stiff cardboard box;
the little pigs found a way
to break the locks
they're playing you for a fool
you're trying to play it cool
they're heading for the barnyard with a grin
you momentarily tie the score
but know you'll never win;
smoke is fouling the surrounding air
it's not fit to breath
there's nothing you can do to save the day
you've got nothing up your sleeve:
bread crumbs are passing around in refugee camps
while you're reading by polished Tiffany lamps
dressed in mother's perfume
eyeing the throne room
there's nothing to see on the far side
no where to run
no where to hide
you've held out hope
wrapped in a stiff cardboard box
the little pigs found a way
to break the locks
they're playing you for a fool
you're trying to play it cool
they're heading for the barnyard with a grin
you momentarily tie the score
but know you'll never win
smoke is fouling the surrounding air
it's not fit to breath
there's nothing you can do to save the day
you've got nothing up your sleeve:
bread crumbs are passing around in refugee camps
while you're reading by polished Tiffany lamps
dressed in mother's perfume
eyeing the throne room
there's nothing to see on the far side
no where to run
no where to hide.

Bucharest

Bucharest,
where i mounted a stone horse
and fell into a central fountain,
is old.
some distance away,
Bran Castle's walls
are cold to the touch:
there is blood between the cracks
and it always seems to be there.

the guy is a moron

over and over
and around and around
driving the deep state
into the underground
with fancy feathers and curly cues
looking for Elvis
and his blue suede shoes
along with an Einstein visa
because beautiful women are cute
especially the ones
playing orchestral string bass and flute
who tease their hair and pump their breasts
pout their lips
flaunt their hips and sharpen painted fingertips
for a little scratching
and uptown matching
in and out
out and in
from Fifth Avenue to Fourth
spreading legs south or north
but mostly on the runway
for the eye of a vain man
who has money for a honey
and a special lamp for his tan.
he can have a small penis
but his bank account must be immense
his privacy ensured
with a billion dollar fence!
allowances can be made
for almost anything
even if the guy is a moron
but can buy a very expensive ring.

The Lorraine Motel (Memphis, Tennessee)

i had a vision of a dirty bomb
tear my head completely apart in Vietnam.
i saw the mushroom cloud explode in ’45,
Trinity was born!  i was barely alive,
fed a steady diet of black & white
watching John Glenn take his historic sub-orbital flight
into near space on a rocket ship;
he nearly died but i didn't know it,
hiding under the classroom seats
with Peggy Sue and her forbidden treats
so near to touch but i'd have to wait.
i saw Kennedy get blown away
in his black limo on a late November day.
watched the flowers that people held
growing old until they smelled
like thousands of dead bodies in a distant Cambodian field.
i saw them & felt chilled
when Martin Luther was struck down
on a balcony near my hometown.
he was hit with a thud and bled and bled,
but it didn't matter what anyone said:
The Dream still lives, the body gone,
remembering the Selma bridge
hoping to see the promised land over heartbreak ridge.
and i heard Nixon really got pissed!
he put countless enemies on his list
& his White House was infiltrated by crooks
who to this day in countless history books
have an amazingly large asterisk by their name
believing Honor was just a fool's game;
it didn't matter that people died;
they still cocktail partied and lied and lied and lied,
believing until the end that God was on their side!
and i indeed saw their God walking across my rice paddy water
leading His sheep to another senseless slaughter
while i cleaned my gun under the afternoon sun

and waited.  

watching the birds fly

watching the birds fly over the house
there's no stopping to shit in any suburban yard
there are no earth worms on the newly repaired street
no nutritional food inside the local Arby's to eat
the children playing in the park
pretend to be zombies roaming around after dark
dads waxing fashionable cars
and moms giving blow jobs to their fancy kitchenAid sinks
visiting bowling alleys and ice skating rinks
boasting membership to perfectly manicured golf courses
hoping to hook a drive for a hole-in-one
without getting anything of significance done
singing off-key or not at all they have all they need
and it's paradise they've simply agreed
with Sunday school and a leisurely game of pool
using a cue instead of a clue
to figure out what the hell is hurting
too many false eye lashes spending frivolous hours flirting
and their teeth are razor sharp
best for biting each other in the neck
bar-be-cuing memories on the sun deck,
watching the birds fly over the house.

wasn't it Daniel Boone?

wasn't it Daniel Boone
who went jumping over the full moon
after cheating at a game of Texas Hold'em
inside the lonely Heartbreaker Saloon?
well, he didn't have time to stop and wave
before landing in a Tombstone territory grave
and there's a lesson but i'm guessing:
he didn't think he'd be caught
he didn't think he'd be sought
for holding three pair
while playing in his fancy underwear
he said it didn't seem fair
so he hightailed it out of there
he never came back inside
kept looking for a safer place to hide
kept looking for a poker-faced bride
someone who told the ultimate truth and never lied
stood thru thick and thin by his side
and then she was gone
like the next morning's dawn
holding four aces and his coon skin cap
she never wanted to sit on his cheating lap
or tailor his dusty cowboy jeans
she never liked eating cold franks and beans
and said it was all over so good bye Boone
who went jumping over the full moon
after cheating at the game of life
still looking for a woman to take as his wife:
he knew it was over but still totaled the score
should have stopped but he wanted more
and there's a lesson but I'm guessing
he didn't think he'd be caught
he didn't think he'd be sought
for holding three pair
while playing in his fancy underwear
he said it didn't seem fair
so he hightailed it out of there.
wasn't it Daniel Boone
who went jumping over the full moon
after cheating at a game of Texas Hold'em
inside the lonely Heartbreaker Saloon?

every day was wrong

he said it was in Mississippi
or deep inland Alabama
where i worked the fields every damn hot summer
all night long
every day was wrong
aching back
and no lunch to pack
no northern railroad track
but i've got me a fine plantation sack.
baby, i sang my blues away
swatting flies in the stinking mud
tired bones and worn out head
just like Mr. Bossman said
freedom was a long road from here
no heavenly angel would appear
no answered prayer
here or there
all night long
every day was wrong
aching back
and no lunch to pack
no northern railroad track
but i've got me a fine plantation sack.
he said it was in Mississippi
or deep inland Alabama
where i worked the fields every damn hot summer
all night long
every day was wrong
aching back
and no lunch to pack
no northern railroad track
but i've got me a fine plantation sack.

gliding by

she was standing next to a shopping cart
when i went gliding by
looking for her bag of orange tangerines
but i wanted to make her the apple of my eye
her peaches seemed ripe and oh so inviting:
could there be something to make the vegetables more exciting
other than a massive carrot or an anxious onion skin
lining up for the human race and determined to win
by a country mile or the slimmest hair on an unshaven chin.

when you're not near

no sense running in the rain
or dancing under the sun
there's nothing to gain
i find only isolation and pain
when you're not near
i'll look but you've gone
i'll call but you won't hear
i'll listen then shed a tear
i can't make it through the night
can't even light my fire
can't turn a wrong into a right
can't turn a blind eye into sight
i just keep hitting my head
eating cold bacon and refried beans
can't even make my own bed
or remember what it was i last said
these old memories still seem young
regardless of my tired heart
memories of songs that we've sung
hang like sweetness on the tip of my tongue
when you're not near
no sense running in the rain
or dancing under the sun
there's nothing to gain
i find only isolation and pain
when you're not near
i'll look but you've gone
i'll call but you won't hear
i'll listen then shed a tear
i can't make it through the night
can't even light my fire
can't turn a wrong into a right
can't turn a blind eye into sight
i just keep hitting my head
eating cold bacon and refried beans
can't even make my own bed
or remember what it was i last said
when you're not near.

any day now

remembering how to hold your hand
kiss your lips
feel you arms around my waist
as the memory slips
and the nights grow long,
the days grow cold:
i'm resisting the call
to being bought or sold
like a pawn on a chess board
being expected to behave,
to forgo any romance
which i might crave...
i love the laughter of a hearty joke,
the singing of a song
there's nothing down the middle
that's completely right or it's wrong!
thank you so much for being smart,
helping to maintain a healthy heart
here's a hint for how i feel
laughing as i slip on my banana peel:
an adventurous hike for a least a mile;
the cherished memory of a baby's smile;
a puppy jumps while the kittens play,
and a lover asks how i've been today.
no quarantine or lonely time
can negatively affect my rhyme
as the minutes tick and the hours slide
hoping to end this game of hide
and seek
with a quick peek
out the front door
expecting any day now to see more
smiling faces.

if we're not free

well, my dad was a sweeper!
he used my head to sweep up the floor
my mother was ambitious
and she always wanted more;
we lived in an old house
but didn't seem poor.
there was hot food on the table,
clean paint on the wall,
both parents were anxious,
believed in strict letters of the law
and when they said just do it
i had to see what it was they saw:
i drew airplanes on lined paper
but some of them burned
like stories around the neighborhood
and the hard lessons i learned.
i took to collecting stuff
like baseball cards of Mickey Mantle and Willie Mays;
kicking cans down the back roads while counting all the days
until i could leave home
like a rodeo cowboy hoping to roam
all by myself;
a young boy of the fifties
who had a flat top on his head,
i could hear my parents arguing while i
sat crying on my bed:
was it something that i said?
well, explain the piece of black coal in my Christmas box
and the heart that always locks
when i come inside for a hug
don't
push away and pull out the rug
from under me
and when you're doing a study of history
there's more to life than the pyramids;
there's wild boys like me,
who
don't know how to live if we're not free.
i drew airplanes on lined paper
but some of them burned
like stories around the neighborhood

and the hard lessons i learned
i took to collecting stuff
like baseball cards of Mickey Mantle and Willie Mays:
kicking cans down the back roads while counting all the days
until i could leave home
like a rodeo cowboy hoping to roam
all by myself;
a young boy of the fifties
who had a flat top on his head
i could hear my parents arguing while i
sat crying on my bed
was it something that i said?
well, explain the piece of black coal in my Christmas box
and the heart that always locks
when i come inside for a hug
don't
push away and pull out the rug
from under me
and when you're doing a study of history
there's more to life than the pyramids
there's wild boys like me,
who
 don't know how to live if we're not free.

liberation

How about Thanking my mother
for the shocking taste of disgustingly red Tabasco sauce...
its' abrupt richness: yes, it was raw and spicy hot and awful
and unwelcome and burnt my throat as it sloshed
and i gagged as it was being forced into my mouth.
she always held me down!
at 5 or 6, i couldn't get up and felt hurt, uncertain, vulnerable.
Was she confused about her role?
Was this normal mother behavior?
privately behind closed doors hiding the disappointments; the anguishes.
Thank you for it all.
How about thanking my father for the broken nose at 8 and
the busted collarbone, the visible scars, the
body slams of my frail body into the unyielding living room wall,
or onto the linoleum kitchen floor, or the cheap bedroom mattress,
while on the new TV the Wonderful World of Disney
was telling everyone how wonderful life in America could be?
was my dad mad over his marriage or confused about his role
as a new father?
did his experiences in the 2nd World War as a navy sailor
scribble wildly in his emotional coloring book?
what about his drinking to excess? the drunken threats?
the belt lashing?
It couldn't have been entirely my fault, i later wondered?
Thank you for it all.
How about living in my metaphorical dog house
pushed down onto all fours, two small feet, two small hands,
thin arms and a thin body, being yelled at like the most disobedient mongrel?
i was always in the dog house,
shamed, abused, busted, but, significantly, never permanently broken.
NEVER BROKEN!  Well, house broken, yes.
Thank you for it all.
AND the SHARP knife?
How about the hatchet blade
violently chopping into the closed wooden door as I cowered on the far side?
NO, i wasn't going to open that bathroom door.
And how to explain the spontaneous angers?
The random beatings?
BUT all the while i was diving deeply into myself, hoping to learn,
to survive, to come out the other side, to thrive.
to discover a new world, a new life, a new way of seeing,
of breathing, of being.
Thank you for it all.
It wasn't a free ride.
not at all!  i paid.
Thank you for it all.
And for all of it, i forgive you.
My liberation.
i can't give it to you but i can talk about it.
My liberation.

November, 1942

midnight in the Pacific
and a symphony of death
with violin strings vibrating
as the orchestra holds its' breath;
a conductor reads the service
along the starboard side;
rifles are raised and volleys fired
for all the sailors who died.
battleships and destroyers,
cruisers and PT boats
answering the call of battle
for anything that floats!
into shelling range
ready to commence firing:
spotlights on the enemy.
the thirst for revenge never tiring.

boneyards of men

Diem and I sat on top of a concrete bunker
while the eastern sun was slipping low
talking about living life in a war zone
when there was no where else to go.
we shared a smoke
and a view of the razor-sharp barbed wire;
we listened to nearby water buffalo cries
and heard distant artillery fire.
Apache helicopters flying low and fast slapped the air.
soldiers walked to pull guard.
he dreamed of having a bar of soap for his wife;
i dreamed of having a bar-be-cue in my small town backyard:
but there were no treasure chests in these foothills;
no liberty bells ringing for hearts yearning to be free;
no light at the end of a tunnel;
only boneyards of men who had ceased to be,
now lost shadows like ghosts wandering about
perhaps along the DMZ
or on the lazy current of the indifferent Saigon River
or inside a Buddhist temple or behind a plantation rubber tree.
who knows which way it goes?
when the cigarette ends and fighting men go their separate ways,
noticing each misfortune or thankful for the luck of the draw,
and a short-timer's calendar is ticking down the remaining days
for the survivors,
who when the lights are off and the room goes black,
remember a napalmed young girl's skin
melting off her back.

together on the bed

trying to catch my breath
running in straight lines
over hills and under mattresses
looking for signs
which may mean a thing or two
containing significances or only a few
fleeting glimpses of solid ground
but when everything is quiet i can feel you around
growing in intensity
like a Spring Beauty on the south facing hill,
i can't get enough until i get my fill:
there's no hard rain striking my face
no sun too hot or bright to sour my taste
for your deep mouth
baby, there's no such thing as a dead rock
or a heart with an unbreakable lock:
you catch my eye with your exhale
and inhale
like a prisoner i'm in your cell
enslave me and i'll never tell
what happened when we fell
together on the bed
while looking over my shoulder.

at barely thirty five

When we told grandma Jake had died
She looked at us and cried
“Sakes alive!
Sakes alive!
There was no one more unfortunate;
He was barely thirty five.
He stubbed his toe on a mountain side
At barely thirty five.
He should have seen a doctor friend
But he swallowed too much pride!"
and as her voice trailed off,
she muffled a nursing home cough,
went right back to eating her cookie
reminiscing about the time she once played hooky
from her days with a traveling Band;
they were scheduled to play a small town grandstand
but she saw her boyfriend climbing a nearby tree:
he tried to grab an apple and a peach;
he ate one but the other was out of reach
and she thought he would learn his lesson
but she didn't know how to teach.
"Sakes alive!
Sakes alive!
There was no one more unfortunate;
He was barely thirty five.
He lost his grip on a fruit tree slide
At barely thirty five.
He left me with his Oldsmobile
But i didn't know how to drive!"
when it was almost time to go
she wondered if we'd stay to watch the preview show:
Tarzan and his son boy
or was it Dale Evans and her cowboy Roy?
or Sammy Davis with that Rat Pack?
or The Day The Earth Died from an alien attack?
but no matter she was already in her sack
eyes closed, body wrapped
and as we tried to adjust her bed
she slowly opened her mouth and said
"Sakes alive!
Sakes alive!
There was no one more unfortunate;
I am barely thirty five.
I lost my marbles on a tilt-a-whirl ride
At barely thirty five.
I'm tired but i'm satisfied.
Would you turn me on my side?"

One plus One

i didn't have a drop to drink
on the evening of my twenty first birthday
'cause i drove past the local Lutheran Church
as all the parishioners were on their knees to pray
and i could see their faces and almost hear them say
"It's not a good way
to spend your time
when you're down to your last thin dime!
Make yourself at home in this peaceful place
where all our wonderful words rhyme!"
but my borrowed car kept going down High Street,
past the singles bar and the rundown movie house;
past a woman searching for her photo album
and an old man thinking about his former spouse
now that she was dead,
hoping to remember the tantalizing words she once said
when they were young and all the windows had a view,
when all their caresses were light and one plus one always equaled two
and soon enough i saw the central traffic light
Hut's barbershop was off to my right
where i often sat in his big, red leather chair;
he'd cut me a flat top as i'd watch my hair fall without a narcissistic care;
he'd brush my face and squirt some cheap perfume
as thoughts of backyard burgers and Pabst Blue Ribbon would filter through the room:
fifty cents and a quick dab of wax,
no added charges and no sales tax;
men sharing personal war stories
reliving their past imagined glories
and out the door in fifteen and on the street looking for a double thick strawberry shake
wondering how to be on the make
Saturday matinees with hot popcorn in a big paper bag with loads of melted butter?
on screen, Marlene Dietrich with her smoldering sex appeal would always make my heart flutter
under the seat where all the chewing gum stuck
i'd try to find some spare change but never had the luck
and out the door in fifteen and on the street looking for the cheerleader who had the tiny feet,
the long blonde hair and her teeth would be perfectly white
she'd wrap her arms around me and fill me with such delight
i'd ask my mother if love was real and she'd poke me in the eye
"We never talk about stuff like this and you really should know why!"
i didn't have a drop to drink
on the evening of my twenty first birthday
'cause i drove past the local Lutheran Church
as all the parishioners were on their knees to pray
and i could see their faces and almost hear them say
"It's not a good way
to spend your time
when you're down to your last thin dime!
Make yourself at home in this peaceful place
where all our wonderful words rhyme!"
but my borrowed car kept going down High Street,
past the singles bar and the rundown movie house;
past a woman searching for her photo album
and an old man thinking about his former spouse
now that she was dead,
hoping to remember the tantalizing words she once said
when they were young and all the windows had a view,
when all their caresses were light and one plus one always equaled two.