Black Panthers

i was prisoner in a cell

with a job sweeping up the cement floor

i felt warm inside the joint

listening to stories of a new cold war

suffering inside my own locked door

but i took my escape from white-washed walls

while running my mouth

up and down these injustice halls

into another heated Oakland night 

looking for a little daylight

across the narrow bridge

hearing stories of police oppression and bloody Pine Ridge

here were proud Black Panthers feeding kids

in the early morning hours before school

teaching each and every one the precious golden rule

they sat with spoons and forks and a dull knife

learning to avoid a world of drug-dealing and lower nightlife

where pigs in patrol cars pull up to a broken curb

smashing any black sign that says "Do not disturb!"

but kids kept reading their books

while giving me curious childhood looks

as if to ask who i might be and what was my ultimate goal

but i was running flat-out out on my imagined parole,

both fists held high and tight in my striped uniform.

i mounted the hard-to-climb ladder and stood on my own platform

calling for justice and civic reform

no one heard

i shouted each angry word

before ominously, Mister J Edgar Hoover and his criminal FBI

gagged my mouth and poked my one good eye!

i was so aggrieved and began to cry,

then a mighty pain

it seemed there was nothing more to gain

and i could have been blind

it seemed normal being left behind

when the American party was about to begin:

no one stood a fair chance to win.

there was barely an open seat to watch the beginning of the freedom show

when i saw an angry bird flying by named Jim Crow;

i watched him grab a hanging rope,

tie a clever knot.

his following gang  

hiding in my blind spot

circumstances kept changing; children took their tests:

i heard they all got passing grades 

but were treated like uninvited guests

and the FBI led me to a party wall

i entertained myself with a game of dodge ball,

dreaming of a fertile field, praying for a gentle rain,

picking at my Attica lock 

trying to remove my invisible slave chain.

a shadow and a ghost

waking at the blush of dawn

pulling on my pants

waiting for direction

to begin my human dance

tic tac toe

a one and a two

mental music running in my head

i'm shuffling my blue suede shoe

ready for a ball room

jumping over the spinning top

head long into apocalypse

and a final sudden stop

there's nothing to prepare for

like falling into war

with a disassembled crowd

standing on a soap box yelling at a cloud

with gray walls of confusing mist,

a shadow and a ghost

looking for opportunity 

or a visible signpost:

but there's no park bench without a rusty nail;

no free river running with a nearby nature trail,

calling names out for a chance to play;

the game close but slipping away.

there's fewer willing to speak or stay

when the rain hurts the skin,

and fewer able to win.

so, it's time to dress

while there's still time to guess,

and it's anybody's guess:

a shadow and a ghost

looking for opportunity 

or a visible signpost.

tic tac toe,

pick a number

to sit in the front row

at the greatest show.

a shadow and ghost

are both heading for the coast.

a one and a two,

mental music running in my head,

i'm shuffling my blue suede shoe.

please, stay some more

and the new day saw the low gray clouds

hanging their heads in grief

for that one last breath and the falling

of a golden leaf,

without a sound,

all the way from the highest branch to the cold, hard ground:

there was disbelief

that a clever thief

could steal such a precious life,

without warning or a threatening knife.

and the reason for the end

was elusive and harder to comprehend,

when eyes once bright with a curious spark

could be so suddenly dimmed in the whispering dark.

tears fall, and implore

the memory walking in and out the door

please, stay some more,

pull up an easy chair

for our long, slow talk

before our long, slow walk.

we'll laugh and linger;

see three red fox and point a finger

at a swift hummingbird,

appreciating moments without saying any extra word,

and when your Lord says it's time to dine,

it will also be your time to shine.

the color blue was red

You may not know

when the storm blows in

or how many times the ticking clock

strikes noon.

you may arrive for the hanging judge

an hour or a minute too soon,

before the bartender pours his drink

for the gambler 

who takes a moment too long to think

which cards to keep and which ones to toss;

he couldn't afford another costly loss,

when a gentle woman of the evening 

gave him a crooked smile,

with her scarlet mouth and rosemary hips,

a friendly look with honey-colored lips.

she took her time to take him by the steady hand;

but did he really understand

there was always a price to pay? 

whether he took a walk down some dusty trail,

or spent quality time on her comfort bed,

or in the local sheriff's jail

where he could scratch his story on the nearest bloody wall

about how he remembered to walk 

only after he learned to crawl.

and his head held high!

but he didn't stop to wonder why

there was water flowing over the highest dam,

or out on the street a perpetual traffic jam,

with planes doing cartwheels down the side streets

and over the busy boulevards.

there was no place for a man who played his cards

close to his vest with suspicious, nervous eyes

in company with hustlers and a roving company of secret spies

from Washington and the velvet underground,

who wrote their headlines after and before

the holocaust and the thirty year war. 

there were everyday acrobats toasting with their evening meals,

and barnyard animals eating with their frightened squeals;

and hustlers selling books 

about silky mermaids with their fishy looks;

and a terrible avalanche disrupted central avenue

just to give the busy workingmen something else to do,

beyond the shopping sprees and the investing machine,

when the king appeared with his security and his virginal queen,

carrying bags of fool's gold behind the public scene,

proclaiming everything was normal and absolutely routine:

he spoke with a perfectly mellow voice

so no one had a care or a choice.

everything was as they said:

one plus one was three

and the color blue was red.

Mother Nature

what have you done

with my softest feet

which walked on the damp grass

before crossing the hard street?

what have you done

with my native child,

once unbroken and wild,

now exhausted and exiled?

what have you done with the dreams

which i wrote in my diary?

well, i'll take your answer for what it seems 

while i give you this inquiry:

when the fields are all planted

but the free birds are dying,

will your voice stay silent

while the innocents are crying?

when the oceans come calling with their eyes wide in fright

will babies be safe while napping over night?

yes, i've seen crazy horses stampeded by thunder,

kicking at the iron-clad barn door;

and young men wanting their first warm kiss

but shipped off to a war:

and the gray-haired woman who gave me her smile,

her fingers wrinkled and her fashion seemingly out-of-style,

she offered me comfort on her living room chair,

sitting in silent light to tell me to stand up to dark despair;

yes i ask 

while watching disappearing sand in an hour glass:

when the air gets heated and the desert sands explode,

will there be time enough to find a better road?

in spite of bullies and all the poison that they spew,

there are friendly faces and the better natures they pursue

with healthy hearts and selfless pride,

they seek the good and push the bad aside,

appreciating each pebble has a perfect polish all its' own;

which shines the brightest not when held in contempt,

but when it's thrown.

what have you done

with my softest feet

which walked on the damp grass

before crossing the hard street?

what have you done

with my native child,

once unbroken and wild,

now exhausted and exiled?

what i knew

 i'll tell what i knew

i counted all the greatest men

yet only found a few

who were born in humble circumstance

but spread their wings and flew

without envy in their heart

and that was an important start.

inside my own cocoon

it was about an hour after midnight

when i saw a woman with flowers in her hair

she asked me if i had some money to spare

well, my pockets were empty and torn

and i knew i was looking forlorn

but i gave her what i could share

it wasn't much but when you're down and out

there isn't much left but questioning and feelings of self-doubt

so i went my way

without much more to say

but suddenly i heard her asking me with a voice pure as gold

she wanted to know if i had ever been bought and sold?

if i was a carpetbagger or a military man on his leave?

was i an honest man or was something hanging up my sleeve?

and what exactly did i know and what did i believe?

well, sitting down to reflect on what she just said

i heard the murmur of ocean waves 

i saw the tombstones of the dead

happy children playing on their graves

and i didn't know which way to go

when you get to the point where you realize

there's really no point to all the lies

maybe that's when i'm feeling free

on the backroads with no map and no crushing necessity

each gate swinging open and all the distant hills waiting for me

it's simple; it's easy

on the evening beach under the rising moon

simply reluctant to leave too soon,

like a butterfly spinning tales

inside my own cocoon,

like a deep inhale

with no well-trodden trail

to follow:

substantial with no unnecessary hollow,

maybe that's when i'm feeling free

on the backroads with no map and no crushing necessity

each gate swinging open and all the distant hills waiting for me

it's simple; it's easy

on the evening beach under the rising moon

simply reluctant to leave too soon,

like a butterfly spinning tales

inside my own cocoon.

the fragrance of cherry blossoms

 it was in Tokyo harbor

sitting on a battleship

under the rising sun

that McArthur had his general's fun;

his pants pressed neat and firm,

he offered surrender documents to confirm

that the Emperor really knew

what he came to realize was true:

the Pacific War was done.

it was August 1945,

after Hiroshima and Nagasaki

but Hirohito sat regally proud

inside the Imperial Palace

with fresh memories of a terrible mushroom cloud

when a moment of sadness brushed his eye

for the way of the samurai,

and the sudden desire for the fragrance of cherry blossoms.

then he spoke on the radio

to his people.

Venus in a giant half shell

too tired to mount the stairs,

i'm heavy with fatigue.

strange new cares

are pushing me down

until i can see

to the bottom of the sea,

and all the creatures trying to make it

are dressing in transsexual costumes

or else trying to fake it;

they're pushing open the revolving door

where a television

is portraying the ongoing civil war,

with battles on city streets and in the public square:

people looking for an escape are lost but discovering Mister Nowhere,

climbing ladders for a better view

to the top of the watch tower and down Fifth Avenue;

stories are thrown into the mix

and everybody wants to be in on the fix,

but the glue holding it all together

easily comes undone during spells of stormy weather:

in case there is some confusion when the music cries at night,

i'm swallowing pharmaceutical medicines to help myself feel alright,

and as part of the gathering crowd, i'm looking for an store front to swallow

or when i spy an anxious protest banner, i'll eagerly follow,

trying to find missing pieces of the broken wall

where the body of Humpty Dumpty one time took his big fall,

remembering that all the King's horses and their frustrated dreams

are not always on my side because nothing is ever like it seems.

there's a red glow on the horizon and choking smoke on the breeze;

people are rising and falling, some down on bending knees

and on the radio above the static from the street,

i hear an excited grumbling from a voice filled with conceit;

and echos rumbling like a company of army tanks

tumble down the main thoroughfare, past the parks, and the Wall Street banks:

loose gypsies are dancing on the spinning carousel,

famous minorities are ringing the front door bell,

and Venus, who's still standing nude in a giant half shell,

still has her secrets but she'll never tell

who is favored to win the big game and what's the final cost

for the gambler who bets it all and never once has lost.

yes, there is a still lot to lose 

and someone has to eventually pick and choose,

but when asked which I prefer, I would rather refuse

since all the answers can only be seen 

in the shooting stars or on the evening news.

Bob Dylan was nearby

i stopped in wonder

at a local bar

just to wet my whistle

and look around,

there wasn't a sound,

and right away i felt

like i was alone 

on a hillside demolished by the sunshine;

the face that i looked at was remarkably like mine.

and she came up to me acting like a piece

of fresh fruit, 

ripe and ready to squeeze,

and i wilted 

like a flowery bloom full of one too many stinging bees

but i had the presence of mind to take my first pure sip

before speaking about the deeper truths of life!

she wondered if i came here often

and, man, did i have a wife?

a brilliant mind, which i possessed,

would have lied like a gentleman

but i confessed

the orange that i was eating was a world on fire,

ah,  i couldn't be a simple liar

since my little bottle of champagne

was used only for silencing my dog

and for watching friends

pray on their knees to the universe and to make amends

for their goodness and their beauty

so i offered her a drink like it was my patriotic duty

to act like the leader of a touring band

writing exactly what i was feeling

while on my back pointing up at the heavenly ceiling!

Bob Dylan was nearby 

singing constantly,

all the while

with his Minnesota accent and a Ginsberg smile

when the lady took the next elevator up to the sky,

looking for her lost horizon and not wondering why

i kept gripping her by the forearm,

blowing my horn while rounding her curve.

but she wondered where i got all my romantic nerve

before everything erupted in flame;

i finally remembered to ask her for her name!

clearer than if it were from the distant past,

i realized my single bottle of champagne would never last.

well, put a cork in it, i heard myself say, 

but the bubbles inside my head already popped

and i knew even with the punishing traffic laws they couldn't be stopped.

the overhead lights flickered and went low

but what happened with the lady i really don't know:

she ran out the front door with a bottle of cheap wine and Michelangelo.

"Hey, Lukashenko! Go away!"

 A sea of people

in Belarus:

thousands of women are 

preparing to cook the head goose

where crowds of voices for independence

are marching on the loose,

waving banners to say

"Hey, Lukashenko! Go away!"

take your security and your forces

for a final exit ride on frightened horses

and that's a natural fact,

so please don't look back.

like a bee without his hive,

can this embattled leader survive?

without a glass of his favorite drink

of Soviet commands and government red ink,

he stares confronting the deep abyss and doesn't seem to think

that hundreds of thousands of people want him to capsize and sink,

and not one protester is willing to blink.

losers and suckers

 he said i was a loser

or was it lopsided lollipop sucker?

well, coming from an angry ladies-of-the-night fucker,

that's quite a thing

but now he fancies himself a modern day king

who once had a suspicious foot problem

which excused him from serving in the Vietnam war;

he's now asking for loyalty and demanding so much more

from his favorite daughter and his personal staff.

it was said to be tiny bone spurs sleeping inside one foot so let's laugh

when he's playing golf and bends to cheat:

it's obvious he's driving down the fairways with two good feet

looking for his tiny white ball,

but it's escaped to the rough and he'll need to crawl

on all fours to find where it timidly hides.

and to my astonishment he now resides

in the infamous American White House

where he wears an 'I Don't Care' blouse

while eating vanilla ice cream with his wife who's on the phone

talking to him from her bedroom in another time zone.

our best plan

i worked with her on an evening plan

before the sunset ran

and the rain drops fell

into her basement stairwell.

we agreed it would be nearly perfect

with just a few changes yet to make:

one idea was a recipe for rice and bean cake

i gave her to bake,

but on second glance

she said she'd rather dance

than cook 

from a simple kitchen book.

so, we stood looking through her small window

at a passing burlesque show

when another novel notion,

like a brown bottle of lavender body lotion,

stuck to our noses,

like a fragrant bouquet of freshly-picked roses:

it was to turn the ticking wall clock

into an image of a busy metropolitan city block

where swift crowds of people rattled and roared,

trying their best not to seem bored

by the futility of another insignificant day,

with not much of importance to say.

yes, we had a hell of time together

as the inclement weather

smacked us between the ears,

but we had our ice-cold beers

and a decent bottle of red wine:

our best plan was that everything would turn out just fine.

Come and See

Come and See

what is left of me

after crawling through the mud

spitting blood

listening for the break of dawn

trying to carry on

wondering where all the other children went

as if my youth has been misspent

reading words from important library books,

grooming myself and worrying about my looks,

when nothing is anymore what it seemed

i try to remember what i once wistfully dreamed

but it's easy to forget when life is being torn away

and everything is more difficult than it was yesterday.

Come and See

an angry soldier suspended in the tree

struggles as he points his rifle directly at me;

i can clearly hear

as his shot comes near

yet strangely i have a moment without fear.

Articles of Confederation

no story can tell the true tale

but sometime late in mid-afternoon

the flapping flag got loose,

and became a flaming balloon,

blocking out the setting sun and the blood-red moon

over the Mexican border and across a tall fence;

it began lighting fires 

and immigrant piles of bilingual incense.

there were caravans of desperate people heading north

weaving carefully across a flooding river

back and forth

to where it seems

it might still be possible to entertain big league dreams,

in spite of all dire warnings and the crazy coughing cries

of advertising cheers and the Mother of all Lies

of when's and how's and ifs and why's;

many Christians thumbing the pages inside their bibles 

looking for parables about how to treat their rivals

and then up the polished steps inside each pious church,

poking around in solemn search

to bridge the holy gap between what is promised and what is real 

and for Porky Pig and all the barnyard animals that scramble and squeal

along with Rocky Raccoon and Jesse James and his criminal gang,

hoping to hear the now-famous songs that they sang

about injustice and the Articles of Confederation:

especially the small print which is hard to read

about the founding of a newly-independent nation

and the rattling of southern chains,

across the cotton plantations and the great, grassy plains.

it might be all that remains,

but there were little puffs of gathering smoke

so it didn't totally resemble a school-yard joke

with moving public discourse

keeping the ship of state on a righteous course,

away from the perilous rocks,

picking away at the prison locks,

remembering that shining city on that distant hill

without a second glass of bourbon or hallucinogenic pill.

no one could wish for any less.

it was said and written in the liberal press,

so it must be true, 

and much like Ulysses S and his famously loyal crew

with salt-spray stinging every abolitionist face,

they prepared for a thrilling chase,

but it wouldn't be a simple foot race;

they stayed buckled up for a wild ride 

across the changing countryside

refusing to run and hide,

just in case

anybody wanted to gather and embrace,

or disappear completely without a trace,

to save personal memories of honor from disgrace.

too proud to kneel for another expensive Western meal

The Yellow River

with its' mighty brown flood,

and the Yangtze

with potent dragon's blood:

millions of buried ghosts,

tears dead and alive!

brave protesters in Hong Kong

finding it hard to thrive

inside Mao's little Red Book,

raising their heads for a gambler's quick look.

See!  there's the Great Wall:

a Terracotta army of the first Emperor

holding swords and shields, standing tall.

Dynasties leading deeply into the historical past,

with echos of great tragedies

which last and last.

fields of plenty and loss

almost too far to walk across;

sprawling cities on the expansive coastal plains;

thunder over the mountains followed by torrential rains,

arriving early or leaving too late,

keen eyes sipping pearl milk tea from a special China dinner plate,

too proud to kneel

for another expensive Western meal!

the No. 4 reactor

you're telling me what to think

you're telling me how to think

you're telling me what to drink

you're telling me your shit don't stink

well, i'm saying watch me wink

'cause you're blowing smoke

blowing smoke

and your pipe is broke

a walking tangerine eating his own bad joke

spitting out the seeds

watching to see what bleeds

'cause you're blowing smoke

blowing smoke

and your pipe is broke

like the No. 4 reactor

you're a deadly, dangerous actor

blowing hot radioactive air

blowing your tuxedo-styled hair

you're blowing smoke

blowing smoke

endangering lives

discarding dirty laundry like former wives

like the No. 4 reactor

you're a deadly, dangerous actor

blowing hot radioactive air

blowing your tuxedo-styled hair

you're blowing smoke

blowing smoke

a walking tangerine eating his own bad joke

spitting out the seeds

watching to see what bleeds.

the path over the cliff

the path over the cliff to Monterey

it would be a tough road to get there, they often say

unforgiving sun and dry desert sand

where i found a beautiful mirage but i don't think it was planned

traveling light

under the stars past midnight

she once gave me a map which i could no longer find

and i had a letter she wrote but it was never signed

i couldn't hear her thunder and i didn't feel any rain

while looking for some relief but i didn't feel any pain

i remember how i used to sing in the choir

how my voice came out softly and easily flew away

i'd give anything to have that voice again

but i've forgotten how to pray

and anyhow there are too many twists and turns

with lots of steep uphills and scary downs

crowds of heavy people hanging heavy heads

hiding natural smiles behind their unnatural frowns

i've walked to the tower and i've seen the wider view

wanted endless happy times but i've only had a few

i can't recall

all the ugly moments that i saw

crossing the river and wading the stream

but in the mirror i see an old man

still chasing his dream:

looking for a sand castle that no tide can destroy

waiting for her laughter to tickle my skin

holding hands with my lover in the middle of the road,

not ready to call it quits but ready to begin

the path over the cliff to Monterey

it would be a tough road to get there, they often say

unforgiving sun and dry desert sand

where i found a beautiful mirage but i don't think it was planned

traveling light

under the stars past midnight

son of Zeus

 when i cut my hair

i swear

i thought about Hercules

leaning on his strong knees

with his tongue on her breasts

his eyes on her face

thinking of the ending 

but it wasn't a race

it was poison in the blood

across the river before the flood

and the death of a centaur;

it would be many an ancient hour

before female jealousy killed the man,

his immortal side getting loose

reuniting on Mount Olympus with his father, Zeus.

after all the successful labours,

countless favors,

and the final funeral pyre:

male lovers and wives,

bows and arrows and stinging knives,

50 women in one night

before the following daylight

and not a single rival in sight.

Elena

"You sons of bitches!"

i'll find you in narrow ditches,

piss on your faces,

cover your eyes with needles and laces

to better blind you like a puppet tile:

it was a mockery of a trial

with no evidence or proof of any kind.

what? you think i've lost my mind?

i'll sneak up on you from behind

and bite off your ears:

of course you won't cry out or shed any tears

while holding machine guns fully loaded.

my husband and i have been railroaded,

but he'll sing 'The Internationale' while i scream

a pledge to forever haunt your every dream;

"You sons of bitches!"

the other seats were taken

 i saw you on the windowsill

big dumb eyes

like black skies

you didn't know where you were going

sitting on the edge of night

holding your skinny flashlight

straining to see a friendly face

on the television screen

making the New York scene

or making out

without a shadow of the doubt

with a shifting wind stirring your hair

you moved to the last velvet chair

to find a dime

but you were running out of time

to make a splash

all the other seats were taken.

cockroaches! Get out!

"cockroaches!

Get out!"

the people shout:

what don't you know about humility

and crushing futility?

the people see your rule

as self-serving and cruel;

the people won't fade away;

the people will make you pay

with your neck.

waiter, please, the check.

the blood on the street

is washing your feet.

the tears flooding the square

are running everywhere.

there's a noose on the loose:

one day the trumpets roar,

the following day,

they're heard from no more.

no sound is heard

after you broke your word,

when you tried to proclaim

your good name.

the people won't fade away;

the people will make you pay

with your neck.

waiter, please, the check.

it's you i adore

 and it was so hot

everything i got

it was all for you

i just never knew

everything we do

and what we've been through

baby, i'm impressed

baby, you're the best

from the sea to shore

you take but give more

it's you i adore

there's so much to miss

it's not just your kiss

your heart and your soul

in part or in whole

we rock and we roll

so fire up the car

follow the North star

it's our beam of light

our wings will take flight

i'll keep loving you

no holes to fall through

i just never knew

everything we do

and what we've been through

baby, i'm impressed

baby, you're the best

from the sea to shore

you take but give more

it's you i adore.

one hand on my pistol

on my face in the middle of the sea

thinking of my other favorite place i'd rather be

with one hand on my pistol and one hand on my gun

i heard cowboys riding their horses toward the setting sun

running from the law while hiding in my backyard,

trying to avoid being seen by the approaching prison guard

who's looking for an orange suit inside a heavy, full metal cage

inflated by an enormous ego according to the latest gauge,

and it seemed to be all the modern rage.

and there was a white ghost seen counting ten thousand bones

last noticed wrapped up inside the thin skin of howling Mister Jones

who was blow drying his hair listening to a morning talk radio:

it wasn't all good news but it was currently his favorite show

full of shouts with flapping lips that flattered 

all the nonsense that he thought mattered

about horses when they soiled the Old Santa Fe trail

and confederate cowboys when they tried to break out of the Union jail

and people down on their knees

their heads exploding when they sneeze

see, it's all front page news! 

there's not much more to gain and nothing else to lose;

walking seriously to visit a church across the desolate street

playing with a smiling lady in her friendly back seat

who's asking for a hundred thousand but only gets offered a single buck

getting out she removes her teeth and mouths her fatal words: "Hey! good luck"

and throwing a kiss and waving a hasty goodbye,

she's looking for an attorney who she knows is living nearby.

while on a battlefield there's a story and a Wanted: Dead or Alive poster on the border wall;

i tried to read the finer print but my hands were much too small.

on my face in the middle of the sea

thinking of my other favorite place i'd rather be

with one hand on my pistol and one hand on my gun

i heard cowboys riding their horses toward the setting sun

running from the law while hiding in my backyard,

trying to avoid being seen by the approaching prison guard

who's looking for an orange suit inside a heavy, full metal cage

inflated by an enormous ego according to the latest gauge,

and it seemed to be all the modern rage.