the hawk was humming in the April wind
far from where i stood
high in the mountains
above the distant roaring river
heading north for the summer
riding the thermals
soaring with a sharp eye
and broad wings
among fellow raptors
following the stars or a memory of flight
searching for the breeding ground
screaming kee-eeeee-arr
loudly and repeatedly,
beautifully primal and raw,
cutting thru the air with a pointed purpose.
on a barstool
watching a game of hustler's pool
listening to Jimmy playing his guitar
smoking a hand-rolled Cuban cigar
with the lights turned down low
couples and some standing solo
drinks in hand
like a Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band
we're playing a part
tending to a broken heart
or being in love with a friend we know
whichever way the wild winds blow
a golden dawn following the night
a soft face welcoming the morning light
and with the brightest smile
stops and stays for a little while
all the world wants to cheer a winner
growing heavy or growing thinner
on the road to where the forest grows
there are no easy answers from beyond i suppose
to which we all reply
overhead is an endless blue sky
and it's easy to remember the world is full
of people sitting on a barstool
watching a game of hustler's pool
listening to Jimmy playing his guitar
smoking a hand-rolled Cuban cigar
with the lights turned down low
couples and some standing solo
drinks in hand
like a Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band.
looking for that thin scar
visible on my right forearm
several inches from my wrist
just there
two inches long and deep
it doesn't cause me to lose any sleep
but it's a reminder
that people can hurt those they love
and sometimes the pain persists
in and out of the fog
and on a clear day
the horizon is motionless.
Ode To Joy!
it's the Moonlight Sonata,
tripping up everyone who lent an ear,
hoping to become
someone great,
watching the spinning wheels of fate
tossing tarot cards
against a nondescript wall,
listening for the mystics' call;
but i don't really know
why everyone has come to the show:
some are sunning on the beach,
just out of reach
of the high tide,
listening to the muse
playing soft and low
with nowhere else to go;
or jumping inside a potato sack,
listening to the cheering crowd,
without looking back
at what might have been.
and i see
one reading Vonnegut,
sipping tea
with the parlor ladies,
asking for just one more
cup before the coming war
closes hearts and minds,
then shuts the door.
and an Indian near Bengal
heard the call
but stayed home
writing his book
about the exhausting toll it took
to wear a coat and tie.
he couldn't tell a lie.
and a lady near Hong Kong
kept repeating the same song
inside her head,
not out on the street
where it became too dangerous to meet
anyone with an individual thought.
she was afraid of being caught.
in Romania,
a brave soul screamed alone
when she found an old bone
that reminded her of herself.
she quickly returned it to the shelf.
on the gulf coast near Iran,
a disturbance roiled the waves
near the ending of the days,
yet no one cared,
while everyone seemed scared.
and in a domed house made of ice,
the frozen floor was lined with furs;
even caribou heard muffled talk
about what was his and what was hers.
in Peru,
where everyone already knew
there were Gods in the clouds,
babies were born wearing funeral shrouds
but their mothers' loved them just the same.
they knew it took more than two to play the game.
and the party was just getting started!
whatever it is,
it's not for the fainthearted.
the pages have already been torn
even as more people are being born.
I was running with
Midnight's Children
at a quarter till five
sipping Coca Cola
glad to be alive
after all we've been thru
reading cheap paper back novels
knowing what we already knew
turning pages
to see between the lines,
watching shooting stars
to see the ever-changing signs.
and at night when voices become low
opening my bedroom window
searching for a wider world of mystery,
filled with sleep walkers and passing tales of history
all the way to LA:
it's what the ticket takers used to say.
riding the greyhound bus with a girl and her long hair,
praying that life would be more than fair
among the heavy hearted or those walking on thin air.
there was laughter on my front lawn;
it was Midnight's Children waiting for another amazing dawn
turning heads' straight into the sun,
waiting for the starting gun
and a more perfect direction to run.
I heard about the war and my friend's who paid a price,
never having visited a casino or rolled the dice.
and at night when voices become low
opening my bedroom window
searching for a wider world of mystery,
filled with sleep walkers and passing tales of history
all the way to LA:
it's what the ticket takers used to say.
riding the greyhound bus with a girl and her long hair
praying that life would be more than fair
among the heavy hearted or those walking on thin air.
passing thru your house
there's only quiet air
a shadow and a ghost
'cause you're not there
you're nowhere
most anywhere
down the hall
there's a hardwood floor
and an open door
but i'm not looking anymore
for traces
of cheap shoelaces
and fading fingerprints
which offer hints
of what seems
like missing dreams
when the lights turn on
I always see you're gone
and the wall paint fades
playing charades
with the afternoon shade
as the doorbells ring
no one can hear you sing
'cause you're not there
you're nowhere
most anywhere
down the hall
there's a hardwood floor
and an open door
but i'm not looking anymore
for traces
of cheap shoelaces
and fading fingerprints
which offer hints
of what seems
like missing dreams
not to be bad
but you've been had
over and over again
my friend
you can't pretend
the lights have turned down low
there's no where else to go
inside your head
on a solitary bed
where you sleep
and you're in deep
playing memories on repeat
trying to breathe fire
on the highest wire
but look out below
there's no where else to go
pretending to have fun
with your loaded gun
looking around
for the sound
of a greeting
but it's your heart beating
ready for the fall
and that is all
inside your head
on a solitary bed
where you sleep
and you're in deep
playing memories on repeat
trying to breathe fire
on the highest wire
but look out below
there's no where else to go.
he imagined a blow job in a wind tunnel,
but it was too damn cold.
he saw fall leaves trip on good acid,
scattering beyond,
totally out of control.
his balloon burst.
heads turned to watch the small white dog
no longer breathe
for a young female singer
who is married to the band's drummer.
time passed like gas escaping the earth's gravity,
and nebula were formed.
colors coalesced.
black holes seemed beyond wholly.
school was in session.
the kids played at being Buddhist monks in the
back bedroom with lava lamps and incense,
sniffing silence for deeper wisdom.
the room filled with smoke.
they listened to the Beatles,
a group of Liverpool laddies
who played in the underground Cavern Club,
wanting to hold hands in the street.
heaven was a passing thought.
hell was like thick molasses underfoot,
which couldn't be avoided.
the devil played his sweet music all summer long.
he went down to Georgia and beyond,
his barbed tail striking everywhere.
one poor soul who was struck
remained on Front Street during an especially heavy rain;
he watched the devil overflowing the railroad tracks,
and the subsequent flooding reached the second floor
of a long row of inexpensive homes.
a few cars were swept away, and all the heating coal in open sheds
turned brown, like soft lumps of mud.
the surging water pushed rescue canoes in thru open windows,
past flowered wallpaper which began to wilt.
a squid swam upstream thinking
of joining the American navy,
wearing a lone tattoo about his Mother, whose name was Laura.
he imagined bar brawls and military police dressed
like Keystone Cops wearing helmets,
looking for heads to bash in.
one shot glasses of whiskey were cheap like red paper poppies.
he sailed sober from the west coast, looking for adventure
on the famous sloop John B,
close to a sandy beach where the surfer boys played.
around Sausalito, he boarded a hippie bus
painted like a houseboat in swirling psychedelic patterns.
he rambled, coughing
across the country with a driver who remained hatless.
his grin was filled with home-grown marijuana buds.
he never used a map for directions.
he stayed high on the low coastal plains,
while the surrounding hills beamed a welcoming invitation.
the edgy cities seemed shot full of heroin and a lively art scene,
but money was hard to find, like good luck.
the bus stopped briefly for an intersection, exercising caution
by looking both ways, present and future.
they found beat poets who published and read lines in a city lights book store,
where some manuscripts grew hundreds of feet long,
like a simple bouquet of white wild flowers beneath an alter.
when they found me, I was walking my old possum;
my face grew into a beatific smile,
imagining a blow job when the weather improved.
i smiled for more than 90 years, with lines on my cheeks
brushed in the shape of a Van Gogh sunflower.
all day and all of the night two calico cats sat by my juke box,
from where they studiously watched, smiling with jazzy feline teeth.
for 5 cents, i played Elvis,
sipping my warm cherry Cola, like champagne,
imagining a transexual named Lola squeezing me.
sometimes i played Tommy Dorsey or Marlene Dietrich,
and their music put needles on my spine, tingling my forearms.
the calico cats learned to sing the rock classics,
and play electric guitar,
but they never became international opera stars,
although they once had a Broadway show named for them,
said T.S. Eliot, a close friend of mine,
sitting at my table for a drink.
from the armchair to the sofa to the floor,
the bed to the balcony,
the kitchen and the shower
where we lathered gleefully for an hour,
with oil rubs and soft voices,
we gave ourselves multiple choices,
always reaching for the adventurous dream
behind the discreetly simple privacy screen.
in another room you appeared to me as a secret
in a bright orange wrap, no less,
while holding a volume of true desire.
I felt your fire!
I almost came last,
but you loved me
as though I were the summer breeze
and you the shore.
I took you again by the hallway door,
telling you I could love you even more.
it was true!
you stood naked and I was disrobed,
when a song like a disco theme
or was it a beautiful philodendron?
moved our feet together,
in spite of the humid weather.
and I knew the name of the band
when I kissed your hand.
you listened like a mountain in the morning
while I climbed to the summit
and kissed those lips which I so adore,
telling you I could love you even more.
went to a local rodeo in Brownsville
and found me a long-haired Texas cowgirl
who offered me a southern thrill
well, i couldn't believe what i found:
there were cowboys and their wild horses running around,
but that wasn't the only sound.
i showed her my leather saddle;
she showed me her panhandle paddle.
said her name was Jill
and she lived near Brownsville;
said her old man's name was James
but he didn't like playing any cotton-picking games!
did i feel lucky? or incomplete?
could i ride the bronco for the winner's treat?
well, i didn't want to admit defeat
but the taste in my mouth was bittersweet
as i jumped in my pickup truck,
thinking maybe there was no such thing as luck.
those big boys with silver belts and ten gallon hats
swinging their big baseball bats,
were looking at me with an angry Texas stare,
just knew i had to get out of there.
with my foot on the gas and a quick backward glance,
her old man can take her to the evening barn yard dance.
me, on the westerly road speeding outside of town,
knowing i'd miss the upcoming hoedown.
there were cowboys and their horses running around,
but i was California bound
in my pickup truck,
thinking maybe there was no such thing as luck,
in my pickup truck,
California bound:
the wind in my hair the only sound.
he said
it was on Saipan
not Iwo
that the women who lived
to give birth
cradled their children in thin, frantic arms
atop a sheer cliff edge
and watched the surf strike black rocks
hundreds of feet below.
he said
it was on Iwo
not Saipan
where inside a deep dark cave
smelling of rot
an unforgettable stink
he poked around with his loaded carbine
but didn't see the dead Japanese soldier
decomposing underneath his booted foot.
he said
he was on guard duty
somewhere near a barbed wire fence
listening to his pounding heart
and the immense Pacific Ocean pulsing nearby
when a corporal appeared
password ready
to hand him an urgent message
about a faulty generator in an engine
of a single B-29 super fortress.
the mission was maximum effort
which meant that the plane had to fly,
destination Tokyo,
he said.
the construction engineers had built the long
wide runways
which were to deliver death.
he was the technician who could make the necessary repair.
he had the skills and knew
where to find the replacement part,
so he left his hole.
it was early March, 1945,
he said,
and there were over 300 planes in the raid
flying high above the ancient city,
their silver streaks gleaming brightly.
bombs dropped.
super heated fires lit the sky.
on the ground, the air melted skin.
people collapsed in the burning streets.
100,000,
he said.
it was just a statistic,
he said.
it was on the USS Independence
that he returned to the west coast of America
in the spring of 1946.
he slept on the fan-tail of the carrier to celebrate
his 21st birthday,
but he felt so much older,
he said.
everyone was white
even at midnight
no matter which way one goes
in my hometown running naked or walking wearing clothes
downtown or to a farm in the nearby countryside
there was nowhere to escape and nowhere left to hide
from the thought that Caucasian was the proper dress
at least i made the guess
that was what privileged people wore
so I took the oath and swore
to agree
but could I also come to disagree?
Mr. Ziogas with his nose
emphatically said to me that a diverse wind blows
he became my favorite history teacher
opening my eyes to a rainbow world unlike that fundamentalist preacher
who would often pinpoint
that thinking in a certain way was my admission to an exclusive members-only joint:
and it took a while but I finally boarded a special season bus
which had a sign that said there's no them or us:
it said we are all in this together
regardless of the changing weather
it's just us,
Gus!
one big team with one beating heart
living together until death pulls us apart,
feeling kinship with the highbrow and the low.
it's a bumpy road but it's the way we need to go
taking it with us everywhere,
practicing compassion with great care;
if you have two cookies and someone has none, please share.
well babe, you're proud
but it might get loud
sitting by your side
i'm on a high cloud
trying to choose
will i play pop or the electric blues?
well, with nothing to lose
my blue suede shoes,
hitting the road
on overdrive and overload,
searching for the next episode,
are growing old.
playing clubs all night
long before first daylight
smoke hanging thick in the air
i'm climbing the back stair
to hell or heaven
jumping off on floor eleven.
well babe, you're out of sight
but it might not be right
or wrong,
as i play my song
full of life with power
hour after hour.
well babe, you're proud
but it might get loud
sitting by your side
i'm on a high cloud
trying to choose
will i play pop or the electric blues?
well, with nothing to lose
my blue suede shoes,
hitting the road
on overdrive and overload,
searching for the next episode,
are growing old.
on the far side of the tracks
she kept riding on the backs
of her best friends
searching for a timely excuse
to cook the golden goose
of a guy who once crossed her path
after stealing several thousand dreams from her pocket.
she got pretty mad
and went looking for a heavy hammer
to smack his dishonest stammer
into a straight line of honest speech.
he ran up a fireman's ladder to escape her reach
but was exiled
and twisted out of sorts
when her friends, like supreme courts,
passed judgement by explaining why
he wouldn't get the electric chair.
he said many men liked to flirt
part of life was getting hurt
taking a piece of a young woman's heart
was such an easy part.
she hoped to see who he really was
because
although he moved over to the other side
where damaged people went to hide
she wanted to know why some men lied.
when the power went out,
the snow continued to fall;
life was led behind my door,
under cover
from a world i've dreamed of before
when you held me in your arms,
promised to stay by my side
even though i lied
about being afraid of growing old,
and life is always being bought and sold.
but we're not cheap,
are we dear?
among those who can't be sure,
i can be clear:
as long as you're near,
everything that i once knew
leads me to believe that dreams do indeed come true
even if it's cold
and life is always being bought and sold.
but we're not cheap,
are we dear?
putting on a heavy coat for a winter walk
passing time
listening to you smile and talk
breathing in the sublime
fragrance of cold air
wondering about people who aren't aware
each day unfolds with a new promise
like a lover's hungry kiss,
even if it's cold
and life is always being bought and sold.
but we're not cheap,
are we dear?
among those who can't be sure,
i can be clear:
as long as you're near,
everything that i once knew
leads me to believe that dreams do indeed come true.
watching my home town
being small
where only the basketball players grew tall
stretching for the morning sun
which seemed out of reach
when there was no one left to teach
along slow-moving Market street
where it was always easy to meet
your best girl and her friends
on a summer day
heading for the afternoon pool
no one was a fool
if they knew where the hardware store sat
and the five and dime
which stood the test of time
on a Friday night when we tried on gloves
just for something important to do
it's what we felt sure we knew
like learning how to drive underneath the back road stars
when we thought the world would become ours
or hiding in the community park
on a Saturday night after dark
bouncing on the trampoline
waiting for the back flip to be seen
by the next homecoming queen
one traffic light and a dress shop with mannequins
behind a glass window
most everything I know
watching my home town
one circus and one traveling clown
they could stop but never did
it's like the whole wide world hid
watching my home town
being small
where only the basketball players grew tall
stretching for the morning sun
which seemed out of reach
when there was no one left to teach
along slow-moving Market street
where it was always easy to meet
your best girl and her friends
on a summer day
heading for the afternoon pool
no one was a fool
looking around
listening for a soulful sound,
waiting for the walls
to fall,
watching my hometown
being small.
and when I saw you with an olive on
your tongue
you seemed much older
and I was very young
counting rainbows in the dark
watching thunderstorms in the park
playing samba with the band
singing "I am what I am"
while it's raining on the stage where you sang
no one's left of the bar room gang
we've finished all our drinks
now, no one cares what anyone thinks
so have another one on me
going slowly down on one knee
with no easy way out
no one hears when you shout
no easy open back door
treat yourself kindly
getting up off the floor
getting satisfaction
anyway you like it
sitting in the front row or the back
hiding in a fashion house or a gunny sack
riding in a pink Cadillac
with an olive from the shelf
learning more about yourself.
Homer wouldn't let him die
and all the Gods know why
misty eyed
he hardly laughed and hardly cried
when the road got rough
he stayed committed and acted tough
tied to the rocking mast
in a lonely hell
where he might have sold his soul
but he never wavered or fell
no matter how savage the high seas
in a Mediterranean storm or a sudden deep freeze
he jumped overboard
and the charging cyclops roared
and angry queens and madder kings,
brief regrets and golden rings.
but he had happier things in mind
thinking of his wife
and his young son
with a sharp vengeful knife
hoping to return in time
to rejoin them for their family life
growing old
but always remaining bold
leaving his past
tied to the rocking mast
with his finger on his heart
never ending his journey for a different start
dreaming of her dreams
dreaming of her schemes
and the comfort of her bed
he'd return is what he always said,
not something he one time read.
he'd return is what he always said.
you're stuck in my imagination
dancing on a cloud
happy to be a solo star
or busy inside a crowd
with fire in your hair
burning everywhere
you look and you speak
as my knees grow weak
before your beauty
like a fool before i die
gazing skyward from where i lie.
on the road to the center of time
shifting gears from one to four
bouncing across the damn hard floor
landing at your feet
'cause i always knew that someday we'd meet
in the middle of the main street
and it might be midnight
or just about high noon
wouldn't want to be too soon
and wouldn't want to arrive late
hoping to open your front gate
hand you a summer flower like a perfect rose
whatever you propose
well, i'll give it a try
on my heart there's a big bulls-eye
that you can see
it's shaped anyway you want it to be
and we're almost ready for our next meal
moving from almost perfect to just about ideal
on the road to the center of time
shifting gears from one to four
bouncing across the damn hard floor
landing at your feet
'cause i always knew that someday we'd meet
in the middle of the main street
and it might be midnight
or just about high noon
wouldn't want to be too soon
and wouldn't want to arrive late
hoping to open your front gate,
hand you a summer flower like a perfect rose
whatever you propose
well, i'll give it a try
on my heart there's a big bulls-eye
that you can see
it's shaped anyway you want it to be
and we're almost ready for our next meal
moving from almost perfect to just about ideal.
he made them bleed
near the Seine,
far from the left bank,
where a tourist boat sank,
feeling he was alright
for much of an hour.
i'll give him that
wherever he sat,
he drank to it, too.
he made them bleed
due to an overwhelming artistic need
which they all knew,
offering themselves to the sky,
never once asking why,
like the open palms of a repenting priest
wanting more than the least,
asking God for growth.
he was God, he liked to boast,
singing his song
while smoking or sleeping in his bed
with a woman whose lips were painted bright red,
rising up at times to plant a kiss,
digging a hole that couldn't be missed.
he made them bleed
like an ocean watering a rose.
he made them bleed
like a Spanish nose
hungry for a willing companion
and her willing toes.
he made them bleed
like an animal with it's tooth,
at times sensitive,
but mostly talented and uncouth.
he made them bleed.
on the high seas
writing letters to my mom
dipping my quill in thick black ink
trying to make sense of the scene
trying to take an accurate count of the vote
wondering how far I have to travel for an answer
to the mysterious arrangement of ripe apples
in a pure white bowl
resting on a wooden table
inside a small studio
atop a low hill of Aix-en-Provence, France.
in what would become unremarkable,
i wrote to her about the whippings
and the rants
and that much would come of my writing
if the sun continued to shine into my eyes
and the doors remained open to the wild winds
blowing across the ocean in many languages.
and the waves did keep stacking,
towering high, piercing my bow,
matting my hair and spraying my thin face:
and in a dream, i saw summer grasses beaten down by charging calvary
near the village of Waterloo,
where horses cried
for the bodies of
victors and the dead
who forgot their own names
in or out of the saddle.
and i rowed my small boat
during a violent summer storm,
determined to find a safe harbor where none existed.
I was sure i could finish my letter before nightfall,
even as the atmosphere became more threatening,
and my breathing more imprecise.
there was a little bit of poetry in my impressions
of the world,
and a lot of doubt.
so far, not a drop of hot coffee has been spilled on my neat trousers,
nor have I eaten a speeding bullet with my tongue.
that's partly what i wrote to her.
