on the far side of planet Earth

on this day I ordered

thousands of young men

into a foreign war

and what is more

no matter what they think

from cleaning out the kitchen sink

to polishing the bedroom floor

circumstances being what they are

following the Northern Star

there's no escaping what I've decided

unless I've been misguided

on the far side of planet Earth

they'll give it everything they're worth

is what I've said many times before

and what is more

on this day I ordered

thousands of young men

into a foreign war

and as for their reputation

coming from a freedom-loving nation

their belts are tightened and loaded rifles cocked

front doors opened and back doors locked

on the high seas rolling over waves

heedless of the sacrifice but they're digging their own graves

lighting smokes and telling jokes

remembering ma and pa

and the most beautiful pin-up they ever saw

it could be good and it could be very bad

but no one worries it will turn out sad

on this day I ordered

thousands of young men

into a foreign war

and what is more

no matter what they think

cleaning out the kitchen sink

or polishing the bedroom floor

circumstances being what they are

following the Northern Star

there's no escaping what I've decided

unless I've been misguided

on the far side of planet Earth

they'll give it everything they're worth

on the high seas rolling over waves

heedless of the sacrifice but they're digging their own graves

lighting smokes and telling jokes

remembering ma and pa

and the most beautiful pin-up they ever saw

it could be good and it could be very bad

but no one worries it will turn out sad.

on the rue Boissy d'Anglas (1922 and beyond)

behind the black door,

Barbette in drag was a great laugh:

boys and girls

dining and drinking and dancing

the high and low

gens chic and gens louche

often broken lights and leading lights

a thick flood of cafe society

gorgeous young men and women

often free, others at a cost

pouring into Le Boeuf 

like refugees from prohibition

and puritanism

with Picasso and Proust

(who would soon be dead),

arriving around eleven o'clock

with a drunken argument and their friends

in white tie and tails

or black like newspaper clippings

in a dinner jacket,

the men with ladies

in Chanel, Lanvin, or Vionnet

the ladies with ladies

watching Doucet, the house pianist,

make the rounds with his Corsican brandy and his keys,

past throngs of the beau monde

fashionably discrete he could hear them

whispering softly for their latest drug score,

or conversing with some unbelievable

pimps and queers before being turned out at 2,

when the bar closed to the Paris streets

and another day began.

"It's a Picasso!" she smiled.

Picasso imagined his penis (always!)

like an warm opium pipe

ready for stroking and sucking,

constantly ready to continue the quest

to satisfy only himself

with a new Goddess, 

if she would promise

to swallow him like a long sip of absinthe.

for solace, he once painted a scene

as background for a famous Russian ballet 

of a massive horse head slightly smaller than his ego,

full of color with two sturdy testicles for ears.

in his studio he was the absolute master of any

situation involving female breasts, enlarging,

distorting, playing with realism like a curious infant

fond of the tidal surge and the summer sun over Paris. 

once, when a pampered princess asked for his autograph,

he pretended to be seized with disgust and quickly drew her face as a black vagina.

she was intrigued, and asked him about his idea of feminine seduction;

he said

it consisted of a bathing belle in nude attire,

playing with beach balls inside his private cabana.

she asked to see his tent,

and in his fertile imagination

the curtain door flapped shut, 

her spacious mouth wonderfully opened.

“It’s a Picasso!” she smiled.

darkness blew a final whistle

maybe he knew

about the benefits of blowing

in the Mexican wind

after a riotous party at the Cucaracha Bar

in San Miguel de Allende.

afterwards, in a nearby village,

he was a later arrival for a wedding

party,

but he gathered himself to toast the groom and bride

with hands polished by years of hard living,

using the free booze to gain

even more perspective on life, life, life!

he yelled to the open sky.

showering himself with peyote and purpose,

he walked to the edge

of the tiny town

and found a train station poorly kept

and ill-lit

where a ticket could be had for nothing,

his favorite price. 

he bumped into a slow burro in that cool mountain air

before wandering off the side of the tracks,

stopping to sleep.

he imagined himself merely pretending to rest,

while dreaming of driving a manic bus across

the faint heartbeat of America.

and then darkness blew a final whistle.

listening as i eat

with Sugar Hill on my mind,

i'm walking the dirt road to LA,

weighting mostly

the direction of my travel:

heading west, i'd guess,

but it's a dream.

so, i could be traveling anywhere,

at night,

without seeing things

as they unfold,

since there's no light for me to go by.

there's a door somewhere which needs

opening,

and i expect my hand to do the best

it can,

without me watching through the window glass.

when we meet,

you offer me soup or a song

and i chose both,

listening as i eat.

Cranberries on my brain

Cranberries on my brain

righteously wet in a Dublin rain

squished between my fingers

i find no one there

on the cobblestone square

of Londonderry where i sit

imagining the times when it was tough

playing golf in the deepest rough

with the lights turned down low

and there's no where safe to go

looking out from center stage

smiles turning into rage

British troops keeping score

from an empty dancehall floor

with their Queen and King in royal robe

claiming an empire that spans the globe:

but the Belfast boys

will not be toys

for anyones' amusement

fighting to be free

and not a mindless zombie.

nothing could be found in Poe!

"use your guns to kill them!" he screamed, wearing headphones while listening to Bob Marley

and re-reading Jack Kerouac, and he droned on and on about Stella, who was thought to be hiding

behind a permanent lie and on and on about horseback riding across battlefields and honoring life

and affirming all the while he knew for certain that nothing could be found in Poe, who was last seen

ascending a narrow stairway for a view of a tomb by the sounding sea while the raven watched and said

"I'm simply 

reciting the mysterious words he gives to me!" 

eventually, with headphones removed, 

he could hear an elephant crashing through the jungle with a trunk 

filled with family skeletons and memories yet to be forgotten, 

and dangling from its' tusk, an angry drunk shouting nonsense.

and he saw clearly, hanging from the dark trees in Mississippi or was it rural Alabama,

the swinging cries of young voter registration workers before they were muffled

by the satisfied sounds of a white motor gaining distance from the scene of the crime with soulless

cigarette smokers sitting in the front seat 

swaying softly inside their custom-made Ku Klux Klan

southern shit sacks,

muttering "use your guns to kill them!"

later, on a tiny television, he watched Martin Luther King and listened to Lena Horne and Billie Holiday

proving to skeptics that they could sing.

reading Maya Angelou, he tapped his reluctant toe

and went on and on about Texas and that dumb Governor who should know that

MEXICO MEXICO claimed the territory

before the Alamo was a mission 

before the Mayflower made landfall

before the European white man betrayed the Iroquois Confederacy

before New York island was Dutch

before the current Dallas sprawl

before Burroughs and Ginsberg and the Grateful Dead and Leary died trying to say what needed

to be said 

before Ronald Reagan was shot on that Washington sidewalk and Bobby slumped,

bleeding on the kitchen floor of the Ambassador after the primary

before John Lennon died bleeding in front of Yoko in front of the Dakota Hotel

before Mormons traveled westerly in wagons warning of certain Hell Fire

and during the video games that he played mostly uninterrupted,

he never heard a word of what he was thinking

because there were too many distractions

too many enemies he was slaying while imagining invincibility

and it all became a blur or a bust or a boob or a boner 

or a shock wave from the BOMB falling through the 

afternoon air high over the inconsequential city of Hiroshima

and then the shit really did hit the fan!

when he was finally too exhausted to stay awake, sleep didn't come so easily, but that was

before the pills.

and that was

many and many a year ago,

in a kingdom by the sea.

just as it should

it isn't something to write home about

especially when you're already there

looking at your rocky bottom

with an i can't make sense of anything stare

and clearly on the radio 

whenever a 60's song is heard

every single word

is understood

yes, just as it should.

so not dead yet

might be as happy as you ever  get

riding along the scenic coast

not up to speed and not to boast

with maybe a single warm beer in hand

singing at the top of your lungs

to the Sergeant Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band

and digging the scene

regardless of what it might mean

Hendricks atop the Watchtower

playing guitar 

for the promise of People Power

and what comes next

isn't a concern

nothing new or exceptional to learn

out on the open road and down the mean streets

looking out below

could be the only sensible way to go

fast forwarding and decking the halls

grabbing your hat and grabbing your balls

the days change and never return

can't give it a moments' concern

each page of every book

exactly where you need to look

serial dreams where you're the star

catching a break

killing the rampaging vampires with a single stake

it isn't something to write home about

especially when you're already there

looking at your rocky bottom

with an i can't make sense of anything stare

and clearly on the radio 

whenever a 60's song is heard

every single word

is understood

yes, just as it should.

singing songs in the dark

coming home from my war

i went looking for peace

not the most and certainly not the least:

was it man or beast?

the night shooting stars

were drowning out the sound of the city cars

everything was looking the same from my front yard

and i kept standing guard

at the graveyard

where voices stayed silent in bed

reminding me of the recent dead,

the memories never fading

but i no longer needed persuading.

life was more than a walk in the park

singing songs in the dark

monuments were built and stories told;

young heroes trying to remain bold

through the turmoil of tough times:

was it honest work or unnatural crimes?

coming home from my war

i went looking for peace

not the most and certainly not the least:

was it man or beast?

the night shooting stars

were drowning out the sound of the city cars

everything was looking the same from my front yard

and i kept standing guard

at the graveyard

where voices stayed silent in bed

reminding me of the recent dead,

the memories never fading

but i no longer needed persuading.

life was more than a walk in the park

singing songs in the dark.

your breath smells like silence

and i'm able to say

your breath smells like silence

when i hold you by the waist;

i see the expression you give me

when i ask you for a taste.

"There's only so many minutes in a day," 

i hear you say

as you pick up your latest book.

there are shadows on your face when you give me the look.

i would love to give you everything that you already took:

maybe some coffee or maybe fine wine?

i'd give you my heart if i knew it was completely mine,

but there's a question and i know it well:

it's not really mine to buy or sell.

there's memories of darkness and episodes of pain;

periods of loneliness and long spells of rain.

i've seen flowers fade and the great trees die,

wondered if i was strong enough to ever cry?

and i can't escape the feeling i'm not good enough:

too soft to matter or too tough?

well, the minutes fade and the weeks become years;

you'll see me wearing costumes full of anxiety and fears;

but i'm older now, wiping away the tears,

and i'm able to say

your breath smells like silence

when i hold you by the waist;

i see the expression you give me

when i ask you for a taste.

"There's only so many minutes in a day," 

i hear you say

as you pick up your latest book.

there are shadows on your face when you give me the look.

i would love to give you everything that you already took:

maybe some coffee or maybe fine wine?

i'd give you my heart if i knew it was completely mine,

everyone is milked

somewhere

over the rainbow,

near there,

someone 

surely must know 

which way the coldest winds blow,

and the why and how

everyone is milked,

not only the cow,

when the machine is in fine form,

obscuring vision in the blue sky storm:

why there's a damn-awfully high cost

to losing your way and getting strangely lost.

yes, everything seems to be in a deep freeze,

so remember, please,

when you awaken from your nap

bring along your colored map!

don't leave adventures up to chance,

answering the call

to sing and dance

at the great room ball.

you can feel it in your gut:

it's almost time for the final cut,

when the machine is in fine form,

obscuring vision in the blue sky storm:

why there's a damn-awfully high cost

to losing your way and getting strangely lost.

yes, everything seems to be in a deep freeze,

so remember, please,

when you awaken from your nap

bring along your colored map!

don't leave adventures up to chance,

answering the call

to sing and dance

at the great room ball.

you can feel it in your gut:

it's almost time for the final cut.

free Pratasevich

piano man

Lukashenko

jumping from a trash can

running at the mouth

dancing east

heading south

don't know what key you're in

or how to begin

sticking your thumbs

into the eyes of the street bums

hoping they don't see

what you're intending to be

burning the news

or whatever you choose

watching the hands tick from hour to hour

hungry for power

eating with over-bite

and it doesn't have to be right

you've got the sway

to get your way

so trim your hair and blow your nose

they're running away still wearing clothes

sitting in an aisle seat

ordering a hot meal to eat

but it soon gets cold

he'll never live to grow fat and old

'cause you've been pulling all the strings

as the final round bell rings

piano man

Lukashenko

jumping from a trash can

running at the mouth

dancing east

heading south

don't know what key you're in

or how to begin

sticking your thumbs

into the eyes of the street bums

hoping they don't see

what you're intending to be

burning the news

or whatever you choose.

a fishing contest

a fishing contest

held for the kids

who still knew how to ride their bikes

carrying tackle and bait,

and could hardly wait

for the first cast

until the last;

holding court

by loving the sport,

excited to land the biggest of the bunch;

sometimes working on a simple hunch

of where the big one waited.

an easy pleasure,

to take the measure 

from nose to tail,

always without fail.

the clear eyes

and bright shiny scales

could become imagined whales,

but, of course, were always smaller sizes

and the trophies weren't the only prizes

we wondered out loud about.

riding on the bus

riding on the bus

my brain is spinning like a kite

into the gusting winds of another night

and i fear things are no longer alright

my feet are stomping on the floor

but i'm not anchored anymore

i can't find the old front door

with no map to lead me home

into the wilderness i'll continue to roam

without an intersection to spy

winking with a helpless eye

hanging by a simple thread

awash with loneliness and unexamined dread

shot thru with yesterday's news

maybe dangerous with nothing to lose

(and) my windows are shut tight

into the gusting winds of another night

riding on the bus

wondering who is driving this thing?

more a servant than a king

at the mercy of the fates

no longer hoping for a lover who waits

shot thru with yesterday's news

maybe dangerous with nothing to lose

(and) my windows are shut tight

into the gusting winds of another night

riding on the bus.

for Allen, at first

for Allen,

at first,

it was just possible to see the changes:

all beard and two huge eyes,

studying the vibrating air

with soft exhales where words hoped to linger

if only for a beat

or two,

hearing of Denver

where a waitress and her sister

curried favor with the boys.

the poet thought briefly about Tangiers

before settling on San Francisco

and a ride on the belly of a friend,

sliding down the slippery streets of a dream.

inside the electric light,

it was dimmer than normal

but buzzing with anticipation.

the small toilet refused to flush

and a waste basket crowded one corner

where tissue paper was balled.

everything smelled of sex

and cigarettes burned like mad incense

until circling fingers held a glowing match

and lit the scene.

everyone gasped 

when the reading was complete,

his every enunciation a hydrogen explosion

of letters and singing exhortations.

he mentioned angels and mental illness

as a blessing

before the altar 

where a priest kissed the newborn baby with sacred lips;

he tossed scorn 

like loaves of bread

to all the heads bowed deeply in thought.

on rhythmic tongues,

a splash of red awe instead of wine.

then Buddha found the rib,

whole and filled with eternity,

and an entire generation escaped the room,

howling

like wolves on the hunt.

much later, when Jack called with the Mexico City Blues,

no one was home to answer,

although the jazzy chorus could be heard, 

written in a certain style,

awash with morphine and meaning,

waiting to be published.

And Allen did what he could.

and then damn fame

i watched the shooting stars

falling thru the western sky

crawling on my knees

trying to catch an escaping guy

who stole my emergency money

and all i can hear is you

calling me your special honey

but your sitting on my face

trying to get another random taste

of who i might have been

before the papers screamed my name

and then damn fame

spoiled how i combed my frilly hair.

i couldn't walk down the midway of the country fair

without getting thumbed and bummed

or rubbed and hitched and bitched and spun around

tossed like warm spaghetti and run to higher ground

by a charging elephant and her helpless trainer

who looked a lot like my fourth wife but tamer

she was running in place

with cotton candy stuck on her face

she held a ticket to ride in her clenched hand

she tried to speak but whatever it was 

was drowned out by a circus band

and i don't know how the elephant knew

but i saw it pack its' bags,

remove the hang tags

from a fresh set of clothes and grab a cab,

sharing the fare with an escaping Chesapeake blue crab.

they went down to the waiting harbor boats

looking for anything that floats

but when they hit the docks,

they picked all the locks

and fled the scene

in an old cuban cigar

painted to resemble a 1950's American classic car:

it smoked and they choked

but made a lot of money selling tobacco to the highway men

recently released from the Florida State Pen

i heard that they retired to a gambling joint on the lower Gulf coast

counting their luck while eating French quarter toast

all the while i waited for a visa to a foreign country and a new name

and then damn fame

grabbed me by the ears

and turned me into an elephant

who could handle a night of drinking free beers

i got good at dodging the natives tossing spears

sometimes studying a list of possible careers

but never choosing one.

oh, i'm dying

oh, i'm dying

i've got one foot on the floor

haven't felt this bad in a long time

if ever before

don't know what's for supper

or should i even eat

my belts not too tight

i can still touch my feet

there's wine in my tall glass

and several words on the page

indicating discomfort

with impending age

but it's not my birthday

the candles are quiet

no Russian music playing

from Pussy Riot

just an odd ache in my stomach

uncomfortably strong

to pretend that it's absent

would be irresponsibly wrong.

oh, i'm dying.

a final breath

the yellow gore in the tree

yes, yellow,

was the guy's intestines

without the guy

who was elsewhere

scattered, hanging around,

bits and pieces and parts

and there was an arm bone

white, yes,

and a dampness although it hadn't rained

in such a long time,

the surrounding mountain

seemed unsure what to do with the moisture.

moral?  moral?

there is love in memory.

there is a final breath too brief to count.

a girl named Sue

her name was Sue

and she told me she knew what to do

smiling by the candlelight

looking like a legendary masculine delight

and so no, she's not a boy

although someone said she might be a toy

but maybe they don't know

which way her inclinations go.

with the window opened i took a quick peek

it was the same vision i had throughout the previous week

when my nose grew cold and my knees got weak

and there was the door

we both got off the floor

she asked if she could thumb a ride

well, i'd go anywhere but didn't want her for my bride.

sure, i had a hole to fill but kept it all inside

where i found a well-used token

she told me there was a warm seat open

and wasn't it especially nice to be together

under drifting skies or in any sort of inclement weather

we could hop the train and ride the rails

following the Comanche and the raiding trails

down into old Mexico 

or wherever else we wanted to go

spending time like we're spending life

well, i'd go anywhere but didn't want her for my wife.

outside of town where the circus set their tents

the statues of red-faced clowns and recents Presidents

cheered for us as we passed by;

it reminded me of motherhood and apple pie

there was a baker playing with his dough

and William Tell shooting his crossbow

splitting his syntax

a sloppy man tossing his axe

and a barker with his cutting-edge knife

yelling at cages filled with disobedient wildlife

and a happy drunk expounding on the purpose of life

so, we pushed our way thru

her name was Sue

and she told me she knew what to do

smiling by the candlelight

looking like a legendary masculine delight

and so no, she's not a boy

although someone said she might be a toy

but maybe they don't know

which way her inclinations go.

recounting stories of the human race

shot your ass

point blank in the face

'cause you're a sucker

recounting stories of the human race

at least the part that believes in Heaven

rolling the dice

for the number seven

in a Salt Lake temple or baptist church

where snake worship

ends the search

for the holy divine.

you once where a friend of mine

but now eat ketchup with cold fries

while i run screaming from your lies

into the starry night with Vincent Van Gogh

into the cold baths he was made to undergo

in St. Remy, France

before he learned how to dance

the tango

with Brando

yes, that was then and this is now:

pastural drawings of a Guernsey cow

on the left chest of a merchant marine

and down his left arm is a coiled copperhead

biting each casual viewer with a sense of dread

but that was his intent

for all the fair-haired sweeties and conventional Joes

uncertain of which way America goes

while it's spinning.

his heavy handed breathing into the breach

guarantees no white whale harpooned on the beach

and that the ship has truly sunk:

no skeletons on the ocean floor

can open up the dead Captain's door

where an empty treasure chest

remains well hidden.

when Nashville jazz plays,

the sky becomes clear as the haze

lifts

the soaring brass horns

to the mountain tops

where the unicorns

get high,

each head filled with pure bliss,

leading to memory loss 

and a swinging miss.

calm and sitting like a lotus flower,

as hours pass and another hour

takes their place,

recounting stories of the human race,

i'm rereading the tales of brave Ulysses

written by James Joyce,

wondering where he walked

on the streets of Paris

and where he eventually stopped to eat,

to elevate his literary feet.

reading between the lines

wait!  had to do it right

on the house

sipping unknown wine

with dirt beneath my fingering nails

on the mark

but off the rails

reading Howl

and somehow

it fails to resonate

before the third glass

but after the fifth

there developed an impasse

between my pinwheel eyes and scatter brain,

thinking of the angelheaded hipsters

and the old lady spinsters,

trying to find their way home.

someone called near the end

and the phone ringing went unanswered,

so it was up to me to pretend

that everything made some shuddering sense,

even as i was being destroyed by 

a drunken midnight madness

while ironing my underwear in a lonely room,

imagining a copulating bride and groom

reading between the lines 

neatly arranged on the floor.

in her undying love

so it's true

Bette got my cheese

and the dog ate my pretzel

after a swim 

chasing sticks

getting in their licks

while the sun was bright.

yes, it was quite a sight

in the short grass by the creek

at the end of another work week.

and a song passed thru my head

about the fragrance of homemade bread

and the taste of French red wine,

sharing glasses with the special lover of mine.

it ages well 

like a magical spell,

looking backward to the ages once before,

sitting on a soft carpet on the hard floor.

growing older by the stream as it flows,

no longer caring where it goes.

there are memories being carried away,

never to return on some other day.

and i looked across a quiet street

wondering who i would eventually meet

when the dog fell asleep

and the music came to an end,

always dreaming of my special friend:

would the truth be revealed

like a tasty orange newly peeled,

which is my fondest wish,

like a childhood comfort food dish.

yes, searching and never ready to pause,

immune to the audience and their passing applause,

dreaming of home and the embrace

of my cheese lover and her welcoming face;

spring flowers are blooming in her vase

and i can rest,

feeling blessed

in her undying love:

it's what i'm always dreaming of.

the bombs rained down indiscriminately

before the war was over

the bombs rained down

indiscriminately

splashing into pieces of people

all over town

and some were running away

others down on their knees to pray

most with nothing more to say

but it didn't seem to stop the rain

there was suffering and too much pain

and too much hate 

no time to hesitate

no one could predict their fate

looking at the remaining crumbs on their only plate.

no good reason left to smile

when the bodies are heaped into an unmoving pile

smoking underneath the stones

buried skin and busted bones

burning flesh and the burning bush

each historic pull becoming a push

and there's no service beneath the setting sun

for escaping the angry, pointed gun

no childhood cry calms the disfigured sky

no single answer to answer why

before the war was over

the bombs rained down

indiscriminately

splashing into pieces of people

all over town

and some were running away

others down on their knees to pray

most with nothing more to say

but it didn't seem to stop the rain

there was suffering and too much pain

and too much hate 

no time to hesitate

no one could predict their fate

looking at the remaining crumbs on their only plate.

he eyed those in attendance

i learned about Paris

and the bridges that were burned

by Picasso

with a wave of his skilled hand and 

the casual cigarette smoke

and how he saw his pet penis on Her nose

while she slept

fully awake on his red apartment chair.

his first wife knew more than i

but less than he

when they went on vacation

by the early-summer sea

where giant answers went unquestioned,

and kites flew high in the Dinard breeze.

there was a nearby mountain top

and a famous cliff close to the shore

which in a certain light was shimmering period blue

like an ocean wave inching toward 

the colorful fabric of a cabana

which hid the man 

and his youthful blonde toy.

flirting with his paintbrush

like a matador with his sword,

he dipped into Her custom colors

while painting his own legacy,

weeping and laughing,

as the heaving canvas called his name,

imitating the bull in triumph.

and at each future opening,

when he eyed those in attendance,

he feigned an aloof indifference,

always in love with himself,

regardless of the hour

or the name of a song

echoing inside his head.