it's not for you

when you sit down to eat

are you in bare feet

in the awful cold?

or dreaming on a summer day,

growing old,

holding friends

close to your heart

simply in no hurry to depart

or wishing for a fresh start?

well, there's so much more to say

and more to believe:

you can have your fortune

hiding up your sleeve

on the minute 

on the hour

pulling a reluctant weed,

planting a lovely flower;

or perhaps you're on the edge

with a bad case of vertigo,

losing balance,

no safe place to go,

and you're dressing well

or in tattered rags,

belly taut

or with one that sags.

well, look around

and take the grand tour

witnessing

the many desperate poor

on the bottom of their boat

with no hope

that they'll ever float,

and it's long after midnight

when you shine your shoes

and it's possible to hear

them singing the blues,

but it's not for you;

no, it's not for you

so what will you do

when they come wandering thru?

on the bottom of their boat

with no hope

that they'll ever float.

the fellowship of dance and voice

along the shore

the tide was coming in

and it was midnight;

there were stars above

and nervous laughs below.

the tallest mountains were far away,

stripped of sentiment,

exposed to the persistent winds

and rains and snow.

the heavy grinding of ice

from millions and millions of years ago

sculpted and shaped.

and it was warmer than the recent past,

but among the distant city dwellers

there was a noticeable chill.

their newspapers printed front page stories

of calamities and charity bake sales;

local libraries were seeing books 

tossed and turned,

banned and burned.

i could't tell why i found old folk songs

so sad,

especially as the visible fellowship of dance

and voice

seemed vivid

and spirited,

like wild horses on a wild range

where no corral would ever be built.

that crazy horse

i saw you riding that crazy horse

underneath a starry sky,

maintaining a steady course.

you were looking for love and a quiet night,

singing your own song,

welcoming the light.

and the road was long

and the road was tough,

with many temptations

but you knew you had enough.

in a frontier town,

tired but satisfied,

you were resting but alert

and clear-eyed.

simple and sweet,

taking a front row seat

and happy to be back home.

the city of Trieste

walked the streets

of the city of Trieste

the sun was doing fine

heard people talking in tongues

and the name i heard most often was mine

when a woman with darkest hair 

in the bright light of mid-afternoon

strolled into my life

shaking her Bulgarian fork and spoon

said she lived in the Rhodope mountains 

and would i like to take a private walk

but i didn't know

if she only hoped to talk

or was there a boat she wanted to sell

i wish i knew 

but i couldn't tell

her flowers smelled fresh and there were hints of sweet grass

looking low down but feeling high class

my flag flew stiffly in the sea breeze

i saw two peaches at the market that i wanted to squeeze

but i didn't know

if that was the way i wanted to go:

she sat for a drink at the inner harbor bar

waited for me to play a love song on my old guitar

so i bought her a meal while we discussed the deal

well, what would be the cost

considering that i was in a foreign land and terminally lost

but she didn't know

if that was the way she wanted to go

and the music and the dancers in the square

made me wonder if i should be somewhere

kneeling on my knees 

asking for forgiveness, please

looking into her eyes

where i saw a woman's comfort and surprise

but i didn't know

if that was how we should go.

We are what we pretend to be?

But then, who am I if I'm not Ulysses

on the turbulent seas

fighting against the GODS?

Who am I if I'm not a great king

leading a great army to vanquish my enemies?

Who am I if but a mere mortal

clinging to a raft

floating between birth and death?

What is my intention if I intend

to discover an unchanging,

unalterable core of Self?

to find a center that remains steady, regardless of the changing

circumstances of my natural life?

am I what I pretend to be?

I have a hunch!

and that at any moment there are countless universes

within us and we make choices:

to be busy; 

to experience stress;

to be joyful.

to 'see' oneself being drawn toward 

or being repelled away from.

as the world turns,

How do I want to be? 

I've found that by being truthful & loyal & loving,

I attract others who value those attributes.

They are not taught.

They are integral to what it means to be the best of Oneself.

and I am equally drawn to those who express the integrity of those values.

A flower does not feel it's pretending to be a flower;

it simply blooms.

and any fragrance is beautiful and timeless.

Maxime de la Falais

the death of Maxime was of natural causes: 

at 86 it wasn't considered extreme 

her life was colorful artful in fashion and exquisite 

with really good friends and food 

she fed the Warhol brood 

in her loft apartment 

she lent 

Mapplethorpe encouragement in New York City 

she was a rare English beauty 

and silent lover 

lived her life proudly without unnecessary cover 

worked for Vogue magazine where she was often seen 

writing long lines for columns 

she moved to France to dance 

to write her memoirs in her golden hours 

when she died 

high society sighed 

in Provence where she was buried 

in rhythm and completely unhurried.

Pavarotti knew none of this

Pavarotti,

dressed like the bass player in Pink Floyd,

sang for his breakfast

in a deeply melodious tenor voice

and was given a plate of eggs and German sausage

along with a grande cup of foamy espresso.

there were originally three singers on stage

when the audience applauded,

but a famous magician made two disappear.

when the Greek diva rose from her box seat,

all eyes watched her grab the arm 

of a small in stature shipping tycoon

who had another First Lady in mind.

Pavarotti knew none of this,

so finished his breakfast and asked for a second,

which was served immediately.

he said life was a miracle!

the cabbage rolls

in a year of magical thinking,

when music from the 1960's

kept sinking

into the past along with Elvis and his slicked-back

Mississippi hair,

children looked up at the stars

and wondered what was there?

as do i.

the land upon which i walk,

the oceans and the sky

remain intriguing,

as do you!

and the grey owl

on her perch listening,

eyes glistening,

sat wondering why new houses were sprouting

high on her hillside 

above the free-flowing mountain stream.

and as if in a dream,

at high noon,

the Maasai danced in a colorful circle,

holding sticks and jumping to the moon,

imagining the black rhino in herds

of incomprehensible numbers

near the heights of Kilimanjaro.

and the Japanese,

in their ancient heroic voice

sang lustily to the Emperor,

like wrestlers undiminished by an opponent's 

relentless advance,

gaining advantage by giving ground.

and as the cabbage rolls

rolled across the enormous dinner tables

like lucky gypsy coins

and were caught by the smiling mouths

of ten thousand spirited Romanian dancers, 

the holiday music began to play,

in a year of magical thinking.

that old man son of a gun

when my daddy chased me

i used to run

and when he caught me

i used my gun

well, my aim was poor

but he's not living anymore

he joined the navy

and fought a second world war

but he's not living anymore

he's hauling ice

or digging coal

drinking two shots of whiskey

looking for a soul

living down near the tracks

inside an empty hole

while i went fishing for a bite

and it never felt right

tossing a line to wait

using childhood memories

for bait

when my daddy chased me

i used to run

and when he caught me

i used my gun

well, my aim was poor

but he's not living anymore

he joined the navy

and fought a second world war

but he's not living anymore

he's hauling ice

or digging coal

drinking two shots of whiskey

looking for a soul

and i hope he finds one,

that old man son of a gun.

brown eyes watching you

welcome back

to the family room with resting dog and cats

a warming fire

sitting in an easy chair

giving your lover a tender look

reading a book

reflecting on things

at how it all spins around

feet planted firmly on the ground

pine trees

swaying in an overnight breeze

turning the pages

to the old familiar faces

new personalities

vibrant traces

of childhood

the seconds ticking into hours

cooking aromas mixed with gentle laughs

one tablespoon or two

and a cup and a half

a hot bubbling bath

in a candled private room

lights are soft and glow

music and the nearby river flow

and changes come along

you write your own song

skipping a beat

skipping a stone

watching the ripples fade and the sun slowly setting

no hurry to be giving or getting

time enough to breathe

time enough to pause

to pet the just-fed dog

with her brown eyes watching you

giving your lover a tender look

reading a book

reflecting on things

at how it all spins around

feet planted firmly on the ground.

congratulations, your diet is over!

congratulations,

your diet is over!

the sun is rising in the east

and your eyesight is keen.

there are no shadows on the wall

and your dinner plate is clean.

your lover has your best interests at heart;

each new day promising a new start.

there's a whisper on the breeze

scented like a perfect rose.

your face is gently smiling

like in a perfect pose.

there's light shining throughout the day,

even in the darkest hole,

reaching the deepest depths

of your individual soul.

and the overhead stars show you the way

over land and the windy seas,

asking you with welcoming arms

to stay awhile, please.

congratulations,

your diet is over!

without bullshit or insults

there were village raids

but you can't kill all the niggers,

he said,

returning fire

running from the tunnel

into the next tunnel.

the white man with the mad mouth,

probing the coast

dispensing weaponry

squeezing the Mormon ghost,

dug up the golden tablets

and a teamster's ticket to the greater kingdom

where the saints shagged good guns

without serial numbers,

waiting in ambush for the settlers 

heading west

across a mountain meadow

where Indians prowled

to make their dope connections

hoping for a couple head of cattle or a horse

without bullshit or insults

holding history in their red hands

before the lynchings began in earnest.

Plath, keep your head out of that gas oven

Plath, keep your head out of that gas oven 

no matter the time of day!

it won't help you choose, 

Mrs. Hughes,

between Ted or yourself or the children

fitfully sleeping in an adjacent room 

while you fancy some sort of doom. 

your wet towels were a slap in their face 

although stuffed under the doors in no apparent haste,

as part of the scheming.

you became the turkey dreaming 

of her Sunday roast. 

whatever happened to the ghost 

last seen writing on her kitchen floor? 

shouldn't she have arisen and opened the door 

for the au pair at nine? 

the painters with a key on time 

might have been out of breath, 

but it was your death.

after the rapes

in thru the bedroom window

the knife cut screen hanging by a thread

the young blonde girl taken captive

straight from the safety of her bed

sliding quietly on the living room floor

and out the front door

under the banner of Heaven

whispering songs of religious war

a madman with conviction in his eyes

wearing a white robe at night

without any pretense or surprise

His God believed in everything precisely written

no possibility of Joseph Smith lies

and the captive to be held as a wife

at the age of 14,

to become the bearer of a new life

after the repeated rapes.

a post-it note before walking off an empty stage

sun is dumb or dumber

it keeps on shining regardless of the horse

kicking in a small barnyard;

chicken feces and cow dung scattered in the straw

with thick mud,

broken rows of corn.

footprints of the Anasazi point away from a remote cliff dwelling

pinching an inch,

but the inch searching for a destiny

or a worm hole 

and the worm 

tight inside a conical tunnel

surfing the net with a terabyte instead of an overbite.

i saw the rooster on his fence post sipping a glass of Irish whiskey

reading the Atlantic magazine,

a story about Christopher Hitchens reflecting in his eye,

a smudge of ruby lipstick on his cheek.

a gray squirrel was seen scratching hard dirt for a last bit of seed in an eastern

Pennsylvania late afternoon

in the cold air of a snowless winter.

a hungry Cooper's hawk using her GPS

wearing aviator glasses

looking for a hero for just one day;

and a dead rabbit on a well-traveled rural road.

a medium-sized herd of black Angus cattle

puzzled-looking black eyes 

wondering about their evening class in English literature.

across the wide open field

a yellow glow of a fast food restaurant and the smell of French fries cooked in hot oil.

green grass

and cars whizzing

looking for America

where the Cheshire Cat

with a jacket so casually tossed across her right shoulder

was holding nine lives and two aces up her sleeve

listening to The Bee Gees,

grinning,

while three chipmunks,

leaving a post-it note before walking off an empty stage,

waved to a singer sitting behind the theater curtain, sound asleep.

we all need a warm embrace

i've been thinking about a strong man

who has been feeling weak,

doing what he can to keep his three dogs occupied.

but his youngest son is struggling

with personal issues;

his aged mother is widowed and unsteady on her feet;

his wife is busy with her corporate work;

his mind is overwhelmed and

the bathroom mirror doesn't have all the answers.

like, who's the fairest of them all?

and clouds are piling up in the sky,

hiding the sun.

the air remains chilled, even as a backyard campfire

spits sparks into the night air.

what don't we know about ourselves?

is balance only found in the gym on a narrow beam?

if you're not who you are, then who?  or whom?

i heard that he cried this recent Monday night,

the first time since his sister died.

he said he feels he doesn't need any help,

but the window to his soul is open.

a breeze is coming down from the north,

and we all need a warm embrace.

far from Monmartre

so Picasso

didn't know

James Madison

but he knew quite well

Dora and her magic spell.

he often wore a dandy hat

going to a fancy Paris ball. 

Olga wrapped an ankle

because of her opera fall.

their marriage took a turn for the worse,

but there was no Spanish curse.

he simply decided he deserved what he wanted

and vows be damned,

and how the wind doth ramm!

like the unholy penis in his skillful hand,

he felt great and had the EYE:

short and spry,

full of himself while painting the female breast.

yes, who could have guessed?

he stroked and poked and painted,

grabbed Jacqueline by the neck until she fainted.

later-in-life ceramics on the shelf and red clay on the floor;

a favorite brush on a small table by his studio door,

far from Montmartre and his room with Fernande and being poor.

the young boy with a gift

on the world stage as an adult like an untethered skiff, 

adrift,

clutching his genius.

Springtime smells like honey

 

Springtime smells like honey

driving bees crazy

wasting away their money

inside a local five and dime

making up for lost time

shopping for genuine smiles

are a mom and her kid shuffling thru the aisles

wearing imitation ten dollar shoes 

looking for something important to choose

but they're walking blind

to how they've been defined

and it doesn't seem to matter any more

the sunlight in their eyes offers a natural surprise

and they blink;

they watch the evening sun sink

and the clouds hanging low

becoming a deep shadow:

there's a garden path and a bright primrose;

wandering footprints filled with wandering toes;

and there's a high hill to climb

inside a local five and dime

making up for lost time

shopping for genuine smiles

are a mom and her kid shuffling thru the aisles

wearing imitation ten dollar shoes 

looking for something important to choose

but they're walking blind

to how they've been defined

and it doesn't seem to matter any more.

south of Porto

she was with the invisible man on the sidewalk,

south of Porto, 

talking a lot of bull

about the rise in the cost of living

like an over-inflated zeppelin 

looking for lost lines and helium loves.

the much weathered fishermen of Aveiro

sat nonchalantly

on their salty chairs,

tongues clucking on and on

about foreign tourists asking about the latest catch.

nearby, a middle-aged woman tossed her bow rope but it missed

everything it was intended to hit,

and she lost her balance listening to the fishermen.

a loud splash was her body hitting the water between the floating dock

and the starboard side of her untethered sailboat.

as the woman was flailing in the brisk tidal current,

in danger of being injured or worse,

the fishermen kept talking about the old days, 

captains of their chairs,

pointing smoothly to the Portuguese sun, which was August hot.

they laughed softly about foreign tourists who kept asking about their catch,

but no one could find the invisible man on the sidewalk,

south of Porto.

and when the wet woman eventually climbed exhausted from the water,

she walked past the fishermen without taking notice of their smiles.

Walden Pond redux

the stage is where you play

there's no curtain 

the audience is intense

you believe you know which way to go

but you're not making sense

the kingdoms old and gray

poetry sighs

the Surrealists barely alive

and parties of God hold the veto

and you might not survive

with fire on your fingertips

traffic in haze

Walden Pond on a heat wave

with fall leaves shimmering over grass

there's no one left to save

spinning around the sun

fishing for life

dinosaurs and human death

clinging to a piece of day-old bread

sipping a final breath.

when the cheering fades

when the cheering fades

she turned her back and walked into the quiet night

paying her final bill

telling me everything would be alright

but i found myself alone

in parts wild and unknown

with excuses which tasted like regret

don't think i will ever forget

spilling her memories on the floor

asking the bartender for just one more

and his drink felt especially tall

setting me up for a hard-earned fall

ready to take my final curtain call

which i paid in full

when on the hill i saw the fool

on bended knee

and he looked a lot like me

when the cheering fades.

Le Coeur a gaz, (1923, Tristan Tzara)

it was three short acts
& the last spectacle on the program
was a complete dada farce,
with a trumpet in front of the infuriated audience
playing the Marseillaise!
this time around, there were no professional
actors to storm out singing
about the utter pointlessness
of playing body parts while wearing cubist costumes
made of stiff tubing
which reduced their walking to a geriatric shuffle.
out front, the police heard the angry voices and stormed inside
where fist fights between the dadaists and the future
surrealists began in earnest, with several badly beaten
and in no mood to be mollified.
shouts for order bounced off walls, hitting no one,
but damage to the theater was considerable.
seats were smashed and faces bloodied.
Aragon tried to rescue Eluard while
the police arrested the entire audience,
but later concluded it was all a big misunderstanding.

my shiny new Cadillac

i drove my shiny new Cadillac

down the shiny new road

and parked at the shack

way out back

watching you cleaning dishes

counting down time

making your wishes

hanging them on the line

hoping for a more perfect design

and the sun was shining and the air was warm

i was wondering how i'd ever conform

to the dreams you have for me

still running wild and crazy

climbing my wall

acting big but possibly still too small

with my face unwashed and blue jeans torn

looking for love but i've been forewarned

the shiny new road is a two way street

i remember i'll need a better song to compete

sung with honesty and no lies

promising no unwelcome surprise

and there's a lot of traffic

some much too graphic

but i'm parked at the shack

way out back

watching you cleaning dishes

counting down time

making your wishes

hanging them on the line

hoping for a more perfect design

and the sun was shining and the air was warm

i was wondering how i'd ever conform

to the dreams you have for me

still running wild and crazy

climbing my wall

acting big but possibly still too small

with my face unwashed and blue jeans torn

looking for love but i've been forewarned.

leaves had fallen, mostly

the early November leaves had fallen,

mostly.

many were still life shades of orange and yellow and red,

mostly

dead,

as i rode my two-wheeled bicycle down

the long narrow rural trail.

the passing air felt fresh and warm like your breath

often was

when we were close.

a love song filtered into my head

just as the deer appeared on my path,

looking like you

with her large eyes full of wild life.

her sleek frame primed for a mad dash

looked angular and fit.

she stopped to watch me approach.

my song startled her and she quickly looked around

before dashing into the thinning forest,

and you left with her,

mostly,

taking the song,

unfinished,

like my ride.