between bites of flesh

Jack said there was a dog in the tree,

howling to the moon;

but when i looked it wasn't there,

although i saw a haiku

hanging from a hanging branch:

if it fades away,

how will i know what it meant?

i can't see the dark.

but Allen said he saw the dog,

who was acting like a hipster;

he said it was wearing a French-style beret,

reading a poem called Howl,

barking like a mad man:

what was it about?

there was a lot of applause.

i had much to learn.

and Burroughs said there should be

intoxicating drugs floating in the air,

so he traveled to Tangiers

with his net and a tourist guide book,

looking for an African ass to drive home his point:

he had sex at night,

and in the morning felt fine.

his breakfast was fish.

he tried to eat like a native, he said,

between bites of flesh.

being proud of your face

simply no disgrace

being proud of your face

facing the world of friends and lover

in the chill of night under weighted cover

touching a soul with your fingertips

on sleeping lips.

finding your path to sail the high seas

without over-reliance on the word "Please"

while being respectful and alert

with healing words to avoid the hurt.

yoga and meditation

no hesitation

sharing your love of food:

shopping, kitchen prep, always in the mood

for an amble into a recipe book

happily exclaiming "Ah, yes!  Look!

You'll love this!"

Pure Bliss.

exploring beyond the shore

and so much more,

with a lust for adventure and yet the slow

reading of a map wondering which new way to go

beyond the boring

like an eagle on the highest winds soaring.

a quiet voice

maintaining a choice

to be spirited or soft in a favorite chair

like a lioness in her lair

singing her song

short or long

asking others to sit and lounge and love

watching clouds drifting above:

a talk about the future or the past

stretching a moment to make it last

for another minute or afternoon or for weeks.

it's simple:  whatever curiosity seeks.

they played Listz at his funeral

the first time he heard Listz play La Campanella,

he assumed the piano piece was a tribute to

Roy Campanella, a famous American baseball player,

who, before he died,

was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame.

but no, that assumption was incorrect,

so he obviously wasn't concerned with the obvious.

he often sat all alone listening to his thoughts,

far out in the country,

where birds sang their own compositions

and rat snakes dreamed under the heat of a high summer sun.

he was not rich.

his choice of music was dictated by an FM radio

playing classical pieces,

hinting at news,

broadcasting political advertisements.

and he rode a bicycle for amusement,

employing trainer wheels to ensure his balance,

which was suspect.

he rode over little stones until his butt hurt,

then tried to explain the inexplicable using several rolls

of toilet paper which he draped over the low branches of

tall trees.

very funny, he thought, applying salve to his sore cheeks.

he closed his eyes and imagined a priest

smiling at him from inside a confessional booth.

the priest suggested a ride on a bicycle built for two.

the priest also said he knew Roy Campanella,

when he was still alive.

and they played Listz at his funeral,

not baseball.

try explaining that, he said, 

without using toilet paper.

before he was a poet

before he was a poet,

he was a judge

bearing a tiny cross on both sides of his face.

in front of a jury of peers,

his robes were black,

like his laughter

and his screams.

knives and guns and anger

were always in the courtroom,

presenting facts.

each case he tried

came to haunt him

when the moon was in the sky.

he heard the ticking of clocks,

and his heart racing for the next bus,

always arriving too late,

and he wore down his teeth with tension

before a dentist could make any adjustments.

so 

he left the law 

before the ground

completely disappeared beneath his feet,

before he was sentenced to life,

before his premature death.

and his poetry became all surface and angled innuendo:

he wrote in bare feet,

with headphones covering both ears,

pretending he was 

In the Hall of the Mountain King

with Grieg,

hugging himself between notes.

a garden growing in the distance

into a fenced pasture

she led me by the hand,

telling me in low whispers

i should do whatever she said,

whether in a rain storm or on her dried grass bed;

and when we got to the corral

she mounted a saddled horse.

i stood still

as her steed began kicking dirt on my face

& she handed me the reins and told me to pull hard,

and with all my strength i pulled

until dreams spilled out over my boots

and my eyes grew big.

i saw my youthful self throwing a ball

which a batter hit over the nearby fence

and she laughed as she ran down the third base line,

licking my face before she disappeared into the dugout!

she said i needed to release the reins but my hands hesitated,

so i sat on a stool next to the horse

from where i could hear her yelling at me.

what she was saying was no longer making much sense.

i thought she was poorly recalling poems by a Romanian writer

who once came to visit me, who reminded me of a saint for lost souls,

who wrote her poems by hand with clean sheets of paper,

all signed with her signature in blood,

and i liked the ones i remembered

while sitting next to the horse,

kicking dirt on my face.

when i let go and the horse bolted,

she jumped the fence.

i stood, grabbed the stool,

and walked toward a garden

growing in the distance.

the nightmare i tried to avoid

the quiet creature in my mirror

with shaven face and eyes aglow with narcissism

reaches for his blood pressure pill;

it's late at night and soon dreams will come,

so the heart needs to remain calm and steady 

if the FBI arrives with a search warrant and government agents

armed with automatic weapons 

open doors

crack windows

peer into toilet bowls

and they're wearing civilian clothes

having arrived in black SUVs 

locked and loaded

ready for civil war

ready to say that justice matters

looking for clues 

to my having been a bad man

and i'm sleeping nude under clean 100% cotton sheets

hearing the slow rumble of a wave crash onto my white sand beach

foaming until the last bit reaches my umbrella pole

stuck firmly beyond high tide line

holding the hot sun at bay

keeping my cooler cooler

and my face from showing shock

as my heavy safe is carted away on a wheeled platform,

my top secrets

highly classified documents

love letters from Kim and many other guys

and passports, too,

are unceremoniously measured and quartered

and swallowed up

into the nightmare i tried to avoid

but was unable

and i curl my left hand into a tiny fist and punch out meanly

into the vastness of empty space.

an Orc in my garden!

there was an Orc in my garden!

i heard it was an invasive pest,

so i grabbed it between my fingers and firmly squeezed

until it snapped, crackled, and popped, 

the final sound much more subdued than a bonfire roaring,

almost like a whimper from a newborn

after breast feeding,

the crib and pillow and soft blankets and toys

all comforting and offering security,

a full belly with gurgles of affection,

so hush my baby don't you cry:

the Orcs will eventually die!

i heard the mother natures' song,

& it was naturally voiced with common tears

that filled her deep sorrow

watching an Orc, heedless, who fell into a communal pond

and drowned when his dangling feet reached for the bottom,

reached and reached,

as uncomprehending eyes grew cold and blank,

unseeing the surface many miles above,

where the noon day sun brightened the surrounding wheat fields

and a harvest began anew,

farmers on their trusty tractors, diesel fueled and chugging

into their new day,

bellies filled with gurgles of affection.

Moldova was her name

Moldova

was her name and she

was a castle of a woman,

towering over my green valley with a presence

filled with ancient trees and soaring wild birds-of-prey,

solid in her rocky steadfastness

with bright historical eyes,

inquisitive and penetrating,

and i felt deep gratitude in her presence,

inhaling a rich Slavic note reminiscent of Codru,

where large cellars hold brilliant wines.

Mother Russia is nearby, and she watches our exchange

with what i hope is no more than curiosity.

Ukraine is listening, too.

looking out for my co-star

i once had a lot of long hair,

but it fell on a busy street

and when i looked it wasn't there,

don't let me feel sad

the broadway lights were bright

so i can't be mad,

that's the way it goes

sometimes it too damn hot

and sometimes it snows

but i'm dancing around the pole

looking out for my soul,

had a slip and a fall

now i'm behind the eight ball

in a corner pocket in a biker's bar

looking out for my co-star

but she's not anywhere,

maybe she took my hair,

jumping from the stage in a panic

i saw her swimming across the Atlantic

drinking and smoking while she wiped her eyes,

in disbelief she's winning the top prize

but i wasn't looking anymore

walking out the back door,

had a slip and a fall

now i'm behind the eight ball

in a corner pocket in a biker's bar

looking out for my co-star

but she's not anywhere,

maybe she took my hair.

to intoxicate your soul

nowhere near the point of return,

i wonder if you'll ever learn

the night is long and the day exhausts,

you'll struggle adding up all the costs,

glancing as the clouds gathering near

approach like the point of a sharpened spear,

aging in an age of unreason,

season after season,

the drums beat 

on a lonely stretch of street,

and when you reach the trees

will you allow a breeze

to intoxicate your soul?

go and cast your net,

check out what you'll get

pushing stones up the nearest hill

until you get your fill,

down where the animals are in bed

wishing they were satisfied and fed,

and their clamor keeps feeding your head

with visions of merchandise

as clear and cold as ice

and wouldn't it be nice

to have all the jewels in paradise?

Blessing!

and it was Mary Oliver

again speaking directly to me!

her voice full of blessings

and insight

about life and love and light

and darkness, too, like a bowl of the blackest chocolate fudge

being eaten by a starving man inside his lonely prison cell.

oh, do tell;

so, yes,  I was drawn gently in a certain direction.

Blessing?  

Blessing!

I have time to linger, wondering about my little finger

and how it attaches perfectly with my full hand

when I pet my dog or comb my hair.

everything is simultaneously here and over there!

Blessing!

the simple fact of focus upon the speeding moment:

that's sufficient

for the infant 

and the old fellow filling his bird feeder with sunflower seeds

while the noisy chickadee watches.

and my love sips her wine slowly while her eyes smile, pools of promise beside

a lake of ever-expanding iridescent infinity.

I hear a Pink Floyd song and imagine kissing her lips in rhythm to the moon circling

around the Earth, remembering the constant push and pull of a tender embrace,

remembering a country of fragrant gardens and fertile fields of joy,

and the laughter of a child swinging from a handy rope 

overtop the safety of a deep hole of a neighborhood creek, 

the splash and the bubbles and the delicious feel of cool water on skin.

it's a very important day, right here and right now.

Blessing!

because it's only a short walk to the end of the boardwalk,

and I'm not ready to dismount my bike, whose tires are spinning like a distant galaxy 

and comfortably filled with air.  the chain cleaned and well-lubricated.

the road ahead is endless.

a train whistles.

a baby cries for her seat, and we all make room, moving and watching protectively.

we all have sufficient time.

we all feel.

we all need love.

Blessing!

who was there?

the hill was close

touching my face, kissing my hand

i took several deep inhales

not to grandstand

but to understand

how hard would be the climb

and could i navigate all the way blind?

when confusion and despair

filled the air

in the pitch black dark

who was there?

what was unjust and what was fair?

the music played loud

rattled my senses;

there were scattered villages

separated by indecently high fences

and a monster calling for death

watching people running, 

taking their last breath

indifferently

remorselessly

and the desert has no water

the horse has no name

who's to blame?

who's to praise?

for all those days

when

the drums shake and roll the terrain where i walk,

silently mouthing words but unable to talk.

Alexander Lukashenko

for the love of God

or V Putin

 or whatever the clever superstition of the moment,

Alexander Lukashenko 

is crafting his own uniquely Belarusian

WAY

to emulate the fate of Benito Mussolini

to be hung upside down

by the feet

from a steel I-beam

below which tens of thousands of his happy

citizens 

will be seen

CHEERING

wildly!

in the dead of the day

in the dead of the day,

pregnant women

fade away

into a back alley and into memory

where nothing is free

nothing is as it seems

remembering childhood dreams

and playgrounds and school books

gathering dust 

and second looks

down to the final seconds

intention and free will

perched on a lonely window sill

waiting for a reprieve, 

watching the scene

as the courts convene

and laws are changed

remarked upon, suddenly rearranged

like a fashionable hair style

and a magazine models' noon-day smile

moving month to month 

from behind the nearest door,

or the ballroom dance floor

where music can be heard

with every breath and every single word.

there's tragedy at the core

of what 

is never asked for

or planned

when individual choices

are criticized and banned.

in the dead of the day,

pregnant women

fade away

into a back alley and into memory

where nothing is free

nothing is as it seems

remembering childhood dreams

and playgrounds and school books

gathering dust 

and second looks.

a gypsy slyly distracting a tourist

tender chicken

soaked with lemon juice and a special blend

of spices

on a pre-heated grill

is the prelude to an evening meal

with a glass of decent red wine and Simon & Garfunkel's

The Sounds of Silence playing

as the sun begins

to slowly settle on the western horizon;

the table is set with cloth napkins

and porcelain plates,

and silver ware; 

and a screen wall is

enclosing the private space with welcoming arms.

wonderfully, there are no bugs.

the early evening birds are filling the soft, still air with

a natural song.

local flowers sweetly scent the air.

John Lee Hooker is soon to sing,

and his boom boom will be bluesy and enchanting.

he was very popular in Europe,

where modern tastes acknowledged genius without hesitation.

the poets of Europe, especially, are also brilliant chroniclers

of the heart beating in rhythm to the seconds of the day,

while astutely noticing any illusions 

fancied by the cafe crowd.

a gypsy slyly distracting a passing tourist

is a clever poet without a pen,

dreaming of a 

tender chicken

soaked with lemon juice and a special blend

of spices

on a pre-heated grill,

with a glass of decent red wine.

she started talking in circles

can't say i wasn't warned

turned down the light

she started talking in circles

in the middle of the night.

gave me more than she should

shut bedroom door

she started talking in circles

in the middle of the floor.

said her name was Martha

from the Deep South

she started talking in circles

in the middle of her mouth.

i asked for an answer

what was her wish?

she started talking in circles

in the middle of her kiss.

i wasn't a young man

lost all my steam

she started talking in circles

in the middle of my dream.

when outside the window

a new day broke

she started talking in circles

in the middle of her joke.

can't say i wasn't warned

turned down the light

she started talking in circles

in the middle of the night.

polishing the master's shoe

it's always five o'clock somewhere

and a belly somewhere is always running out of gas

in my way of understanding,

it's less than a half-filled glass

when some children smile with tears washing each eye

and there's no great outcry

well, my oh my oh my

no deep sadness from within

no institutional anger or chagrin

well, go west, young man! go west was sung

but that doorbell has already been rung

there's no answer or welcoming mat

no hopeful hill when all the surroundings are flat

the clock was left with dust on its' face

unwound and out of place

and when the chains were being rattled on the early ships' deck

i wasn't allowed to hear about the ruins of the wreck

the high winds rolling over the hot southern air

watching cotton being picked from the comfort of a plantation chair

it was a most exciting thing to do

polishing the master's shoe

and the silver made so bright it was hard to see

more fresh-baked biscuits and sweet tea

down on the ground with bended knee

listening for a faint promise about being free

it's always five o'clock somewhere

and a belly somewhere is always running out of gas

in my way of understanding,

it's less than a half-filled glass

when some children smile with tears washing each eye

and there's no great outcry

well, my oh my oh my

no deep sadness from within

no institutional anger or chagrin

well, go west, young man! go west was sung

but that doorbell has already been rung.

he liked his handsome face

Ted Hughes

walked away with a half-filled glass

of warm beer,

slowing to offer a sip to the young lady writing

her life story while standing

with sharpened pencil

at a corner of the neighborhood pub.

she initially wanted her own glass,

but intuitively knew that wouldn't be allowed;

she finished her final sentence by taking

a lonely, deep breath.

when word got out that Ted left the bar

without reading her entire story,

local people were initially disappointed in him.

with his handsome face mimicking honesty,

he soon explained that he wasn't

really interested in her writing.

too many references, he said,

to her dad and unresolved issues that were

beyond him.

he liked nature without the scars.

he liked his warm beer.

he liked his handsome face.

he most of all liked his own writing.

about heaven or hell

sitting on a hard bench

buster brown shoes on my feet

unwilling to smile for the photographer

or anyone else i meet

wearing a silly shirt and bowtie

inside a hot studio room

i'm asked to behave nicely

but i feel an approaching doom

not a mushroom cloud exactly

just a sense i don't belong

i haven't yet accepted

the notion that i could be wrong

the world was still a small place

not even a marker on my hand

there were philosophical discussions

which i couldn't understand:

a basement party without a band?

an Easter chicken that couldn't fly?

looking in the bathroom mirror

and seeing a forehead bull's-eye

with the ever-present blonde hair

atop a child's smile with a wry grin

but already a questioning stare:

what is out there?

no, i don't want your damn tomato soup

or to belong to any mindless group

don't talk to me about slavery

or about the bomb to end all life

i'm out back in the blacksmith shop

tempering my own knife

it's just that i'm in a time zone

where i'm happiest being alone

where music sounds like the expanding universe

i'm old now 

writing and reading verse

wearing sandals with no shirt or bowtie

and if i appear to cry

it's only when i glimpse a nightmare becoming true

and don't know what to do

to save you

as we sink inside an inkwell

without premonitions

about heaven or hell.

remembering Picasso

how can a life be better

if there's no change in your pocket

or in your intention

not to mention

a desire to improve

as the trench keeps getting deeper

the enemy is approaching with a bucket full

of malice

while inside your palace

a temporary safe haven

that ultimately doesn't challenge 

or provoke

when you awoke

your saw the same face as before

the same smug sensations

the same desires

the emotional fires

tamped

down

the crowd milling around 

is the status quo

you really know

most everything is in peril

the hole is being filled with toxic dust

sex is good but ultimately unfulfilling

chilling

my beautiful Annabel Lee

as the sea meets the shore

plead

beg and implore

the level of anxiety

is getting higher

and the piano man

plays it again

his name is Sam,

of course,

the Paris lights remain romantic

eulogizing the sailing ship Titanic

filling it with regret and historical ice

don't think twice!

it's not Casablanca...

the Orcs are coming

into your dreams

full of schemes

with hatred and steely indifference

and the flower sellers along the shores of the Rhine

when the church bells chime

watch your barge from a distance

a bicycle built for two

is looking for you

you're on a park bench, resting

with a giant balloon in your hand,

remembering Picasso.

so this is a song

so this is a song 

i wrote

when i was confident

that you loved me

and i could pay the rent

once a month 

on a Friday afternoon

when i was often late

but would rather be too soon

as we first walked together

under a giant harvest moon

and you gave me a bright smile

before we had walked another mile

and a laugh when i spoke

what i hoped was a joke

and you were serious about things

peeling thru layers of thought

and it was readily apparent

you didn't care what i bought

but what i could bring

in a voice that could sing

and so here's to what you said

and how you kept the score

you always seemed satisfied

never wanting more

than i could give or we could share

your love wasn't simply in a place

but seemed everywhere

and the moon remained beautiful all night long

so this is a song 

i wrote

when i was confident

that you loved me

and i could pay the rent

once a month 

on a Friday afternoon

when i was often late

but would rather be too soon

in a plaza in Dallas

remember what they said about Oswald?

how he planned it all and was such a

good Marine 

sharp-shooter

with his rifle

with nerves of steel 

with unlimited patience

being a convenient dupe of the mob

but it was all bullshit

meant to deceive and deflect

while driving the Irish Catholic crowd crazy

or crazier, if that was even possible.

the Batista boys were furious, of course,

about the loss of their property

and the fast women

and the slow cars

and how they hated the cigar smoke from Castro

who blew it furiously up their asses

but never giving away his hand.

the cops did their best playing the field

sniffing the air for smells that didn't belong

conning the cons

wearing their suits into Broadway clubs

waiting for snitches and bitches

to order tall drinks

from a short bartender

who was a closet friend of J. Edgar Hoover,

famous top dog at the FBI.

of course it was Oswald, the pinko

solo player

a mastermind

a maestro

a genius,

simply another day in a plaza in Dallas.

so darling, don't ask

but it was lost

and couldn't be found

i went listening for it

but there was no sound

there was dark

when there should have been light

i was sitting alone

in the center of your bombsight

counting grains of sand

slipping thru my hand

and there's a long day ahead

i'm short more than a buck

up for any adventure

but down on my luck

shuffling on a back street

dropping hints

while picking up my feet

there's a trail of tears

and they're mostly mine

so darling, don't ask:

i know i'll be fine

but it was lost

and couldn't be found

i went listening for it

but there was no sound

there was dark

when there should have been light

i was sitting alone

in the center of your bombsight

counting grains of sand

slipping thru my hand

and there's a long day ahead

i'm short more than a buck

up for any adventure

but down on my luck

that Uvalde, Texas Tuesday

well, i didn't know the exact way to hell

so followed a guy in his black pick-up truck

who kept ringing his own alarm bell

heard he was headed to Texas for a double shot of whiskey

something not to be missed

said he was gonna do a week of heavy drinking

'cause he was mighty pissed

yeah, his grandmother was gonna take away his guns

and he wouldn't be ruled

so he was headed to Robb elementary

down along the border

'cause he wanted to be re-schooled

and let me tell you it was a hell of a ride

all the way to madness with a double shot of whiskey by my side

speed limits were posted and the best beer was ice cold

but his rampage was just beginning and he wouldn't be controlled

there was no knock on the door when he led himself inside

and on that Uvalde, Texas Tuesday 

children came in from play

just before they died:

well, i didn't know the exact way to hell

so followed a guy in his black pick-up truck

who kept ringing his own alarm bell

heard he was headed to Texas for a double shot of whiskey

something not to be missed

said he was gonna do a week of heavy drinking

'cause he was mighty pissed

yeah, his grandmother was gonna take away his guns

and he wouldn't be ruled

so he was headed to Robb elementary

down along the border

'cause he wanted to be re-schooled.