the bones of dead animals

the hyenas

with a swift run, yelping,

and a blazing red skull illuminated

on my waiting room wall,

both broke my concentration

and coughing,  i fled,

into an dreamworld

as majestic as the distant Mountain of God

and as cold as the snows of Kilimanjaro:

my left lung was filled with glass shards

as a Maasai warrior watched me from a high rock,

standing on one leg, impassive,

and i could see the sun dancing on his spear point.

i was being sedated in a hospital operating room,

watching the wild dogs chase a young zebra foal.

a heavy dark cloud enveloped me, and sheets of rain

nearly drowned me, but i awoke, foggy-brained,

covered with a buffalo skin shield for safety.

my right lung was  protected by my emperor's guard

dog and seemed healthy;

my left lung was not doing so well, but might be saved,

as a local witch doctor explained.

the bones of dead animals covered the floor.

i went home to sleep some more,

high in the safe branches of a Baobob tree.

Alabama's Africa Town

in Florida

the shore line is now a front line

while the phone line to the Governor's office is constantly busy

looking over to the Keys

hearing the shouted words "So help me, please!"

the old man and the sea

remembering stories of a shark attack

are calling: there's no turning back

dying or already dead 

the high rises 

proudly

finding surprises

where the sun also rises

when high tide is spotted running across Lincoln Road

and maybe the onslaught can no longer be slowed.

in Florida

the shore line is now a front line

while near Alabama's Africa Town

the sunken slave ship was finally found

buried in mud near Twelve Mile island where it was burned and sunk

treated by the enslavers like a useless piece of junk!

a boastful white man acting like a heartless drunk

hiding his crime thinking that if it's out of sight

there's no evidence to point to in the dark of night

but now the history books

can give this story many more serious looks

finding surprises

where the sun also rises

when high tide is spotted running across Lincoln Road

but maybe the onslaught can now be slowed.

careless words

in the night

maybe the middle of it

i awoke and felt like shit

knowing how i misspoke

with an ill-advised joke

about me and a tree,

a bum hip

and two wounded knees,

and please

know that life can be a bitch

being a snitch

or even while on the up and up

wearing a catcher's cup

to protect the balls.

no more falls

might be the best

on the romantic test

with a score above zero on a sliding scale

between serious woman and inept male

timing my shot

hoping for more than what i got

without being greedy

or, in the worst case, being needy

and alone

with no way to atone

for careless words perhaps like above,

less frivolous and more infused with love.

hiding in the trees

live at Pompeii

what more should i say

living my life from day to day

where everything goes from hand to hand

managing to walk upright across the land

when even though i can't understand

the echos stirring in the breeze

bringing me to my knees

i can see you're hiding in the trees

with a saucer in hand and a cup for drink

on the edge and near the brink

imagining what it is to think

and one foot stands above the crowd

looking for love as you cry out loud,

"I no longer want to feel so proud."

but the hush of night 

conceals from sight

the doing wrong and the hoping right

and you begin to drift and feel the sway

telling yourself that you're okay

"It's easier to feel this way!"

the trees are high and the fall will be fast

and everybody wants to be the last

it's easier to embrace the past

where all secrets are concealed

hearts open but never healed

holding high the human shield.

live at Pompeii

what more should i say

living my life from day to day

where everything goes from hand to hand

managing to walk across the land

when even though i can't understand

the echos stirring in the breeze

bringing me to my knees

i can see you're hiding in the trees.

delight

delight

all thru de night

and de following afternoon

you and i 

noticing the clouds and the sun

when they're in the sky,

and the far horizon of an imaginary sea,

as deep as our memories will allow.

and oh! we can be loud 

and bellow and sing

with all the air our expanding lungs can bring

forth

so we, too, can fly

like the breezes on our face

leaving a sweet taste 

maybe like frozen pistachio ice cream

or whatever it is we dream

if wishes really do come true

for everyone but especially for you

digging into the depths of a golden castle high on the hill

and finding bones

and a temporary chill

which captures a moment

just before hearing the delighted laughter of children playing on a sliding board or swinging

from a low-branched tree

and when looking closer you notice it's both you and me

but i'm wearing my linen shirt

while walking slowly in the soft dirt 

of my old age

enjoying the feeling of being very light

like 

delight

all thru de night

and de following  afternoon.

freedom of choice

when i rode on a crazy black horse

across the vast Pacific 

there was a hot wind in my face

and a letter in my hand

a mission to fulfill which i didn't understand

but i heard it from the President firsthand

everything was meticulously planned

War was in great demand!

and the home of the brave

told me there were friendly strangers to save

but thousands of dead were found buried in a grave

while the home of the brave

felt the sun on its' face 

winning every contest

winning every race

singing songs with an adolescent voice

healthy living with freedom of choice:

nothing to do but simply rejoice!

but sometime long ago when i rode in a jeep

hours from family and days without sleep

there were explosions and confusion with Vietnamese tears

everyone homeless and wrapped with their fears

and i flew in my chopper with a terrible noise in my head

the landscape seemed empty and everyone dead

and the home of the brave

told me there were friendly strangers to save

but thousands of dead were found buried in a grave

while the home of the brave

felt the sun on its' face

winning every contest

winning every race

singing songs with an adolescent voice

healthy living with freedom of choice:

nothing to do but simply rejoice!

when i rode on a crazy black horse

across the vast Pacific

there was a hot wind in my face

and a letter in my hand:

a mission to fulfill which i didn't understand

but i heard it from the President firsthand

everything was meticulously planned 

War was in great demand!

there was a letter in my hand.

pecking for crumbs

Charles,

in a deep black back alley,

resumes spitting at the few birds pecking for crumbs,

perfectly shirtless and unconsciously proud of his few chest hairs,

he quizzically looks

at the sun,

confident he will never run

from imagined or actual fears.

he eats alone in his unassuming flat,

where an empty bird cage hangs,

resembling a southern cross.

Charles,

in a practiced stupor of his own design,

and with a pen he grabs too well,

screams often in an elemental voice harsh with scornful intent

about his social security check which wasn't sent

on time

and that he'll never attempt to write academic rhyme

and feels proud of it,

unaware of what it means.

Charles,

always gruff and all that stuff,

tries to beat and beat and beat,

lifting both feet

to praise convention and to make a mark or a smear

of some sort or the other within the boundaries of the social frontier,

where a few birds are pecking for crumbs. 

the birds resemble Charles,

who spreads his wings for no reason

and becomes his own bird.

in a bed of tall grass

far

and further away

passing hours

into the early evening of every precious day

chasing fireflies and dreams and a wayward dog

off the fallen log

where Turkey Tail and snail

seem to be in no hurry

throwing off the deepening shadows!

there's no need to hurry

from the thin deer trail hidden from view;

i'm thinking of you

as i'm rock hopping across a shallow creek

and up an embankment almost too steep

climbing imaginary summits into a low cloud

which spoke to me in voices profound:

the vernal sound

putting me to sleep in a nearby bed of soft grass.

Lynden Gallery

so i went to an art opening
at the Lynden Gallery
in etown & many people came out
including Luke and Mallory
whom i hadn't seen in about
two years or so plus Lisa
the owner was there
with her beautiful raven dark hair.

Ned Wert was the artist on display
(i met his sister & her fiancee)
and his works are now largely abstract
hanging with deep red as the predominant shade:
i was gasping at the numbers as fact
then noticed several full prices were paid
but it was simple since the mood was so good
to be friendly and feel that you should
in this fire hall converted to art 
just mingle and fondle a heart,
drink wine, eat crackers, and cheesy
to imagine that living is easy.

here is original stuff as it should be
poking holes in the idea of normality

a space which is happy and free,

so visit.

Louise Gluck

sad and strange

off the range

beyond the boundary fence

where you rest with barely a lick of sense

Louise Gluck

soft and slick in your metered brain

teaching poetry under the driving rain

of New England

where you stand with sharp words and fate

heavy on a wounded heart, the cemetery gate

opens as you wander by,

closes when you shut one eye:

a skeleton with bones raw white

rises to kiss your lips tonight.

there is always the moon: a memoir

there is always the moon
dropping light
like bright pebbles
or like an extravagant  annual ball
racing above the Earth in regular lunar phases
blurring the gap like opium blurs the brain
perhaps of a famous schoolboy poet
who wrote a memoir about a voluptuous woman
with a skill giving French lessons
to the poor
instead of using her beautiful voice to teach diction
and how
without a penny
and only a single friend,
she became a successful actress on stage
and the early screen,
who spoke with her golden voice on the radio
from where it was heard
by Gertrude Stein
who immediately wanted to visit for a book idea,
but the hour was late,
and the suggestion less than honest,
and the moon had already fallen from the sky

on a cloudless night.

all poets should be so lucky.

Van Gogh found his toe

Van Gogh
found his toe
beneath an olive tree
near the town of Saint Rémy
but he lost an ear
when the sky was crystal clear
during a strange sword fight
on a rumored starry night.

Pablo Picasso
knew where to go
on the Dinard beach
where he liked to teach
while playing with his ripe banana
inside a locked cabana.

The smaller towns were red,
the French man said,
while drinking local wine.

and a friend of mine
agreed,
as she peed
behind a Rhône valley tree
near a busy winery
where empty bottles grew.

the famous mistral winds blew,
Paul Cézanne so well knew,
all the way to the shimmering Med
the famous colors bled
into the air and, oh my, the sight:

such amazing quality of light!

he painted throughout the night.

passing shacks

the color of the train

rolling north along the old main line

made me think of a hurricane

drinking another bottle of cowboy wine

followed by a third and a steady long hard pull

up the nearest steepest hill

bouncing along without a spill

looking out of my window

hoping for a big time show

rounding the curve and down the tracks

passing shacks

there's memories on the wide front porch

of battle cries and a fading torch

and i hear bluegrass and see a lively dance

feet stomping like in a sacred trance 

and a village square and an cheap saloon

i started thinking like a loud typhoon

howling like a lonely man under a harvest moon

rolling north along the old main line

i continued drinking more cowboy wine

followed by a third and a steady long hard pull

up the nearest steepest hill

bouncing along without a spill

looking out of my window

hoping for a big time show

round the curve and down the tracks

passing shacks

"merde, merde, merde..."

with her earrings and her cat eyes,
Marie Laurencin smiled with an Oriental purr.
she watched his collar stud
tickling her soft fur.
she leaned by his well-dressed bed
where he rested while moving fitfully,
very much in love,
his poetry filling the air.
his name was Guillaume Apollinaire:
he would die of a broken heart and a war wound.
she had all his letters to her buried
along with her in her tomb:

"merde, merde, merde..." 

Henry James or Dostoevsky

we shall never love anyone 
but each other
like a little sister or little brother
this lovely afternoon and evening

i'm very hungry now 

somehow

what's for lunch? i have a hunch
an endive salad and apple tart
where should we start?
a foie de veau with mashed potato

and a book by Henry James
or Dostoevsky 

perhaps two or three?

then we'll walk alongside the slow river
to some new old cafe
we know 

along the way

we'll have two drinks and
no one will know 

when it's our time to go
to the galleries and a shop window
opposite of where we walk
quiet and gay our private talk

down a stairway to the park
where fishermen work in the early dark

we were never lonely before a bed
always making love inside our head.

but my hands are on fire

i'd dance with you, Maria,

but my hands are on fire

and if i wanted to die

i'd find myself a lover to hire.

she'd be a blues baby

shuffling along a lazy dirt road

fingering her necklace and pearls

in a way making it difficult to decode

what she had in mind

even though she hadn't designed

her shuffle or her smile

and it makes it easy for her to beguile

my wondering and my inquisitive soul

i'd be listening to her chanting as she danced

and i'd quickly lose control

dreaming of mermaids and my former captain's life at sea

sailing among giant waves where there was never any guarantee

and i'd see her pause for the blossoming of a flower

waiting and watching for more than an hour

and i'd whisper into her ear but she wouldn't seem to hear!

she was on her steady road and it never showed

if she was waiting for me to reappear

or to simply disappear:

it's all in my dream 

so there's nothing here for me to redeem

i could be her castle and she could be my queen.

i'd dance with you, Maria,

but my hands are on fire

and if i wanted to die

i'd find myself a lover to hire.

but hey Donnie!

but hey Donnie!

not Casper the Ghost or loser Lonnie

not Hey Jude

'cause you were always so uncommonly rude

a mean and miserable dude

pretending to be polished but always so naturally crude

hey Donnie!

don't brood

you dug a pretty big hole
& it might have been a war hole
or a hot piece of heavenly button hole

who can know which way you tried to go?

walking thru a crowd of admirers with a pigeon-toe

and you thought you were a big time dime

but others thought you were a complete waste of time

the beauty Pageant girls thought you were weird
they didn't want to be speared

and you thought they were young and nice 

but they said your hands were like ice

but hey Donnie!

not Casper the Ghost or loser Lonnie

not Hey Jude

'cause you were always so uncommonly rude

a mean and miserable dude

pretending to be polished but always so naturally crude

hey Donnie!

don't brood

when they saw you in black leather pants
you said you wanted a cheap hourly romance

but they only wanted to dance

and you liked riding in a big stretch limousine
bigger than the biggest block of New Orleans

on any Sunday morning
screeching your tires without warning

posing for pictures without any valid point

 
running hustles in every corner of every joint

parties with hardly a decent pause

skirting all the established laws 

whatever the age

it was always a comedy stage

but hey Donnie!

not Casper the Ghost or loser Lonnie

not Hey Jude

'cause you were always so uncommonly rude

a mean and miserable dude

pretending to be polished but always so naturally crude

hey Donnie!

don't brood

to justify fortune and fame

you've relied on daddy's name

you swindle and waddle and wade,

your lasting reputation temporarily made

you are a master at this game

of momentary tinsel and lasting shame

a crooked smile upon your head
in love with whatever it is you said

hey Donnie!

not Casper the Ghost or loser Lonnie

not Hey Jude

'cause you were always so uncommonly rude

a mean and miserable dude

pretending to be polished but always so naturally crude

hey Donnie!

don't brood

you dug a pretty big hole
& it might have been a war hole
or a hot piece of heavenly button hole

but hey Donnie! 

hey Donnie!

pretending to be polished but always so naturally crude

don't brood.

Patti Smith

i'm hot and down in old Mexico
my body naked from head to toe
escaping from a Pacific storm.

later, your arms keep me warm.

i'm sipping wine with friends of mine
drinking beer while you're still here

listening to the Beatles twist and shout:
wondering what it's all about!

i saw Patti Smith in a border bar.
she asked me if i'd like a cigar.

she said she likes to be called the poetess of punk.

she didn't seem to be too drunk.

she sang about lovers in the warm southern night.

she threw me a kiss in the broad daylight.

she had male friends who liked to nude pose.

they applied lipstick to their toes.

i'm sipping wine with friends of mine
drinking beer while you're still here

listening to the Beatles twist and shout
wondering what it's all about!

i saw refugees from a small Honduran town
crying men not making a sound
leaving for Paradise on their midnight ride
looking for anything to maintain their pride.

their children had wide eyes with tears

mouthing words flavored with their fears.

i saw Paris on a big screen TV
dressed as usual tres provocatively:
i heard her when she finally said
"If I were poor, I'd rather be dead!"

i'm sipping wine with friends of mine
drinking beer while you're still here

i'm sitting on my cloud of dreams
unsure of what this temporary existence means.

each moment quickly becomes the past
until my breath can barely last.

i'm sipping wine with friends of mine
drinking beer while you're still here

listening to the Beatles twist and shout:
wondering what it's all about!

it's all the rage

becoming nobody

i left a winning hand 

when my words were banned

from the bar stool where i lazily sat

contemplating warfare and urban combat

in a world where dust settled uncomfortably on the thin air.

so, i took a second look and it was no longer there

but no one could answer why

no need to get a job or to re-apply

the position is already taken

and if i'm not mistaken

there's a lot of drinking going on late into the night

and despite

a growing alarm at the insanity employed to tell the truth,

two couples necking in an adjacent booth

sat laughing at the music telling lies to the adjacent wall

but that's all i can recall

between quick sips of a memory and a news flash about a shooting

at the local armory where military men where seen recruiting

innocence ladies and their temporary lovers,

hiding under conservative covers

where their cover was blown.

the latest laws were quickly overthrown

by noon the following day

when the King and his Queen came out to play;

they were heard to say

there was permanent tooth decay

found in every peasant mouth

north east west and south.

while here i stand trying to get a grip

afraid of an inappropriate word that might falsely slip

but let the single chip

fall where it may

i'll soon run out of words to say

sometime tomorrow or maybe even today

when the sheriff and his deputy jump out and shout

"What the hell is this all about?"

but there's no taking account

of all the money i left on the poker table

when i was unwell and feeling unstable

and the lights went unexpectedly dim.

all that's remaining is the singing of my personal hymn

and a tap dance discreetly off stage,

i've heard it's all the rage

sitting on a flat tire,

offering myself out for hire.

lastly, i hear i've been rejected for the principal role in an important church choir

and that's something to crow about.

HILDA HILST

"With my dog-eyes I stop before the sea,"

said HILDA HILST,

lapping at her bowl of laughing water.

she stood hallucinating driftwood!

said she heard a kitten roar

with a mighty menace,

and her body began shaking,

her fur covered in burrs and bloated ticks,

the putrid smell of dead fish sweating from her pores.

i asked her if she were a dog

and she said she didn't know.

she tried to bark but mere words

came out of her canine mouth!

she told me she was living in a foreign country

where dogs were nameless,

and she slept in an abandoned shack.

each night, she assured me, she saw ghosts

smearing blood on the naked walls,

wailing and full of spite, 

hateful and red-eyed.

but here, by the sea, the waves were free and

she felt temporarily at peace.

as she slept on the damp sand, i watched

as she scratched an itch.

the tide was wet and the night was black,

like her eyes.

in the morning, as she dug for a buried bone,

 the sun rose heavily in the air.

Gertrude Stein

her straight dark hair cut short & tight 

leaned closer toward me,

asking for a light. 

she smoked my name,

exhaling from the promising start.

she tapped her ashes directly into my heart. 

we were sitting warm at the best cafe 

on a Paris terrace.

 

we had clear words to say.

we heard a Piaf song flying slowly from the nearby boulevard. 

i scribbled je t'aime on a French notecard!

by the Eiffel Tower,

i sipped a small glass of chilled champagne 

underneath her watchful eyes and 

a soft afternoon rain.

i remembered a fine Cezanne 

yet couldn't explain 

why it was hung inside a fancy modern frame.

and on the Rue de Fleurus 

drinking white wine, 

we saw approaching Gertrude Stein,

and she would certainly provide the answer.

Picasso never wished Braque away

i heard her voice,
but Gertrude wasn't talking to me.
she didn't even know i was in 
an adjacent room, waiting by her front door.
she was saying that Picasso never wished
Braque away, but their rivalry was strong,
reeked of adolescence, and to survive
as great artists, they had to be apart.

i left before she was aware of my presence
and met up with my friend Tom, still wearing
his trademark white suit from the night before.

i complimented him on his recent writing.

he agreed with me that he was a special man who
considered his contemporaries to be literary pretenders.
He was completely vain, and i liked him for that honesty.

in his mind, there was never a doubt about his
writing skills, and any negative critic must be consumed
with jealousy or probably was a registered communist.

i felt comfortable on our walk, and listened to
him ramble on about Whitman and other champions of
a bygone era, when suddenly he told me i was the
wrong person for his confidences, mocking me
for my simple bohemian leanings. 

 he knew I worked in a cold flat, but accused me of not having
The Right Stuff, even though i labored as a reporter.

my feelings were hurt as he abruptly left me on the sidewalk
to go looking for America's future,
hoping to arrive there first, he shouted backwards.

i was about to find a cafe for a drink when i saw Pascin
with two young Parisian girls approaching, and he asked me to join
them for a meal, at his expense, before he fell into a depression.

the two women tried to help him up, swearing in rapid French,
but he must have been at the end of his rope.

he told one,
Hermine, 

to go home and wait for him in bed,
but he never arrived.

i think Tom would have liked him, had they ever met. 

to kiss you again

and

i lied when i said i didn't want to kiss you again 

even Scotty Fitzgerald knew Zelda was in bed with a pilot 

not the airplane he flew 

before she was grounded

in a different sort of bed

yet he loved her far beyond his written world 

of Gatsby and a strange friendship with Hemingway

in France

and the dancing herd of the jazz age 

it had seemed all the rage 

to sail and sun and drink well before three 

yet he loved her when he no longer could write from memory

and 

i lied when i said i didn't want to kiss you again.

Zelda was insane!

Zelda was insane!

she saved the last waltz for me
on her Turkish rug

while dreaming by
the Mediterranean sea
of a life beyond the doldrums,

which pinch & heat & chill;

they can torment a sailors' Spirit
and break the strongest will.

but her finest point, 

still spinning,

surrounds my beating heart.

and her secret jazz age dances

tear my stage apart.

Zelda was beautiful!

the hawkeye shine was in her eye:

it could capture moments swiftly
as sharp talons from the sky!

it held tight & flew forever
over solid and imagery,

and i heard her bravest whisper

when she saved that waltz for me.