you're a penguin

I am having breakfast:

two eggs and toast, with very hot tea.

my phone rings but I don't want to answer;

there's simply no reason why I should.

my eggs would get cold if it were a lengthy call.

but mostly, there are few people with whom I want to talk.

you are not among the few,

unless you're a penguin.

his red beret

with a yellow sun and a brilliant green sky,
this small village
on the Mediterranean coast of France
has blue boats and streaks of hot sand

fish in wet nets at dawn on a busy beach

deep-vermillion color of the harbor's water

light which is more than light.

the tall man wearing his red beret
carries two easels,
one with tiny points of paint placed artfully

across a stretched canvas.

a wife sits in a rented room

old cobbled streets

a steep hill to climb,
and a narrow view from an open window.

Collioure,
summer of 1905:

warm!

and it rained in July.

Vlaminck held the letters which he read
over and over:
the wild beasts had escaped!
one certain mustache,
unshaven,
pipe in mouth.

another with glasses the better to see invisibility.

unnatural minds,
looking without success for dark shadows
while finding even more shifting light,
intensely,
vividly,

pointing to open space on a splendid line,

while the evening fish were eaten whole. 

a humorous Matisse

The Blue Owl could not tell her creator
how she tried to fly at night,
but failed to get his price.

The task to tell the master
was left to a humorous Matisse,
who, without reticence,
spilled the news obliquely.

800,00 francs might seem a lot,
but it was a very large canvas
and expected to gain an even bigger price.

Being emotionally insecure,
Picasso was in constant need of
reassurance.

So,
Matisse wrote that the beautiful blue
of the bird actually looked wildly black
under the artificial light of the exhibit.

That was his explanation for the smaller sum.

And birds in flight symbolize freedom.

They both loved birds.

Picasso loved money, too.

much more than the birds. 

underneath a fine Parisian sky

Montmartre

on a steep historic butte 

with fresh strawberry tart, 

unwrapped nudes,

& excited affairs of the heart 

underneath a fine Parisian sky 

watched i 

seated outside my busy sidewalk cafe 

wondering what people say 

by the walls of the ancient Sorbonne 

in their studious Latin tongue. 

nearby, the spry 

Agile Rabbit 

sitting on his vineyard hill drinking cheap local swill 

with a painterly friend of mine, 

asked Joyce if he really had a choice 

or was it just a rumor about the invisibility cloak? 

perhaps another drunken joke 

about a man stuck inside his wall:

a shadow of a ghost before his eventual downfall? 

there's more that i should say: 

i recently talked with Claude Monet 

about his first impressionist flowers brush-stroked every single hour until 24 had been made. 

he said he was adequately paid. 

i sipped my warm cafe au lait wishing this Paris memory would stay and stay!

 

then a wind and hard rain came up abruptly and took all the suspense away. 

Montmartre 

on a cobbled July afternoon 

in the shade, 

stirring with an unfashionable plastic spoon, 

i the tourist began to consume 

a Lebanese grape and a sweet pepper with a stem shaped like the quarter moon. 

the slightest trace

corpus callosum

amygdala
basal ganglia
i am looking for you everywhere
but can't find you anywhere.

are you a sore on my ass
a bent blade of grass
a lady with exceptional class
or nearly nothing at all?

thinking, but i can't recall
from where are you watching me
and why aren't you here?

i want you near, dearly

tell me if you're close by
with a simple sigh so that i
can finally be at ease
would you, please?

i sat by the pond & watched the fish
poked at my food, didn't finish the dish

lost the appetite i tried to keep

but wanted you

took a quick peek
saw nothing interesting, went away
and determined finally to stay
away, 

but your pull, your eyes
eventually even i realize
there's magnetism and magic
in desire 

along with the tragic

Oh yes, i'd like to see your face
the faintest hint, the slightest trace.

how much i've missed you

baby, how much i've missed you

and i've never even kissed you

never had the chance to spend the night

satisfying my lover's appetite

no, i never had the sense

to climb down from my lonely fence

i never had the heart

to imagine a brand new start:

would you see me in the morning?

take me without any warning?

would you be the gentle to my breeze?

would you become the welcome to my please

the smile i'd walk a mile to see?

the arms my charms would love to have wrapped around me?

baby, how much i've missed you

and i've never even kissed you

never felt the smoothness of your fingertips

moving with desire across my hungry lips

no, i've never had the sense

to climb down from my lonely fence.

safe at night

the bird was dead

folded wings and closed black eyes

lifeless on the ground

but still imagining flight

safe at night

belly filled with seeds

in a nest made with straw and spit

her short time

as busy as a professional chef

darting 

over the clover

quiet now

in spite of the winds

blowing her soft feathers

the pause is probably permanent

as i hold the tiny body

in my warm hands

feeling her chill

his Russian wife

the grim, gray face

with her great dark eyes
stood waiting for the second World War
from a safe balcony in Paris,
near where an island forms a church.

she was without her Spanish stranger,
who was holding a young blonde girl
in bondage and was unable to break away,
as soft ropes pulled tightly around his waist.

and his Russian wife was too skinny to know, and not
well enough to understand that her own misfortunes
had driven him far away and it would not be gentle.

he now lived inside a hot beach cabana, peeking outside
only when he needed more money.

the young blonde girl quickly became both his obsession and his sister,
as she curled her pubic hairs inside their bathing hut on a
sandy Dinard beach and gave him plenty of pause.

his wife, meanwhile, kept her own hair
cut short, to resemble a current fashion.

and the gray lady in Paris, leaving the balcony,

put her hand to photography,
instead of a bust, 

but it wouldn't make any difference!
the Spaniard would seek her out, eventually.

my faith

she handed me a peach!

it was late in the afternoon and i was hungry,

so extremely hungry.

no food for three days

wearing soiled clothes and my unwashed body for weeks;

a prisoner inside my own mind

trapped by forces beyond my control.

her peach was the best thing i've  even eaten

and before i could offer my thanks,

she quickly disappeared into a crowd of strangers.

but i've never forgotten.

thank you, young girl, you've restored my faith in humankind.

her colors were nearly perfect

a juicy little number
which one i can not tell
her colors were nearly perfect
inside her oyster shell

behind the door to Heaven
a full red glass of wine
her colors were nearly perfect
revealed in her design

we tripped into a concert
sound poured into my eyes
her colors were nearly perfect
they painted her in sighs

the bright cloud full of rainbows
each one a lovely sight
her colors were nearly perfect
i watched by candlelight

with morning soon approaching
i saw when i awoke
her colors were nearly perfect

delightful as she spoke 

Chester

the man made people laugh
when he put himself into sharp focus,
cracking open his head for all to see
the eerie serenity of which he's so proud.

but he much preferred to cook,
visiting the Tuesday Farmer's Market
where the local Amish came in their horse-drawn
buggies and plain clothing with their produce:
shoo-fly pies, fruit pies, candied yams, fresh hams,
donuts, popcorn, chicken, cheese, steak, vegetables,and so much more.

and with a little money and a smiling please,
all the ingredients for a great meal could easily be carried
to his car in just one bag, or two.  No one would wave as he drove away,
but he always drove off, urging his own secret horses to run.

and he liked the road to Golgotha, where a campfire was always ready
for his evening meal, and the plates were always clean.

There, the black dog he bought from a farmer in Brownstown recently died
of old age and even stranger tumors and he was cradling the dog when Doctor
Delaney injected that thirsty liquid which stopped the beating heart, relieving any
suffering for the dog, for Chester the dog.
Chester didn't like Amish food, that much was certain,
and he couldn't speak a word of Dutch, but he might have had a vision of the Virgin.

There is a market tomorrow and the man will go to shop, putting himself
into sharp focus, with his head cracked open,
looking for another dog.

shark

there is blood only for a little while
a small stain on my shirt
i watch the dampness spreading

but it doesn't really hurt

it doesn't really know your name
or where you've been before

this feeling hasn't knocked me down
in fact i'll ask for more

and when you bite me once again
while hiding in the dark
i'll bring my little fish along

to chase away your shark.

spend the night together

okay,

if that's what you say

i'll be on my way

running until the middle of next week

looking for permission to speak

what's really on my mind.

and when i finally find

the proper verb and that elusive noun

i hope i'm already uptown

where all the factory girls are waiting

ice skating

while sipping cherry cokes

just like common folks

and if it's not a hoax

the writing will still be on the wall:

everything happening now is just before the final fall.

my escape was a close call;

no one is answering the phone.

i'm wore down to the bone,

almost arrested for speeding,

dazed by the lights and bleeding

near the warehouse where Andy Warhol painted.

and i finally fainted,

unfortunately,

before we had a chance to spend the night together.

I found myself with a smile

to save my life

i bought a ticket

and tossed my knife

watched it spinning into the air

seven times for good luck

but i didn't have a prayer;

boarded the train.

looked out the window

saw the rain

and heard the tracks;

tried to get some shuteye

but fell through all the cracks.

the night was long;

the train whistle blew;

i recognized the song:

the only one i knew.

it started black;

i hummed the tune.

stayed in my sack;

the stars came out!

when i found myself with a morning smile,

i lost all doubt

about something.

we can not live without our land

"you speak the absolute truth,"

said Mr. Hamas,

leading his group of tourists to a refugee camp.

"there is a bias, he said, "and we blame the other side

for having one."

"As you can see", he said, "there is no tunnel here

and no command center;

we have simple tents and donated foodstuffs

along with enough water to last several weeks.

I tell you, that's what your eyes should see!

our hospitals are understaffed, with few medicines."

"I want to emphasis", he said,

"we are a peaceful people who have had our

ancestral homeland taken from us by the United Nations.

they made an historical mistake on November 29, 1947,

with Resolution 181,

for which the consequences

will forever be grave.

and there will be graves, thousands of graves!

we will go on killing our oppressors for centuries to come.

and they will kill us, too."

"Yasser Arafat once said it well, when he said

we can not live without our dignity.

we also can not live without our land.

And this has nothing to do with our religions!"

in a while, they all sat down for a short lunch break,

hearing the afternoon call to prayer

recited in Arabic.

there was distance gun fire, too.

hands like ice

just like Mao

when somehow

he chased Peanut across the strait

to the island

and thus began a purge

(a Long March of conquest)

which today has consolidated all power

every Chinese hour

into the hands

of a small band

of controllers,

the bombs again fall and the tanks rumble

over fallen buildings, the crumble

of bones,

near the river and to the sea.

a distant land

in Mediterranean history

with the same result:

loss of innocent life and tumult!

what is the point?

to own the joint?

kissing the land 

with cold lips and hands like ice;

black eyes without sparkle

pay the price,

using other people's dreams

as currency.

Where was Einstein?

When Daniel Ellsberg
went looking for his bus,
he saw the war,
felt the sun turn cold 

and ugly 

with political lies
falling from a deceitful sky
like incendiary bombs over North Vietnam,
spilling onto the streets in front of the White House.

near central Saigon on Tu Do street,
a flow of blood dripped constantly from the sharp teeth
of slippery men wearing their helicopter smiles,
trafficking dope 

from a railroad town in Laos
down the trail 

under a heart of darkness:
their American machine guns shooting up
the hard thin arms of Oriental hunger.

On a plutonium pathway the buffalo grass turned shit brown
with the CIA and Agent Orange
locked in a fatal embrace 

from the Plain of Jars
to the Central Highlands,

to the DMZ,
picking pure white daisy petals
while counting down from twelve 

to four and finally closer to zero:
under a cloudy mushroom afternoon,
Nixon was inaugurated to deliver
PEACE 

while fighting for his golden Crown
in the slaughter hallways of Pennsylvania Avenue.

Where was Einstein?
when Daniel Ellsberg
said there were no winnable options
for a WAR 

in jungle thick with sudden death
and monsoon confusion?

A thousand western schemes floated beguilingly,
mingled with autumn flower petals 

on the Perfume River,
past the starving bones of an angry Imperial ghost,
to their lonely grave 

in the South China Sea.

overlooking the park

there's a simple fact

you'll need to know

i once played guitar

with my little left toe

i thought i was perfect

i thought i could strum

i thought i was singing

but barely could hum

like a fashion designer

perfecting my art

there's nothing authentic

if not from the heart

i shifted my body

adjusted my mind

looking for answers

i couldn't quite find

a new age kept coming

and tastes rearranged

i sat on my sofa

and nothing was changed

the curtains were hung

the music was played

the times were a'changing

but i simply stayed

in my flat with a window

overlooking the park

looking for flowers

while everything's dark.

but there's no answer

Spain

inflicted some pain

and Portugal, too,

but what could they do?

somebody told them

England and France

were both at the dance

to colonize.

it would be an amazing prize!

new lands from sea to shore;

everything to gain and so much more.

and there was abundant silver and gold;

everybody was told

it was for free.

natives could be forced into captivity.

Belgium wanted in on the game

and the Dutch, too, sought fame.

it was how they thought:

everything could be bought

for the least amount of grief.

sail in like a thief

and take and steal and rob and burn

the natives will learn

or they'll die

or remain uncivilized and die

their Gods or Great Spirits might ask why

but there's no answer.

handful of dirt

with a simple handful of dirt

i'm tossing it into my bag

hoping to avoid the hurt

of your loss;

and i thought

at what cost?

i'm already suffering the blues

remembering all i can lose

when you depart.

the pain in my heart

takes me to bed

turns out my light

whispers sweet words

but nothing feels right.

am i in Paris

or buried in Berlin,

with a handful of poppies

and a bottle of gin?

a killer takes aim,

but my driver knows the score,

running all the red lights

to the next World War

with a simple handful of dirt

i'm tossing it into my bag

hoping to avoid the hurt

of your loss;

and i thought

at what cost?

i'm already suffering the blues

remembering all i can lose

when you depart.

the pain in my heart

takes me to bed

turns out my light

whispers sweet words

but nothing feels right.

crossing the muddy waters

crossing the muddy waters

in a hail storm in the night,

filled with foolishness

and filled with fright;

a lady tried to teach me

while my back was turned;

i tried to escape,

using all the tricks i learned.

she was a hungry woman;

excitement was in those eyes.

i asked for forgiveness!

i confessed all of my lies!

but she said it was simple:

i lost my way on the track.

beware or i'd find myself

kicked out of the sack;

and i'd be sad and lonesome

with no way to find my path!

there'd be no special woman

to heat water for my bath!

crossing the muddy waters

in a hail storm in the night,

filled with foolishness

and filled with fright;

a lady tried to teach me

while my back was turned;

i tried to escape

using all the tricks i learned.

Erich Priebke

Priebke died in his ripe old age 

but

as a younger man, 

he was a captain wearing a fancy SS uniform

with God on his side, 

a holster with Lugar inside,
and a fierce Nazi salute in the streets of Rome.

years after the 1936 Olympics,

where a black man in Berlin
silenced the adoring crowds of
blond smiles and white teeth
with his flashes of muscular brilliance,

Priebke participated in his own ceremony:

the 1944 massacre
of Italian civilians in the Ardeatine caves
near Rome.

it might have been the highlight of Priebke's career!

but he never shied away
from his enjoyment of
hating minorities and other gypsies,
who sang and danced and drank pure German beer

with the pretty flower vendors in the streets of Munich,
in halls far from Der Marienplatz.

he took a big bite

there hopped the rabbit

with a carrot in his hand;

he took a big bite

before finding it hard to stand.

on the street corner

with his eyes open wide,

he watched the passing traffic

looking for a ride.

the traffic was fast,

spinning way out of control;

he looked for a safe spot

to dig himself a new hole.

it took a long time!

he kept digging all alone;

he was looking for love,

but he only found a bone.

and the bone was old;

it smiled and sang him a song:

it was about a rabbit

that was always wrong.

he stopped his digging!

found and lit a cigarette.

thought about destiny

and broke out in a cold sweat.

there hopped the rabbit

with a carrot in his hand;

he took a big bite

before finding it hard to stand.

underneath a railroad coal car

in the backcountry 

thinking backwards

to the devastating Marietta flood 

all the way to the 20's

the 1920's

with Susquehanna river water crossing over the railroad tracks

so people were rescued from their

second floor windows,

boats in the swift brown flow

and residents with no where to go;

and later my grandfather and my dad

carrying heavy coal sacks

back home,

a different home

near Front street

to provide a little heat

because wood was scarce

and the freight train stopped

without a watchman or a guard

nothing easy! 

mostly resignation for anything toohard

acceptance

improvisation 

without a moments hesitation

acting soberly

wearing blacks and white

every day and every night

working dawn to dusk

in the summer months 

delivering ice

when the roads were dry

and the air was hot

laboring for everything they ever got

the outhouse sagging in the back yard

one seat for every butt

hinges that didn't operate

so the old door couldn't shut

pages torn from newspapers

most old and torn

sitting happily or forlorn

eating a simple small town diet

no tv but a contented overnight quiet

with kerosene lamps, conversations and playing cards

three to a room or sometimes four

two sons going off to the Second World War

then, after and later 

sunning on the Jersey shore

with a shovel and small pail

no one sentenced to jail

i heard them say

that that's not the American Way:

no, climb the ladder from the shack

there's no glory in continuously looking back

prepare an adequate garden for your food

no time for being in a sour mood

stay in your own sweet lane

connected to each other

with an unbroken family chain

and with every sentence that one might write

make it short and tight

remembering how to crawl underneath a railroad coal car

where the spillage doesn't have to travel very far

to find it's way into your bag,

even if there's no money to be found

on the ground,

there's always love in the heart.