I’LL NEVER FORGET WHAT’S HER NAME…

There was a time in my sorrowful lonely night that we came upon each other,
It was filled with furtive stumbling, word games, then a sudden kiss that
Rose up in the smoky dark like a winged specter to smite us with dreams
Of so much more, then clothing began to fall like autumn leaves upon
A bonfire kindled by that spark of that single kiss leaving us naked,
Wild like crazed creatures in a nocturnal fantasy of an erotic storm;

Later we merged as one life upon the stage of this existence and for a
While traveled together along the pathways of time with a passion, a
Fury held together with laughter, tears, joy, anger, and so much more,
Until we became scattered by the storms of being and began to drift
Toward the rock strewn reefs of the sea of love where destiny tore away
At us and left our hopes shattered as though glass upon an anvil of iron;

And I’ll never forget what’s her name who gave so much to this traveler
Who had not enough to give back and so lost it all to his shame,
From love came the bitterness of failure and the kisses ceased to fall
As twilight swooped down and became a tragic midnight chorus of
An unrequited relationship that was devoid of all but a sardonic smile
In a time of love spent, the used, then torn like a cloud in the moonlight….

MISTY HIGHWAYS…

Autumn roads unraveling through the courses of my memory,
An endless ribbon of places, people, events, long unthought of,
Until this early morning hour when the chill shakes them loose,
They spill out like building blocks from some dusty playset,
Building into emotion filled images that are too vivid to ignore;

A gathering unremembered comes to focus and I see the barricades
Erected on streets when the time for rising unfolded and came to be,
We stood for causes that made the heart soar in their intensity,
As the blood we shed had more value that the transitory pain felt,
Our songs raised above the din of sirens and claxons sounding raw;

There was that love so rare that words can only fail to describe,
A passion born from fugitive wanderings and the accidental meeting
Of two souls seeking each other without knowing they were sought,
Making the emotion ever more incendiary, the contact more powerful
Than even imaginings could have supposed in all of its musings;

Then there was that dilapidated smoky dark coffee house where all
The rebels, artists, dreamers, travelers have gathered to share life,
And poetry was read there that resounded with hopeful dreamings,
Songs played that cut across the inner self with tears, smiles, sharing
All the moments of everyone of our beings as we moved through time;

Highways of autumn unspooling in the misty morning like smoke upon
The eyes of thoughtful reminiscence as the coffee steams fresh and we
Travel across the years…..

WINE OF MELANCHOLY…

Gray windy days torn by streaks of greasy frigid rain descending,
The October country draping itself over feelings, thoughts, dreams,
Creating an envelope that encloses, chokes, strangles hope,
Spilling happiness across the stones like blood from a wound fresh,
And there is nothing to be done but curl into a ball and endure the assault;

Now the weather breaks, Indian Summer makes a brief showing,
Sunshine dapples the red, gold, of hardwoods shedding their coats,
Temperatures warm rather than chill the bones, the flesh, and there is a hope
Emerging on the horizon, if only for a short time, a chance encounter,
Dreams flow like a fresh stream through the autumn countryside;

Soon however that promise will be broken by the reality of seasons
Shifting through the passing days and the sky will be leeched of color,
The air filled with a frosty bite that remains like a stray dog seeking comfort,
Then rain will change into snow and ice as trees become barren, furtive,
As sleep encases the earth in a shroud of long standing desperation;

So now we are in that middle ground awaiting the shifts that will come,
A cycle unstoppable, immutable, as long as time flows its’ patterns,
We can weep the passage, or be joyous, or merely accept what is,
For there is naught that the human touch can do about it but await it,
Summer shall autumn be shall then become the tide of winters breath…..

LONG ROAD TO OBLIVION…….

There is a stretch of road from Austin to Las Cruces thirteen hours long,
Barren beauty echoing dreams of time far gone where you can lose your
Soul as you hurtle along its expanse searching for the place where it ends,
Driven in one bone jarring push as the heat fries your eyes, sand coats
Your mouth as the radio screams music from some station south of the border to keep you awake and your focus on the vacant horizon unfolding;

Rinsing my mouth with warm tequila fighting back the inertia of exhaustion,
Time moves in the cadence of tires hissing on hot concrete, engine rocking
Like an out of tune rock band in a cheap worn roadhouse in a distant night,
And I made this haul roundtrip every weekend for an entire summer,
Until the rhythms of this enraptured odyssey became imprinted in my brain
Like a film loop from some new wave film without beginning or an end;

The why was simple enough, a mix of love, passion, in a desperate breath,
The way one only gets when you’re young enough to not care about reason,
Only the feelings of the spirit when you think you’ve found that one,
Thinking about his smile, his eyes, his lips, the short time so precious in
Its’ yearning, burning need that the bone jarring voyage is worth even a
Single searing kiss, one night of furious explosive lust to hold on to;

And the road uncurls smoking hot like a ribbon of brimstone ablaze in the
Passage of my steel ship cruising the void in search of that special love…..

CHOIRS OF THE DARK.....

The eyes are shut, dark
windows with closed curtains upon
the reflections of an inner soul
that cannot be stilled.
Music is falling
dust filled with angry motion,
motes in some blind gods
final vision.
Is the TV on
or is that the sound of a
video unreeling in a chorus
that is perhaps your lost life,
or a choir of strange angels
gathered at the foot of your desk,
watching in bored anticipation,
as you create your breathless poetry
and deathless prose.
Or are they just hanging around
for your last gasp, so they
can take you to someplace far
darker than a bottomless well
bored through the core of the earth,
or at least somewhere under
New Jersey.

Laurie, Julee, David, Angelo,
write, sing, an epitaph for those
outside the light, beyond the edge.
Eyes shut, mouth open,
and does it really rain
sideways in the Aleutians,
or are you standing that way
in order to get a drink.

Music can be very loud,
or distinctly silent.
The lyrics filled with meaning,
or maybe without any
sense of anything at all,
mostly though, it should be
in your head, where it
bothers no one except yourself.

Are you very sure that you're
only two dimensions in a
video reality,
because you know that a
mirror is nothing but a liar
that can never reflect the truth.
Dark windows that you look
out through and can see nothing
because the tracks of your tears
have obscured the pain,
and the music is still falling
as are your dream songs now
screaming into nights heart.
Is that the TV on behind you
or is your life a hologram
that someone just transmitted
from a planet far, far away.

Choir of strange angels singing
the blues rather off key,
and you beg them to stop it
because you're going deaf with
the pain of sounds memories and
just who are these people who
invited themselves into your head;
The eyes are shut, dark
windows with closed curtains upon
the reflections that pursue you
into the sideways rain of an Aleutian night
somewhere on the New Jersey Turnpike,
and close your eyes tighter,
for they are coming,
coming here.






























JUST ANOTHER LENGTHY EPIC ON THE FORTUNES OF LOVE WRITTEN BY A REFUGEE FROM SOME KIND OF URBAN REALITY
OR
I'M JUST AN OLD DOG HOWLING AT THE MOON WITHOUT YOU BABY.


Love, you either have it, want it, or still haven't
figured out just what it means to you.
Not lust,
not that "I've got to get laid or surely I'll die"
feeling that we all get,
but love.
Yeah, that word that destroys empires, sends you
screaming for the nearest saloon,
that stuff that makes you go just a little
more crazy in the head.

If you can't define it, you don't have it,
if you figure that you can understand it,
then you're neck deep in bullshit.
Every time that you think that you've found it,
it just sort of slides away,
you find that grabbing smoke is easier.

You can't eat, you can't sleep, or remember just
what you're doing or supposed to be doing,
and yeah, if you're saying
"I've been there a few times myself",
the answer is no,
you don't get any smarter after the third or
the fourth or even the tenth time,
and being a horses ass just comes more naturally
to some people, and by the way,
this applies to both males and females,
there is no discrimination when it comes to
being a world class jerk in love.

Love,
the question mark, the riddle,
the Unholy Grail, or the Ultimate Quest,
it is everything, and it is also nothing,
without it we despair, with it we soar,
then all too often
crash back to earth in a fall unequaled.
It is underrated, it is overrated,
and on a good day, a really special day,
for one illusionary moment, one instant of insight,
you almost get the message,
then, faster than a bolt of lightning
eclipsing the summers day,
it's gone,
but that's love too.
A wind most capricious, staggering, bedeviling,
a roller coaster ride through the amusement park of life.
Love,
so much written, sung, praised, cursed,
yet we know it less and less,
so what to just go with it, wherever it goes,
at best, you'll be totally confused, do,
at worst,
well,
it just might kill you,
but without its passion coursing through you,
without it singing in your blood,
without its evasive breath of hope,
you can never be,
never be really alive.




UPON WAKING FROM NIGHTMARE.....

Face of night caresses dreams
with mute lips of sable,
turned back, revealing
sharp gleam of bone,
a single drop of falling
light.

Bed clothes tumbled back,
outline of weary flesh
in a signature of sweat,
clock ticks in somber eulogy
as a match is struck, touched
to cigarette.

Alone in the darkness of a room
sculpted in unknown
pain, vanquished love, the
City teeming in emptiness,
below the waters of hungry
sleep.

What has sounded the tolling bell,
shaken my naked shoulder
with chilled skeletal fingers,
disturbing a fitful hour of
rest taken in grudging need,
what indeed has sounded,
what indeed.....

CINEMATIC DESPERATION BLUES…

I miss her so bad that my whole body is screaming for a drink,
Or two or maybe the whole damn bottle, even if it really can’t help,
And it’s Rita who died one California night near the place called Venice,
Or Mary D. who I let slip away among the shadows of the Texas night,
Or the others who were loved, held close, kissed, then lost by my
Stupidity or lousy luck or just the misfortunes of time and tide;

Now alone and feeling more alone than the highway east from
El Paso where dreams were lost and scattered like dust in the heat,
Songs of longing that scream louder than a coyote in the night,
Tearing at my hearts flesh and laying open a soul older than dirt,
And I miss her all and hate my blindness and pathetic choices left
Busted like a bad French film without subtitles where no one wins;

So in this May morning overcast and drear desperation pounds on
The shores of my memory as music plays the soundtrack of my film,
A tragicomedy of hopes split wide like a worn paper sack drifting
Along the gutter with all the other detris that composes the camera
Shots of these days winding down into the vortex of self pity thoughts,
And all that’s left to say is if you’ve found a love don’t let it go for the
Regret if you lose it will always cut sharper than you can stand, so
Fade to black, end of film…..

BROKENHAWKE STATION.....

1 - The Coming ; Prophecy

Walls of black burned stone,
tumbled out in haste
across the shadows and the dust
of the deserts final night,
a single stone,
a darkened arch above the ruin,
and a hawke sits frowning,
frowning out the corners of his eyes,
at mans last mockery,
his memorial to ego,
his epitaph to will.

Sun pushes forth with reddened fist,
through hells defiant maw,
pools of false water steam
in boiling currents of despair,
deluge of urgent dreams
to drown the screams of thirsty men,
breaking hands against the stones,
and far above the scene of chaos
circles wide the frowning hawke,
his eye trained far below the crumbled walls,
the grasping, clutching hands now
stiff in deaths salute.

Hail kingdoms of the mad,
blessed are your blind,
forgiven are your writers,
who leave no thing behind,
leave no trace
in the shifting of the sands.

And the Savior walked among the stones,
a sandal strap torn with forgetfulness,
His way gone,
before it was found,
His words devoured by starving men,
long after they had died,
their souls claimed,
their bodies turned to dreams;
the Savior and the rock,
monuments upon the mirror of the sun,
the deserts fire quenched
in a falling of scarlet rain.


2 - The Stage ; Maelstrom

A floating spar,
a drifting keg,
all hands below,
upon the splintered deck,
all hands washed clear,
in the grey and greening salt,
the sea weeps,
her long sobs crashing on
rocks slick with age,
uncaring to the sorrow

of its lonely mistress,
or to the swell of time,
her breasts wrapped in rotting wood,
her crown of foam and flesh.
Sailors pray for land,
yet curse the iron plow,
the Savior walked out into the waves,




His hand cast out,
the wet draining out across His palms.

Behold the sinking craft,
failure of the dream,
rapture of the broken soul.
The Savior laughs into the wind,
it hurls back a mocking howl,
forsaken not,
only forgotten among the roots
of a dying, sculptured tree.

Behold the man,
fused with the desert sun,
falling into the frozen cinders
of the oceans nameless dead.




3 - Golgotha ; Transfiguration

Feet crunching down on stone,
sun passing behind clouds,
their ragged tatters blot out the day.

Perched on His shoulder,
like a brown trembling leaf,
sits the hawke, frowning,
with deception in his eyes,
illusion spelled out in his beating wings,
and the Savior spoke,

His voice a dry harsh wind
and the oceans rolling surf,
extending to the dying
the hand of quiet relief.

Death by sun and sea,
seeking for meaning
from dreams to epitaph.

Silent,
witnessed only by the ants
crawling out the pyre of stone,
as the tree of life bleeds
crystal tears on the rocks
of this bleak desert ridge.
The Savior and the hawke
lay expired upon the branches,
as drowning men look up
and weep the salt of
their anguish and their pain.
His passage giving storm,
His dying leaving life,
in twisted circlets of thorn,
sour froth on parched lips,
quenching neither spirit nor thirst.

How is there forgiveness,
where there is no crime...
Destiny falls without concern,
as He dies without a sound,
save the shudder of the earth,
and the sea rising to the sky,
against the final flight of
the now lost hawke,
but
In three days hence He returned,
Defying death, thus saving man
For all eternity…..

BROKENHAWKE STATION.....

1 - The Coming ; Prophecy

Walls of black burned stone,
tumbled out in haste
across the shadows and the dust
of the deserts final night,
a single stone,
a darkened arch above the ruin,
and a hawke sits frowning,
frowning out the corners of his eyes,
at mans last mockery,
his memorial to ego,
his epitaph to will.

Sun pushes forth with reddened fist,
through hells defiant maw,
pools of false water steam
in boiling currents of despair,
deluge of urgent dreams
to drown the screams of thirsty men,
breaking hands against the stones,
and far above the scene of chaos
circles wide the frowning hawke,
his eye trained far below the crumbled walls,
the grasping, clutching hands now
stiff in deaths salute.

Hail kingdoms of the mad,
blessed are your blind,
forgiven are your writers,
who leave no thing behind,
leave no trace
in the shifting of the sands.

And the Savior walked among the stones,
a sandal strap torn with forgetfulness,
His way gone,
before it was found,
His words devoured by starving men,
long after they had died,
their souls claimed,
their bodies turned to dreams;
the Savior and the rock,
monuments upon the mirror of the sun,
the deserts fire quenched
in a falling of scarlet rain.


2 - The Stage ; Maelstrom

A floating spar,
a drifting keg,
all hands below,
upon the splintered deck,
all hands washed clear,
in the grey and greening salt,
the sea weeps,
her long sobs crashing on
rocks slick with age,
uncaring to the sorrow

of its lonely mistress,
or to the swell of time,
her breasts wrapped in rotting wood,
her crown of foam and flesh.
Sailors pray for land,
yet curse the iron plow,
the Savior walked out into the waves,




His hand cast out,
the wet draining out across His palms.

Behold the sinking craft,
failure of the dream,
rapture of the broken soul.
The Savior laughs into the wind,
it hurls back a mocking howl,
forsaken not,
only forgotten among the roots
of a dying, sculptured tree.

Behold the man,
fused with the desert sun,
falling into the frozen cinders
of the oceans nameless dead.




3 - Golgotha ; Transfiguration

Feet crunching down on stone,
sun passing behind clouds,
their ragged tatters blot out the day.

Perched on His shoulder,
like a brown trembling leaf,
sits the hawke, frowning,
with deception in his eyes,
illusion spelled out in his beating wings,
and the Savior spoke,

His voice a dry harsh wind
and the oceans rolling surf,
extending to the dying
the hand of quiet relief.

Death by sun and sea,
seeking for meaning
from dreams to epitaph.

Silent,
witnessed only by the ants
crawling out the pyre of stone,
as the tree of life bleeds
crystal tears on the rocks
of this bleak desert ridge.
The Savior and the hawke
lay expired upon the branches,
as drowning men look up
and weep the salt of
their anguish and their pain.
His passage giving storm,
His dying leaving life,
in twisted circlets of thorn,
sour froth on parched lips,
quenching neither spirit nor thirst.

How is there forgiveness,
where there is no crime...
Destiny falls without concern,
as He dies without a sound,
save the shudder of the earth,
and the sea rising to the sky,
against the final flight of
the now lost hawke,
but
In three days hence He returned,
Defying death, thus saving man
For all eternity…..

LADY OF LEISURE…

Her long tawny legs curled up under her as Ophelia
Sat in the window seat looking at her horoscope in the paper;

The translucent California sun streamed through the window
Casting ripples of fantasy across the long oriental rug;

Meanwhile the cat, concerned only with a growing appetite
Disrupted the pastoral scene with a horrendous caterwauling,
That startled the lady from her thoughts of fortune unveiled,
And totally ruined her long sought after time of leisure….

A POETS’ ROAD….

Four score and seven years ago ( no I’m not rechanneling A. Lincoln ), okay
How about forty seven years ago I put pen to paper and foot to stage,
So began my poets’ road and over these decades it has been with me
Every day those verses, though I did work in every form in every state,
As well as fought for every kind of cause in places where the work
Needed doing, where suffering was great, where rights were threatened,
But always there was poetry, writings and readings and even publishing;

The poets’ road is paved with obstacles of every type, and challenges
To stay true to the profession of the bard, be it warrior, prophet, laborer,
All had there place, all had there time, and all were done when doing was
Needed in their place and the cost was paid in the coin of flesh demanded,
Sacrifice unyielding, even dreams that had to be turned away for the time,
As highways were traversed, boots upon mountain trails, sandals in the desert,
Miles unwinding like streams of black diamonds unraveling behind my passage;

Yet always there was poetry, writings and readings and even publishing,
Along the rain streaked pockmarked streets that comprised the poets’ road,
Battles won and causes fought and lost, still never shirking the duties call,
And forget not love that was pursued, gained, then failed in the mist of night,
For love, whether gained or lost, is the armor that holds the heart in thrall,
The quest followed like some mythic journey across the frontiers of the hearts
Imagination, for that too comprises the glue of poetic rhetoric on the length of
The poets’ road……

BONGO SYMPHONY #2 IN THE KEY OF LOVE
WORD MUSIC IN THREE MOVEMENTS

Movement One: Allegro Tango Amour
(Love is the most powerful and non-definable of all emotions)


You came into my life and the universe tilted on its axis,
all preconceptions, prior experiences, imploded with banality,
it is true that nothing appears in life until one is ready,
able to understand, value, the complexity, simplicity,
the mystery, the joy, of the arrival of the one great love;
up until a few weeks ago I thought casual sex, quick flings, were love,
never was I more wrong, those were the causality of flesh,
sudden orgasms more related to car crashes than to love,
and in my confusion, my melancholy, even my writing, my words,
had no substance, no quality, no purpose, only acts of absurdity,
exercises of a super ego running unchecked while the ego hid;
I was a sad miserable human being, too blind to see the traps of intellect,
then the first rays of enlightenment began to arrive,
hesitant, frightened, unsure of myself, then ego shifted,
assaulted super ego and placed it in its proper position, I emerged,
my work began to reform, redefine, my spirit shifted,
from illusion, self hate, fear, loneliness, to a new determinism;
so as the old self was deconstructed, a new self began building,
then you my dearest one, entered my life, like the heavens shifted,
love finally came and the void took form, truth became clear,
a purpose emerged from out the detris of so many years,
perspective changed, no longer chained to the past, a prisoner,
you broke the final shackles, gave me back what I thought was gone;
now at last I have found the lost language of the hungry soul,
in the faith regained that I am a writer and proud to call myself that,
the past is history, to learn from, not to be enslaved to it,
lessons learned, character built, unbuilt, defined, redefined,
now I know the real path that I must follow, travel along,
and it is loving you, creating the writings of my spirit,
witnessing and sharing the visions of history, of the future,
one moment at a time, each complete, each leading to the next,
no longer in solitude, in alienation, in unquenchable sorrow,
I have been shown the Tao, love has rekindled my heart,
I have risen like the Phoenix from the ashes, reforged, renewed;
it has been love that has drawn me back from the abyss,
showed me the road that I must travel in seeking completeness,
so thus I go against the darkness, a ship full sail,
into the winds of change upon the sea of discovery....


Movement Two: Largo non Cogito
(When awareness knocks on the doors of perception, answer it)

You are the sun that washes away the rain,
your smile a beacon to steer me safely through the reefs of life,
the words you speak I hear in my spirit, not my mind,
and the lines that I send you come from that same wellspring;
this time we have been apart has shown me that my love,
my feelings are true, strong, the very fabric of existence,
I want to be a part of you, completely, totally,
our lives entwined, bound together with the cords of love;
love has given me the anchor of reality to moor
my ship of exploration, my journey into new realms of enlightenment,
and you are the real doors of perception, altering, bending,
time and space and being in a festival of pure illumination;
I want the years to pass for us together, loving growing ever deeper,
these four days have taken me into a wilderness where I meditated,
allowed my intellect to cease its chattering, my spirit to emerge,
and from that process I know that we are meant one for the other;
I hunger for long deep kisses, firm languid touches, hugs,
more kisses, sharing films, music, poetry, coffee, our inner selves,
to lie naked with you and make hours of delightful passion unfold,
growing richer, more aroused, as days create months become years;
it is not cogito ergo sum, let it become libido ergo sum,
equation of wonder unfolding into a coverlet of tantric pulsation,
of exploring the mysterious landscapes of flesh and emotion,
leaving sterile intellect behind to find its own course;
let us celebrate each other, to joys of sharing completely,
laughing together like mad children dancing naked in the moonlight,
flying kites, drinking coffee, enjoying brandy,
looking into each others eyes and becoming lost in their beauty;
your beauty is in every drop of silver rain, each blade of new grass,
in the string quartets of Haydn, the jazz riffs of Miles Davis,
the sunrise over the Cumberland Gap, the sunset over Guaymas,
in all these things, places, visions, you are found abundantly,
so let this movement close with a soft played chord,
the sound fading into the background of our loving..........


Movement Three: Andante Molto Tempesto e Passionata
(Love is best practiced with two people who are in love and best enjoyed as it ages over many many years)

When we make love let it begin slowly, a single violin singing,
then a cello comes in with subtle resonance, kissing, touching,
a second violin, a flute, fingers stroking hair, shoulders,
the bass, bassoon, more kisses on bared skin, another flute,
lips embracing, tongues touching, a trumpet chord joins,
fingers stroking bared breasts, tongue rubbing nipples, third violin,
second trumpet as kisses become more aroused, flesh ripples,
music mates and soars, clothing is cast aside, kisses move,
eyes peer deeply into each other, symphony begins to form,
kisses cover thighs with passionate ardor, trumpet chorale rises,
string section fills the sir with sighs, fingers stroke along a line
from neck to breast to thigh to penetrate gently,
kisses matching tempo, orchestra moves to major chords,
passion intensifies, flesh merges, music plays on majestically,
love play moves into long slow movement, largo carried by strings,
I enter, we become one, union of music and bodies swaying,
time seems to hold, waiting for the great crescendo,
and as the music falls away in shimmering colors we pause,
kiss, stroke, hug, after play so sweet, a single flute sounds,
carries the theme, as the symphony moves to closure,
and we two lovers lie and play gentle till the coming of sleep.........

JUST ANOTHER LENGTHY EPIC ON THE FORTUNES OF LOVE WRITTEN BY A REFUGEE FROM SOME KIND OF URBAN REALITY
OR
I'M JUST AN OLD DOG HOWLING AT THE MOON WITHOUT YOU BABY.


Love, you either have it, want it, or still haven't
figured out just what it means to you.
Not lust,
not that "I've got to get laid or surely I'll die"
feeling that we all get,
but love.
Yeah, that word that destroys empires, sends you
screaming for the nearest saloon,
that stuff that makes you go just a little
more crazy in the head.

If you can't define it, you don't have it,
if you figure that you can understand it,
then you're neck deep in bullshit.
Every time that you think that you've found it,
it just sort of slides away,
you find that grabbing smoke is easier.

You can't eat, you can't sleep, or remember just
what you're doing or supposed to be doing,
and yeah, if you're saying
"I've been there a few times myself",
the answer is no,
you don't get any smarter after the third or
the fourth or even the tenth time,
and being a horses ass just comes more naturally
to some people, and by the way,
this applies to both males and females,
there is no discrimination when it comes to
being a world class jerk in love.

Love,
the question mark, the riddle,
the Unholy Grail, or the Ultimate Quest,
it is everything, and it is also nothing,
without it we despair, with it we soar,
then all too often
crash back to earth in a fall unequaled.
It is underrated, it is overrated,
and on a good day, a really special day,
for one illusionary moment, one instant of insight,
you almost get the message,
then, faster than a bolt of lightning
eclipsing the summers day,
it's gone,
but that's love too.
A wind most capricious, staggering, bedeviling,
a roller coaster ride through the amusement park of life.
Love,
so much written, sung, praised, cursed,
yet we know it less and less,
so what to just go with it, wherever it goes,
at best, you'll be totally confused, do,
at worst,
well,
it just might kill you,
but without its passion coursing through you,
without it singing in your blood,
without its evasive breath of hope,
you can never be,
never be really alive.




UPON WAKING FROM NIGHTMARE.....

Face of night caresses dreams
with mute lips of sable,
turned back, revealing
sharp gleam of bone,
a single drop of falling
light.

Bed clothes tumbled back,
outline of weary flesh
in a signature of sweat,
clock ticks in somber eulogy
as a match is struck, touched
to cigarette.

Alone in the darkness of a room
sculpted in unknown
pain, vanquished love, the
City teeming in emptiness,
below the waters of hungry
sleep.

What has sounded the tolling bell,
shaken my naked shoulder
with chilled skeletal fingers,
disturbing a fitful hour of
rest taken in grudging need,
what indeed has sounded,
what indeed.....












ZEN MORNING ON THE SHORE WITH WAVES.....

Water breaks, grey as the day with a force
of a salty fist on the capstan wheel,
body chills, sudden shock on pallid flesh,
first surf of April, six a.m.,
the hour rolls empty on this shore,
breathing the cool tendrils of the dark.
Long hours of work now behind, tired routine
now tossed off like shoes, like shirt,
as foam cleanses sweat,
infuses a whisper of calm
from within the coiled maelstrom.
Morning passes, the students, the tourists, have
come, though the grey still hangs on.
Departing the shore in search of coffee,
a drink devoid of salt,
and some time now to quietly reflect,
to pass the afternoon,
await the coming of night,
as sleeps hushed death does then approach.

LACKING GUINESS STOUT BLUES….

Here it is 17 March and there is no stout, no whiskey, no porter,
Just anthems of old Eire playing on the stereo while I sit and thirst,
It’s giving me a case of the blues instead of celebrating the green,
Drank a pot of coffee strong enough to sober anyone, now if only I were drunk,
It’s enough to break your heart this condition most pathetic,
I remember nights in saloons when the roar of my poetry nailed down the floor,
And I drank Tullamore Dew from the bottle until the dawn came creeping,
With comrades whose friendships I thought would never die but
Ultimately even they were lost in the shifting sands of times vagaries;

There was a time at seven thousand feet where I went to hide from
The world but the world found me out and there was days and nights
Where the booze flowed like a river of tears across beds of lust, of passion,
Women came and went, and one shockingly handsome state trooper whom
I loved in the shadows with kisses and bourbon and dreams that could not
Be except in ripples of illusion that blended with slivovitz and hopes lost,
Then that chapter closed like a great iron door and I traveled south to
The border country of burnt desert and scrub where I tried to study but
Again love sought me out and he and I played like young lovers at the party
Of life, with dinners, movies, dancing, and long nights of unbridled carnal
Pleasures that had no ending nor beginning merely was until spent sleep
Found us out and nestled us in dreams tinged with ouzo and sweet kisses;


Now it is the 17th of March and the memories choke me deep and the longing
For a drink as deep as a raging river tears through my soul and leaves me sad,
Lost among the detris of my memory and my dreams and my fallen hopes…….

YET ONE MORE BONGO SYMPHONY……

Lost in the chorale of empty streets filled with echo memories,
Can you dig the sound of naught, the utter cool of lost dreams
Harmonizing with the spirit of places been and now far gone,
Sounds of bongos dissonant, fingers snapping in the darkness,
Rhythms of days gone by, then the memory of future yesterdays
Played out like a skein unwinding into a moebius strip of fabric;

Notes ring out somewhere on the edges of consciousness,
Playing a symphony that was almost too far out,
Filling the ancient concert hall setting in the country of dreams,
With an audience of wandering hungry souls wreathed
In the smoke of audacious hallucinations tinged blue and
Framed in visions of the Mad Hatters very own tea party;

It all seems to come together in a land not on any map,
In a city painted with illusions of a life that cannot be attained,
And they scuttle to and fro amidst the garbage and the trash,
Seeking somewhere warm and dry to get some refuge from the storm,
Lost in the heart of a nation that all to often forgets the poverty
Bound, those on the fringe are for whom this symphony is written;

It may never be complete, this work of tortured beauty,
Yet the coda, the allegro non troppo can go near anywhere
For it only matters if the music is unheard, so listen to the madness
Of the chords rising, falling, reaching the crescendo of subway trains
In collision with the darkness that springs infernal with a roar,
As passengers move like insects in and out of stations without names…..

NIGHT TEARS….


Memories, reflections, joy, then deepest despair all cascading through me,
As though a river bursting free after a winter thaw in fury surging,
Aching now my heart is filled to ripping and I weep unabashedly with
emotions unchecked, broken free from the walls of reserve and stoicism;

Wearing my heart on my sleeve I stand wounded in the gunfire of experience,
A trooper in the war called life for which I never did enlist, merely drafted,
But running from battle to battle, from cause to cause, from love affair
To love affair, from tragedy to tragedy, and never tasting the wine of victory;

They stole my childhood and when I rebelled locked me away branded as insane,
From those days I walked Selma’s roads, Harlan Counties muddy trails, then
Wintered in an army prison for asking the reasons why, and they starved me,
But I won that struggle at another price so high I often asked myself why?

Now I sit playing the tunes from those long and hungry decades, tears stream,
Heart aches for what was given, what was lost, how little was won, gathered
In these years of my graying, as pain wracks me in these lonely weary hours,
And I look to my shotgun and think about the peace that lies therein, eternal….

BONGO SYMPHONY IN THE KEY OF DOWNER
Word Music In Three Movements


First Movement: Allegro Non Revolto
( If you've got a coda take two of something and call your Shaman in the morning.....)


We're into the pulsing of the City,
the pounding driving echo
rhythms of the bass, the sax,
check out the Monk as you bang the gong,
dig the thunder of that Kerouac man.
Poets snapping fingers,
Sculptors kissing stone,
Painters sniffing the thinner,
now who's the cat
going to pay for the dinner;

Need some Cosmic sugar,
a little herb from the Philosophers garden,
just look around the corner,
here comes that Candyman,
just watch out for that sweet honey.
Feel her tongue, like golden fire
tracing the outlines of the Night
on the blank surface of your soul,
eyes so deep that you fall on in,
hep cat crazy for any kind of love,
but you know it just can't be found.

So tip back that jug,
drink that new wine,
jazz and poetry
will make everything just fine,
even if you're lost in the stars
somewhere north of the border,
and it's not raining,
and it's not Eastertime,
and just where in the hell is Juarez...



Second Movement : Molto Tempesto

( Beware the Ides of Texas: Because you might find out that Maynard G. Krebs might really be the Messiah.....)

Like I fell through some hole in that
space time continuum thing
and it's September Nineteen Sixty Three on
State Street in 'Mad City' at
this joint called the Uptown Cafe,
and I just mainlined four espressos
while Sonny Stitt blew on the jukebox,
I read some poetry,
but hold that thought,
shake it on out,
it's nineteen ninety two
and like I'm upstairs on Downer
in this joint called Kreb's or Gill's or
somebody like that,
Whoa...

Thirty years have passed on by,
I'm still writing poetry,
still slurping espresso,
just hanging around the continuum,
keeping the spirit alive.

Poetry is like sex,
you never forget the first time,
sometimes it gets better,
if you're lucky,
but you always want it,
need it,
after the first time.

It's like hearing a piano concerto by Beethoven,
the first time.
Or meeting Bogie and Bergman in Casablanca,
the first time.
Or finally doing a reading in the Village,
the first time.

Do you still remember your first kiss,
Can you still taste your first lover,
Does the espresso still have that smell, that taste,
of all the mornings in the world...

I go backwards into tomorrow,
everytime, every kiss,
every cup of darkest coffee,
every rainy City Night,
each new lover, friend, poem, concerto,
is another first time,
another memory echo,
another hoped for dream.

So as I sit here drinking my brew,
still on Downer, still Uptown on State,
still then and now,
I light up an unfashionable cigarette,
smile to myself,
look around remembering those first times,
waiting for the next one,
listening to rain rhythms
that sound like a saxophone,
a bass, a piano,
far in the distance of
my tomorrows.


Third Movement : Largo Sangue Freddo

( It is extremely embarrassing to come to your senses, only to discover that you don't have any...)

I just dropped two hits of high voltage espresso,
listening to a disc of sixties rock, watching the
sun struggle through morning while my numb
brain seeks the path of least resistance,
do you know that old Beatnik poets never die,
They just look that way at eight thirty a.m.
because nobody should be doing anything at
that hour, much less trying to be cool.

But hold that thought for just a moment,
like what, he said rhetorically, is cool;
Cool is the ability to be what everyone else isn't,
dress like what you dig,
live on terms that you create,
spit in the face of fashion, fad, or status quo,
not bitching 'cause you're broke,
don't have a set of wheels,
or a pad in the right neighborhood;
it's a dream never born, never dying,
a hope bonded in existence done
just as it comes down the Cosmic Pipeline.

Jean Paul Sartre was cool,
so was Groucho Marx,
and Big Daddy J.S. Bach, he was ultimately cool,
so get fugued,
do what ya gotta do,
that's cool.

I've seen the changing scenes of State Street,
Telegraph Avenue,
Haight and Ashbury,
Bleeker and MacDougal,
Brady, Guadalupe, and
Isla Vista,
streets winding through time, consciousness,
folk, rock, jazz, blues,
classical tempo of coffee pouring as pens
scribble a hundred lines to find one word;
the fault lines of reality shift, realign,
a sort of quake measured on the
T.J. Richter scale of life
as constant performance art,
'Hey you, I'm talking to you...'

I am somehow comforted though,
by the renaissance of Java Joints,
by poetry that endures, continues,
in spite of social despair,
in spite of our mediocrity as poets;
it has been said,
probably by someone whose brain was juiced,
that I represent the 'old guard',
'old school', 'old days',
of art as revolution,
of lives lived in revolt,

( does that mean I'm a revolutionary,
or just revolting...)

So I'm up on Downer, one more time,
sitting outdoors inside while draining
one more industrial strength cuppa
java, jolting loose the tired grey stuff,
playing with this group of letters,
symbols, runes, words,
placing chaos into order then back again,
illusionary symbolism most rhetorical,
framing questions after answers,
the two not always related,
except in these arcane rituals
of the poets mad inventions.

So this is the Coda,
final passage of the poem,
but not of the poet or of the time or even of the place,
because when the music's over,
it's just beginning.