I heard through the grapevine
The Gestapo are out tonight
Weaving their tapestry
Of violent sport and time
So I duck into alleys
******* my talisman
Praying for personal glory
A reordering of the cosmos
But all I get is an enigma
Enigma with mystique
I hear the chanteuse sing
It makes the colors bleed through

I heard through the grapevine
The star police are out tonight
Weaving their tapestry
Of karmic sport and time
So I duck into nightclubs
******* an eyeball glass
Praying for personal triumph
A reordering of the past
But all I get is an enigma
Enigma with mystique
I hear the chanteuse sing
It makes the colors bleed through

Is there still a tired cafe
On the corner under canvas
Pondering the long boulevard?
Does the faded owner smoke all day
And complain about the haze
And how finding pretty waitresses is hard?

I once lived thereabouts
And earned a meager pay
Writing broken tales for magazines.
Nights filled my belly with wine
My eyes the chanteuse Lise
She starred in my most fictional scenes.

I never found a way
To read my ink blot cards
and learn where my psyche led me wrong
It oft' left me lonely
With just black espresso
And the echo of Lise's sweet song.

One day I moved away
Back to blue ice and snow
From that old city of fumes and haze.
Yet still on thick warm nights
A song burns in my soul
In familiar, best forgotten, ways.

A vintner of aged leaves in the wine-press of the sun,
Thin-skinned like the lucent grapes from the vine-runs
Of the island trellises and teal-cordoned waves, lowest slung
Fruit-laden bough of sky, Sicily, whose ateliers of rolled cigarettes
And uprolled sleeves like tides tease smoke into studio paints,
The black apple wine of storm made into mouthfuls of pulp rain,
Before the sunrise is gathered again in fishing nets and crab pots,
The coastal towns with their salted roofs of pied clay and pigeons
Along the lava stone streets, and night from the chanteuse of Egypt,
Singing her coral to heron, as when her bird-like barefooted slaves
Left tracks across Old Kingdom wastes, so this dreaming old man
Leaves his wrinkles to these grapes and across the sand-island pillow,
Asleep with his fathers, hay-hauling peasants of wandering darkness.

Appearance of the New Courier
(with namesake "Georgia Ives")
flew into the courtroom
faster than Bold face WingDings!

After the judge opened
the waxed sealed envelope stamped
with the official legal imprimatur
sound of silence filled the courtroom.

After perusing highlighted principle details,
a noticeable con jug gay shun
didst Impact countenance of attired judge.

Recess announced at authority decree
(spelled out with quotation marks high
lighting dotted i's and crossed t's)
figuratively a nouns sing moratorium
for those accused of run on sentences,
split infinitives, then versus than...
incorrect usage of ellipses, et cetera.

The justice of supreme court
critically espied quotation marks
(underscoring reductio ad absurdum
Times New Roman regulation)
against stiff penalty asper those
who commit rhetorical perturbations!    

This lenient fiat occurred immediate
by innocent omission of a colon,
which subsequently, naturally,
and immediately affected
every future jury presiding over
a defendant applying incorrect punctuation!

A favorite comma cull anecdote
often repeated by my late english
grammar (a palliative to me psyche
despite the multi-generational
difference in age) happened
when she celebrated twenty  
and counting punctual marks, whence time
in utero came to an end period.

Many question marks still abound
as per the specific circumstances
of this generally uneventful birth,
only that she seemed to dash
from the womb (of her mother –

mine great grandmother christened
Latina Greco) with a pointed
exclamation declaration
of independence while ****** constitution
adorned with supposedly shimmering
invisible golden braces
and a full set of teeth.

Somewhat averse to authoritarianism
and mores of assuming the sir name
of the groom, she maintained nom
de plume affixed on her birth certificate.

If born that way today, and ready
to pledge marital vow, would
probably follow the common custom
and hyphenate name of beau similar
to newlyweds of this day and at this very moment.

Back in those days though,
town’s folk exclaimed with
pointed superstition that a baby born
after being bracketed nine months

within the womb (which seemed
like an eternal sentence), and equipped
with the means to chew would
most likely experience little colon difficulty.

As a dignified divine dowager,
she willingly shared her cradle
to graveside tidbits (populated
with many wisecracks and
marked quotations from a life
that spanned more than a century21.

Smart as a whip or pin
(the latter term somewhat out of vogue),
this independent woman
(who married into nobility

from humble roots) frequently evinced
el shaped lips when the un
suspecting recipient ensnared
of her harmless ingenious pranks.

Aside from what many considered
childlike antics (which characteristic
salient trait appealed to this grandson),
she excelled at verbal adroitness

and could spin a jesting lightly
mocking pun, which seemed
to quiver with an invisible
apostrophe shaped blackened barb.

Though privileged per parochial parents,
her inherited empire and peers, the people
of the proletariat class felt
figuratively parenthetically
included as persons of concern
to this genteel dame.

She exemplified and wore that moniker
noblesse oblige with utmost
august excellence, and whenever
the need or wont arose to address
the madding crowd (this
crowned empress) resorted
to non-verbal communication ala semaphore.

Her lily-white hands (most often
remained sheathed in Palmolive
clad ding silken gloves - exuded
a faint patrician touch) partitioned

the air with arabesques accentuated
with sign language for those
among the teeming masses
unable to hear or in fact deaf.

Regular adherence to being grammatically
(yet not necessarily politically) correct
witnessed the air being sliced with even
less familiar punctuation symbols
such as the emdash, en-dash.

Even doctorates of English and
strict task masters (whose
frowning scowls strongly resembled
semicolons when even minor indiscretions,
infractions, transgressions, et cetera
with english language observed)

never found fault with this
former bohemian, whose rhapsodic,
melodic, linguistic voice ameliorated
dark memories from dereliction dis
played by former queen.

She also received the treatment of
a champion lyricist, whereby every lyre
(got set on fire) from utterance akin
to a choir of hells angels, yet this

chanteuse voice rang thru the
azure vault causing the small hairs
of the spine to experience a pleasant
electric shock therapy.

the air outside is still
as though the world
is a living room
and the trees furniture
shouts arousing fear
sound close at hand
aggressive threatening
as though directed at me
a tiny spider crawls
up the front of my shirt
one of those that makes
a web of your head
and itches all day
a car more noise than power
echoes it's exhaust sound
round the terraced houses
then
all becomes quiet
as though waves have
mellowed into a millpond
a bird sings
the most haunting beautiful
refrain,  lonely chanteuse
filling the airwaves
finally I sleep again

Une fauvette jeune et belle
S'amusait à chanter tant que durait le jour ;
Sa voisine la tourterelle
Ne voulait, ne savait rien faire que l'amour.
Je plains bien votre erreur, dit-elle à la fauvette ;
Vous perdez vos plus beaux moments :
Il n'est qu'un seul plaisir, c'est d'avoir des amants.
Dites-moi, s'il vous plaît, quelle est la chansonnette
Qui peut valoir un doux baiser.
Je me garderais bien d'oser
Les comparer, répondit la chanteuse :
Mais je ne suis point malheureuse,
J'ai mis mon bonheur dans mes chants.
À ce discours, la tourterelle
En se moquant s'éloigna d'elle.
Sans se revoir elles furent dix ans.
Après ce long espace, un beau jour de printemps,
Dans la même forêt elles se rencontrèrent.
L'âge avait bien un peu dérangé leurs attraits ;
Longtemps elles se regardèrent
Avant que de pouvoir se remettre leurs traits.
Enfin la fauvette polie
S'avance la première : eh ! Bon jour, mon amie,
Comment vous portez-vous ? Comment vont les amants ?
- Ah ! Ne m'en parlez pas, ma chère :
J'ai tout perdu, plaisirs, amis, beaux ans ;
Tout a passé comme une ombre légère.
J'ai cru que le bonheur était d'aimer, de plaire...
Ô souvenir cruel ! ô regrets superflus !
J'aime encore, on ne m'aime plus.
J'ai moins perdu que vous, répondit la chanteuse :
Cependant je suis vieille et je n'ai plus de voix ;
Mais j'aime la musique, et suis encore heureuse
Lorsque le rossignol fait retentir ces bois.
La beauté, ce présent céleste,
Ne peut sans les talents échapper à l'ennui :
La beauté passe, un talent reste,
On en jouit même en autrui.

Pretty little singing blue jay,
petite chanteuse in navy gown,
your sweet tweets drive the gray away
and pick me up when I am down.

But, blue jay friend, so help me GOD,
if on my car lands one small poo,
I'll climb that tree and drop my pants,
and return the favor to you.

Dis-moi, ton coeur parfois s'envole-t-il, Agathe,
**** du noir océan de l'immonde cité,
Vers un autre océan où la splendeur éclate,
Bleu, clair, profond, ainsi que la virginité ?
Dis-moi, ton coeur parfois s'envole-t-il, Agathe ?

La mer, la vaste mer, console nos labeurs !
Quel démon a doté la mer, rauque chanteuse
Qu'accompagne l'immense orgue des vents grondeurs,
De cette fonction sublime de berceuse ?
La mer, la vaste mer, console nos labeurs !

Emporte-moi, wagon ! enlève-moi, frégate !
**** ! **** ! ici la boue est faite de nos pleurs !
- Est-il vrai que parfois le triste coeur d'Agathe
Dise : **** des remords, des crimes, des douleurs,
Emporte-moi, wagon, enlève-moi, frégate ?

Comme vous êtes ****, paradis parfumé,
Où sous un clair azur tout n'est qu'amour et joie,
Où tout ce que l'on aime est digne d'être aimé,
Où dans la volupté pure le coeur se noie !
Comme vous êtes ****, paradis parfumé !

Mais le vert paradis des amours enfantines,
Les courses, les chansons, les baisers, les bouquets,
Les violons vibrant derrière les collines,
Avec les brocs de vin, le soir, dans les bosquets,
- Mais le vert paradis des amours enfantines,

L'innocent paradis, plein de plaisirs furtifs,
Est-il déjà plus **** que l'Inde et que la Chine ?
Peut-on le rappeler avec des cris plaintifs,
Et l'animer encor d'une voix argentine,
L'innocent paradis plein de plaisirs furtifs ?

I close my eyes and at once its mute echo chimes
I listen and interpret the lush lilting lyricism
Of nature's sultry emerald chanteuse
As the chorus of everyday cacophony subsides a subtler sonnet is crafted
And upon the lyre of thoughtful psyche a cord profound is struck
I open my heart to the wordless whisper of Creation's vital hymn
I fete my soul and intuit the soft sensual throb of infinity's passionate pulse
I clear my mind of mundane traffic
To yield a higher concentration expansion
That the exquisite rhapsody of hush may be relished without clutter's jam
I close my eyes and its womb of calm envelops me
Content I reside at the aphonic court of its vast placid empire
The eloquent serenade of its sublime soundless concert
Steeps me in its solace
The still deep music of silence the sweet unbroken score
Of Pax's savored measure

Love is just a thing to shred and rend our hearts,
So Dusty Springfield asserted from her knees
(But, to grow a tree, you don’t start with tree parts.)

The flow of passion deepens in fits and starts,
And does not walk the tidy path of our pleas.
Love is just a thing to shred and rend our hearts,

Till-death-do-we-part tortures spinsters and tarts
The rice a mirage, the wedding march a tease.
(But, to grow a tree, you don’t start with tree parts.)

It ignores the primacy of graphs and charts,
Choosing its own time and moments to seize;
Love is just a thing to shred and rend our hearts,

Love at first sight upsets all our apple carts,
Yet we rush headlong to pick it from the trees.
(But, to grow a tree, you don’t start with tree parts.)

One more torch song, then, to rocket up the charts.
One more tear-stained chanteuse to sing the reprise;
Love is just a thing to shred and rend our hearts,
(But, to grow a tree, you don’t start with tree parts.)

« De l'ardente cigale
J'eus le destin,
Sa récolte frugale
Fut mon festin.
Mouillant mon seigle à peine
D'un peu de lait,
J'ai glané graine à graine
Mon chapelet.

« J'ai chanté comme j'aime
Rire et douleurs ;
L'oiseau des bois lui-même
Chante des pleurs ;
Et la sonore flamme,
Symbole errant,
Prouve bien que toute âme
Brûle en pleurant.

« Puisque Amour vit de charmes
Et de souci,
J'ai donc vécu de larmes,
De joie aussi,
À présent, que m'importe !
Faite à souffrir,
Devant, pour être morte,
Si peu mourir. »

La chanteuse penchée
Cherchait encor
De la moisson fauchée
Quelque épi d'or,
Quand l'autre moissonneuse,
Forte en tous lieux,
Emporta la glaneuse
Chanter aux cieux.

Ce fut bizarre et Satan dut rire.

Ce jour d'été m'avait tout soûlé.

Quelle chanteuse impossible à dire

Et tout ce qu'elle a débagoulé !


Ce piano dans trop de fumée

Sous des suspensions à pétroles !

Je crois, j'avais la bile enflammée,

J'entendais de travers mes paroles.


Je crois, mes sens étaient à l'envers,

Ma bile avait des bouillons fantasques.

Ô les refrains de cafés-concerts,

Faussés par le plus plâtré des masques !


Dans des troquets comme en ces bourgades,

J'avais rôdé, suçant peu de glace.

Trois galopins aux yeux de tribades

Dévisageaient sans fin ma grimace.


Je fus hué manifestement

Par ces voyous, non **** de la gare,

Et les engueulai si goulûment

Que j'en faillis gober mon cigare.


Je rentre : une voix à mon oreille,

Un pas fantôme. Aucun ou personne ?

On m'a frôlé. - La nuit sans pareille !

Ah ! l'heure d'un réveil drôle sonne.