Led down from the tower
Head high and hands bound
Blindfold declined against the wall
Black square pinned to his heart
Eyes afire and shining proud
He sang...

He sang of Caruso, Townes Van Zandt
Pavarotti, Bocelli, Mercury,
Carreras, he sang of Antoine,
Of Sinatra, Lennon, Morrison, Redding
He sang and songbirds paused in flight
He sang like them all

He sang a song of himself
Of leaves of grass, of second comings
Of Byron, and Bharti, and Cummings
He sang of Neruda, and Plath, Tagore
Dickinson, Kamala Das and Naidu
Oh, he sang of them all

He sang of art and beauty
Of Mona Lisa and starry nights
Girls in green dresses and pearls
He sang of Van Gogh, of Picasso
Of Rembrandt, da Vinci
He sang of Michelangelo

He sang of sadness, pain
He sang of My Lai, Sand Creek
Of Guernica and Krystallnacht
He cried and sang of Wounded Knee
Of Katyn Forest, Sabra and Shatila
Oh, he wept as he sang

He sang of history and wonders
He sang of Olduvai and pyramids
Machu Picchu, Tikal, and Angkor Wat
He sang of a great wall, the Taj Mahal
Stonehenge, Easter Isle, Mesa Verde
His song took us to them all

He sang of courage
A song of Bunker Hill, Gettysburg
Of the Alamo, Normandy, Stalingrad
Of Lincoln, Guevara and Dr. King
He sang of Bolivar, Bhutto, Ghandi
He shamed us with their song

He sang his song...
As women sighed and peasants cried
He  sang until the rifles fired, he died
Songbirds fell from the sky
Soldiers broke their guns on stones
And marched into the deep blue sea.

r ~ 4/12/14

The TSA won't let me fly
It seems when airplane-jailed,
My muse sneaks aboard
Without paying for a seat.

Another airplane poem like 30B,
From a long ago flight,
Found dusty, in the poetry sewing box


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

with every breathe he tithes
a packet of whispered wishes,
a blended osmosis of
past and future scenes,
reviewed, previewed,
moments in time,
actual and dreamed

some received,
airborne plucked,
in his chest stored,
prepared for future
takeoffs and landings,
for ultimate insertion
in both
your recesses
and
your abscesses

some native,
combobulated, containerized
packets of seconds,
of joyous moments,
bytes of historical
hugs n' kisses,
as a child
to a child
from a child

those are vanilla frosted,
residual payments for the
good done and given,  
forwarded with all clear signals,
to his loved ones,
now resent, to you,
fellow travelers and sojourners,
intersectors of our peculiar
coded dots and dashes

thirty five thousand feet high,
composure lost,
he swoons as
Bocelli's voce del silenzio
releases tears so sweet,
which are by nature,
gravitated and transformed
into snowflakes to decorate
the Sierra Nevada's
breasted peaks and valleys,
over which his physical notion
is at rest, yet in motion,
within a Delta flying ship

Yet his fevered chest
beats rough,
for every flight seems
a time warp interlude,
a forced reflecting rhyme,
not of his choosing,
a lawful, thoughtful, imprisonment

having donated to you
his best, the remainders,
the man tallies, recalls:

ancient slights, scaled heights,
requiems for his forefathers
scored by cantorial choirs,
liberation struggle weariness,
offers taken and refused,
aces in the hole that proved
insufficient to save his soul.

goal line stands made,
onslaughts refused,
true lies and false truths,
moist lips and monster tears,
occasional A's and calcu-hell-us,
hand me downs received,
help me ups got n' given,
buildings pricked by airplanes,
death wishes granted
and nothing thereby gained,
children, found and lost,
mine, yours, ours...

The sums, always the sums!

engine noises and pilfered winds
are dulled and semi-silenced,
yet the silvered chamber prison
resonates from end to end
as each ledgered memory,
each packet of the
hidden whispered poems
he does NOT choose to send,
dents the man,
leaving claw marks,
screaming pay attention to me,
as if they were the priorities
of a six year old child,
refusing to be ignored

he does,
attention, he does pay,  
allowing rocking guitar heroes
to overtake weeping violinists,
just as newer transgressions
surfeit even his
most really *****,
ancient sins

No matter how he counts,
unable to master the additions,
no matter how many times
counts are initiated,
taken and retaken,
the tally's net net is
concluded, numbered
"forsaken"

his life's W-2 is black n' blue,
deductions falsely enumerate
and thereby underestimate
dues he has paid summarily,
earnings, distorted,
taxes paid never enough,
to satisfy the justice scales,
so wearily he
cries and enunciates,

The sums, always the sums!

THEN COMES HIS SHOUT OUT,
at his most vulnerable,
when a thin veneer of alumina
separates him,
from a fall inglorious
to an end most gorious,
a rapping beat moderne
insists that he go all out,
disallowing no
airy fairy poetry
to disguise that:

If the integers are false,
the entries of a life lived,
are sucker lies
black eyed flies
toxic shockers
that bust open
stinko lockers
where the B.S.
mocking stories
are kept

don't look close
at his documents
they ain't exactly
heaven sent
and the government men
be back on his track
their aviator shades
protect them from
burning light of the
man's furnace
where he burns their liens,
and the agent's ear pieces
drown out his screams of

The sums, always the sums!

God bless you,
keep and recall those packets of
whispered wishes, good tithes,
that the man bequeaths,
gift baskets of
expresso essentials
with God's love delivered

Tho his words,
amateurish and unvarnished,
silly and pompous,
nonetheless, they are the
return on his investments,
his yearnings for your happiness
are the savings accumulated,
though meager jewels are they,
they are ad valorem,
mixed into his confused murmurings

here then,
are his summings up,
what he wills you,,
the tally finale
the best wisdom is
found on coffee cups
at 2:47am.

Dance
Love
Sing
Live

to which he respectfully amends with a
Write.
(See banner photo)

You could win my heart with peanut butter
or with passion for the never ending quest
of finding the perfect running shoes.

You could win my heart with literature jokes
with Kishi Bashi, Bach, or Bocelli
and if you play with me, I'm yours.

You could win my heart with affection
honesty, cleverness, and candidness,
I'm addicted to non-corporeal human evolution.

But I'd rather you didn't.
Not yet.

It         is in, the how,
not the why, the where,
or, the when,
no, no, it

Is         the how,
that provisions and provides
all the answers
that any lover needs, for

In         the how, one revels,
but also,                      
unbeknownst, unwillingly, reveals
what one's heart wishes to secret, and conceals
and with

The       single stroke
of a single finger,
lightly across thy cheek,
raising sky colors upon
thy skin's patina and,

How    commences the matina,
with petals of white cloud roses,
blushing anew in your cheeks,
loveliest of failed cover ups,
laughing, I airbrush your
almost, invisible tears away,
residue of melodramas of troubled sleep,
stilled and stolen, mine,
to pacify, keep,
tranquilized in my breast

It,        Is In, The How,
What,  You Are Thinking.

What   vincible arrogance
humans possess when we pray,
we hope, knowing that we are infidels,
hoping to mislead
the eyes that glance upon us

You     give up the shadows painted for me when
filtered beams, rays of
a, and of...kind,
lance shield of densest lead,
lain upon the chest to cloak
the tremors of volcanic hearts,
the eyes of hurricane thoughts,
containers of need that

Are     so full of oh so
many questions, yet,
singularly resolved,
with the answer of
a single stroke,
of a single finger,
lightly across thy cheek,
knowingly full well you are

Thinking  there is no exit,
no right of way to negate
the sum of what we let to ail us,
O disbeliever, how simple be,
for all, all of

It,        Is In, The How,
What,  You Are Thinking,

I soften and modulate,
your conflicted complexion,
with the answer of
a single stroke,
of a single finger,
lightly across thy cheek,
all that is mine,
to encapsulate,
recharge, refill thy vessel
with Bocelli tones of
passioned, gloried harmony

Worry not if my eyesight dims,
be unconcerned if
my hearing, my voices
wearies and weakens,
for all the answers
we shall ever need
remain, contained in  
a single stroke,
of a single finger,
lightly across thy cheek,
and
this is how I know now,
and forever more,
what you are thinking

As long as skin is the coverlet
o'er the bell jar of mind n' heart,
as long oxygen defies gravity,
I will know how,
unveil, open secret chambers,
now and forever more,
what you are thinking

Having an M.I.
Ambulance to JFK
Cardiac cath stat!

Andre Bocelli
Our seats remained empty for
Open heart surgery

Next to CCU
Waiting in the fam'ly lounge
Wanting just good news

Here at JFK
Dr. Lancelot Lester
Mended his poor heart

He won't even know
What day it is tomorrow
Morphine works so well

You won't even know
That I'm staying close by you
While wiping your brow

Post-op time so tough
You must never say out loud
Oh, no, PVC's!

Let his sternum heal
Start on a special diet
When can we have ***?

You are an out of body experience
I feel my soul lifting out of the grave and in to a garden
You hit me like sunshine by the beach after a rainy day
Like a big gulp of water after a long day of work
You turn the mundane in to the insane
And I love it
You are a collage
A barrage of colors
An explosion of ideas and creations
You must have honey in your veins
I haven't even seen you
Yet
I feel like I've known you in past lives
My mind feels so connected to yours that sometimes I wonder how I could be so lucky to cross wires with that impressive mind of yours
You short circuited this broken drum pad and made it work
You are music to my ears
Poetry for the soul
I went from tip toeing on egg shells to dancing under a waterfall
Niagara falls but with you I rise
Your words are candy to my new found, child like curiosity
You are wonderful
And fill me with wonder too
Fill me like an empty bench at the park, you know which one
The one you created for me to laugh and smile in while admiring the scenery
Except
You are the scenery
The best scene in this film
I feel like a star when we talk
But we both know who the celestial body is
Your energy lightens and powers and gives life to my world
You destroyed the walls and foundation of the cell around my heart and mind
And finally let the innocent prisoner out
You tattooed sun flowers and orchids in to my mind
Over the scars
Over the layers of dead skin that now get goosebumps when I think about you
To quote Pablo Neruda
"I want to do to you, what spring does to cherry trees"
And watch you blossom
And tend to your dreams like a careful gardener
And sit under your shade and breath the air you provide
I'm terrified
But it's the same positive fear I've felt before something amazing happens
Like my first concert
Or my first song
Or my first lyrics
Or my first performance
You're the first person I've ever met that makes me feel like I can do anything
But anything means nothing without you
Your self doubt is beautiful
Your self doubt is amazing
How can someone fill me with so much, yet not be full of themselves?
Truly a wonder of nature
Truly a unique diamond in a world full of rhinestones
Your intelligence is a strong, silent one
That sings in multiple octaves when you think
When you create
I see entire universes
I see the sun and moon
The flowers and the oceans
The movement of a couple waltzing under the stars
The reach of a childs hands discovering life for the very first time
I could learn every language on this planet
And could still not find the words to describe you
And still not find the right combination of sounds to tell you how amazing you are
Not even Stradivarius could have crafted such an instrument
Hendrix himself could not play a better chord
Bocelli could not sing a sweeter note
Aesop could not craft a better fable
You're like a legend
Something that only happens in the peak imagination of the most imaginative writers
I've seen you in my dreams
I've heard you in my music
I've felt you every time I smile
I've been looking for you
I thought you were just another pipe dream
But you hit me like crack and I can't get enough
I'm addicted to your art
To your thoughts
Your opinions and your vocal disdain for this bland world
You are the shining light at the end of this tunnel
I thought that light meant death, but you've proven me otherwise
You must be an angel
That brought heaven to earth
And in to my home
Thank you for being you, and for reminding me of who I am
I truly value your soul
And for tearing mine out of Hades and back to Olympus
You're unreal
You're dreamy
You're like None Other
You're like my favorite song
And every remix of it
You're the hand the Beatles wanted to hold
And the one heel Achilles still had
You stand your ground so hard the earth trembles
As do I
It's a wave of energy the likes I thought were extinct
Tectonic plates shift when you think
You rock my world
Like a meteor from a distant universe

.                                 Con Te Partiro

         My friend Joseph Maher had but one eye, yet,
         he drove his Citroen in London. Living in The
       Luberon of Provence, I often experimented with
        an eye patch, just to experience what it was like.

      When Joe died, my eulogy was Bocelli's vision of
       Con Te Partiro which was chosen purposely and
     I sang it in Italian, solo, but, as an added gesture of
  respect to both of them, it was sung in optical oblivion.






For Andrea Bocelli & Joe.

We woke up to greet each other with animalistic ***
Then drove to a nearby suburb
For free coffee.

We cruised the backstreets of a flamboyant neighborhood all the way till the windows were barred over.  Then she played Bocelli.  
Opera.

We talked about **** and prisoners.
Talked about lost friends and lovers
About architects and visionaries
Nightmares and dreams.

She kissed my hand, I slid it along her thigh.  We smiled our crooked smiles
our naive ones as well.  We floated.  Beer and mix drinks our only foot on the ground.  

To some it would be nothing, but to disillusioned us...

Perfect

Why do they need passports
who are we to say they can't
come here without a matching
photo of how they're supposed
to look and no glasses or cap
and why can't they smile, how
do we know whether they got
teeth or could they open a knot
why do we need to know their
height and age and *** and the
colour of their eyes what if it
was Andrea Bocelli, he might
give us a song to prove it, and
if we didn't like it we could say
Con Te Partiro because since we
Irish joined the E.U. we know of
confetti Bialetti and spaghetti we
could tell when people were pulling
a fast one: "if they had no passport".

Everything I see I believe,
everything I hear I question.
I don't possess a television
but, if I closed my eyes I'd
know it wasn't a radio, yet,
Bocelli sounds similar in both.