How innocently and wholly she fell for me-
   It's a shame we won't have that again.  
 What good are the taverns and church bells
 When love is the doula of rain?

I'd rather be drowned in red water
   Than have these bad dreams chisel stone in my mind
 I felt the deep call of my meat to the slaughter-
 The marvelous, numbing, sweet nothing, sublime.  

My finest carbuncle I offered, she smiled,
   Uncomprehending intangible worth;
  It's red like the robin's fine coat in the morning 
  On the unfortunate day of my birth.  

How innocently and wholly she fell for me-
   It's a shame she won't have that again.
 What use for the taverns and church yards
 When love is the doula of rain?

The barn is burning
The race-track is over
Farmers run out w/
buckets of water
The horse flesh is burning
They’re kicking the stalls
(panic in a horse’s eye
That can spread & fill
an entire sky.)

The clouds flow by
& tell a story

about the lightning bolt & the mast
on the steeple

Some people have a hard time
describing sailors to the
undernourished.

The decks are starving
Time to throw the cargo over

Now down & the high-sailing
fluttering of smiles on the air
w/its cool night time disturbance

Tropic corridor
Tropic Treasure

What got us this far to this
mild equator

Now we need something
& someone new
when all else fails
we can whip the horse’s eyes
& make them cry
& sleep
~~~

France is 1st, Nogales round-up
Cross over the border-
land of eternal adolescence
quality of despair unmatched
anywhere on the perimeter
Message from the outskirts
calling us home
This is the private space of a
new order. We need saviors
To help us survive the journey.
Now who will come
Now hear this
We have started the crossing
Who knows? it may end badly

The actors are assembled;
immediately they become
enchanted
I, for one, am in ecstasy
enthralled.
Can I convince you to smile?

No wise men now.
Each on his own
grab your daughter & run
~~~

“Oh God, she cried
I never knew what
it meant to be real
I thought all this was a joke,
I never let the horror, or
the sweetness & the dignity
penetrate my brain”

“Let me up to see
the window. Dark Riders
pass in the sunset
coming home from
raiding parties.
The taverns will be
full of laughter, wine,
& later dancing, later
dangerous knife throws.

Antonio will be there
& that *****, Blue Lady
playing cards w/silver
decks & smiling at the night,
& full glasses held aloft
& spilled to the moon.
I’m sad, so full of sadness”
~~~

She’s selling news in the market
Time in the hall
The girls of the factory
Rolling cigars
They haven’t invented musak yet
So I read to them
From The BOOK OF DAYS
a horror story from the Gothic age
a gruesome romance
From the LA
Plague.

I have a vision of America
Seen from the air
28,000 ft. & going fast

A one-armed man in a Texas
parking labyrinth
A burnt tree like a giant primeval bird
in an empty lot in Fresno
Miles & miles of hotel corridors
& elevators, filled w/ citizens

Motel Money ****** Madness
Change the mood from glad to sadness

play the ghost song baby
~~~

a young woman, bound silently, on
a hostpital table, obviously pregnant,
is gutted & rifled of her empire

objects of oblivion
~~~

Drugs *** drunkenness battle
return to the water-world
Sea-belly
Mother of man
Monstrous sleep-waking gentle swarming
atomic world
Anomic in social life

how can we hate or love or judge
in the sea-swarm world of atoms
All one, one All
How can we play or not play
How can we put one foot before us
or revolutionize or write
~~~

Does the house burn? So be it.
The World, a film which men devise.
Smoke drifts thru these chambers
Murders occur in a bedroom.
Mummers chant, birds hush & coo.
Will this do?
Take Two.
~~~

each day is a drive thru history

The chestnut casts his flambeaux, and the flowers
Stream from the hawthorn on the wind away,
The doors clap to, the pane is blind with showers.
Pass me the can, lad; there's an end of May.

There's one spoilt spring to scant our mortal lot,
One season ruined of your little store.
May will be fine next year as like as not:
But ay, but then we shall be twenty-four.

We for a certainty are not the first
Have sat in taverns while the tempest hurled
Their hopeful plans to emptiness, and cursed
Whatever brute and blackguard made the world.

It is in truth iniquity on high
To cheat our sentenced souls of aught they crave,
And mar the merriment as you and I
Fare on our long fool's-errand to the grave.

Iniquity it is; but pass the can.
My lad, no pair of kings our mothers bore;
Our only portion is the estate of man:
We want the moon, but we shall get no more.

If here to-day the cloud of thunder lours
To-morrow it will hie on far behests;
The flesh will grieve on other bones than ours
Soon, and the soul will mourn in other *******.

The troubles of our proud and angry dust
Are from eternity, and shall not fail.
Bear them we can, and if we can we must.
Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale.

“every man wants to be a tyrant when he fornicates"— marquis de sade (philosophy in the boudoir)
in murky region of my mind flickers shanty town of wickedness and all who burn betray me are tortured murdered buried on outskirts of this moot province not entirely devoted to revenge shadows dart lascivious exchanges shadow economy back alley shenanigans soundproof rooms filled with hunger for beautiful women sole source of my arousal female lust japanese silk braided ropes bowls hoses drop-clothes vibrating toys anticipating mischievous acts town’s folk love esteem me applaud my fiercest turpitude fathers offer their daughters mothers perfume girls with wild flowers in their hair whispering accommodating instructions ultimately i decline their generous offerings opting instead for steadfast soul confidante accomplice closer in age she knows how to mommy my genitals get me off and i the same for her churning simmering caldron of desires dazzling aromas through center of town runs sacred blue river constantly replenishing innocence upon dust filth criminality also many enchanting bridges connecting dark side to bright side in elegant rundown art museum hang several of my paintings next to jackson ******* ad reinhardt anselm kiefer gerhard richter albert pinkham ryder francisco goya susan rothenberg and public library shelves brim with volumes of my writings next to james joyce william faulkner sophocles sylvia plath rainer maria rilke milan kundera franz kafka gabriel garcia marquez thomas bernhard patrick suskind  pablo neruda oriana fallaci annie proulx lydia davis during mornings everyone busies themselves making things practicing yoga swimming cooking friends gather for lunch munch comically gossip about previous night’s dramas in afternoon go back to their interests at sunset all citizenry come together look to west watch fiery orange globe sink beyond purple mountains wonder reflect sniff their fingers as night falls on little village each goes about deciding what to wear then meet for cocktails in local taverns and commotion begins

The sun glides into taverns and
lights the tables where
there is no city or country

Only the walk and talk beside
breaking hours

Moths in steam
Vistas of power plants
you cannot clasp to your heart

The streets and the fields will stretch your hands
You want to taste gently outside the whip of sirens
Like a deer

you should know better than sacking hopeless places,
it is no glorious feat:
white hands,
erecting flags in the wounds of a pagan soil;
i wish i could've returned to dust right then.
white hands,
caressing softly the marks left by your whip
on my skin — now, a blank sheet,
wide open for your kisses;
but by now, your tongue should've known that
papercuts wound all the same.

my chest had been a burial place
for the nights i couldn't name;
and tonight,
my heart wants to leave behind
the very tomb —
the very body you seized for yourself —
the very host to your planted flags
and romanesque cathedrals
and brothels,
and tonight will be the crusades
for all these captured, lovely ashes
and all these captured, lovely bones.

and into the wind i'll be scattered.
and into the wind i'll go.
and honey, you may think you have won the war

but this is the song waiting in the taverns
that women will sing for you back home.

I have friends with whom I share,
great poetry and verse.
And friends I visit taverns with,
to drink with and to curse.

And friends with who I share a passion,
for music and for art.
And also those, just like me,
kindred spirits of the heart.

Some, I will call, when I am down,
and weary from lifes' run.
Some, I long to just gift a smile,
before every day is done.

Some, who seem to need my presence ,
to heal such a simple pain,
Some whose smiles touch my soul,
and shelter me from rain.

Some who like the same wine as me,
some coffee and some books.
Some who care little of possessions,
some who are all into looks.

There are some with whom I share a movie,
some I respect their great advice.
There are some who are simply pure genius,
and others; .... not quite so wise.

From professions, they all do differ,
no occupation is the same.
Most of them have no mutual liking,
but two...they share a name.

No. Each friend, has naught the others',
unique fortune, skills, or fame.
But I endear each to their own,
and treasure them all - the same.

In Rome on the Campo di Fiori
Baskets of olives and lemons,
Cobbles spattered with wine
And the wreckage of flowers.
Vendors cover the trestles
With rose-pink fish;
Armfuls of dark grapes
Heaped on peach-down.

On this same square
They burned Giordano Bruno.
Henchmen kindled the pyre
Close-pressed by the mob.
Before the flames had died
The taverns were full again,
Baskets of olives and lemons
Again on the vendors' shoulders.

I thought of the Campo dei Fiori
In Warsaw by the sky-carousel
One clear spring evening
To the strains of a carnival tune.
The bright melody drowned
The salvos from the ghetto wall,
And couples were flying
High in the cloudless sky.

At times wind from the burning
Would driff dark kites along
And riders on the carousel
Caught petals in midair.
That same hot wind
Blew open the skirts of the girls
And the crowds were laughing
On that beautiful Warsaw Sunday.

Someone will read as moral
That the people of Rome or Warsaw
Haggle, laugh, make love
As they pass by martyrs' pyres.
Someone else will read
Of the passing of things human,
Of the oblivion
Born before the flames have died.

But that day I thought only
Of the loneliness of the dying,
Of how, when Giordano
Climbed to his burning
There were no words
In any human tongue
To be left for mankind,
Mankind who live on.

Already they were back at their wine
Or peddled their white starfish,
Baskets of olives and lemons
They had shouldered to the fair,
And he already distanced
As if centuries had passed
While they paused just a moment
For his flying in the fire.

Those dying here, the lonely
Forgotten by the world,
Our tongue becomes for them
The language of an ancient planet.
Until, when all is legend
And many years have passed,
On a great Campo dci Fiori
Rage will kindle at a poet's word.

All hail the Lizard King,
whose esoteric words crawl like sirens
over hungry rocks
baring teeth to the hypnotized sailor
steering his ship into the jagged maw.

All hail the Lizard King,
perched upon his Dionysian throne,
ambrosial ecstasies fill his cup
while jongleurs dance to psychedelic chansons.

At his feet
prey the nubile maidens of yore
flower-eyed and pearly-teethed.

His eyes, mighty azure pools of madness
within which Byzantine kings were murdered--
blood darts through the mysterious waters
into the hysterical white void.

Alexander the Great
sits poised like a statue
where his libido crouches like a panther
'til the aural adonis
leaps from his confines
an amorous figure of tantalizing flesh and blood
with supple lips pouting, naked muscles taut,
mad eyes gleaming.

All hail the Lizard King,
from lush lips poetic decrees
sing forth into the endless night
penetrating taverns and bedrooms and radios
and stadiums.

The electric shaman leaps from his throne
to cast his wicked incantation,
a spark from his eyes shoots to the pyre
where a lustful blue flame erupts from
the bones of the prophets.

HIs voice soothing, haunting,
the sonic alchemist
sings his siren song into the cataclysm
where we are cast in abeyance--

We follow him,
but is he only leading us deeper
into the darkness,
or does he truly see the light?

The endless night.

All hail the Lizard King.

My coat is black
like the nights
I have long forgotten.

I left heaven
for the taverns.

I did my readings before daybreak
when the moon was far aloft,
but the nights got longer.

I kept putting things off
hoping I would discover a star
I knew was there.

Now I saw logs
and leave the leaves
where they fall.

I am a ***** of the very worst kind
Not of *** and promiscuity
A ***** of my own
Creation
You come up on my radar
Latch
Seek
Destroy
And you will never know
Each and every one of my
Dead lovers
Never loved me back
Tear them up
Spit them out
Abandoned
Just like me
But I hurt
I feel emotion
Like clods of dirt
Inside my chest
Rip it open
Scream at each
Small thing
Wrong thing
I want only this
That I can never have
Curses
Plagues
Dead
Ex-lovers
Stars in their eyes
That look past my
Efforts
Hints
Advances
I am invisible
Invincible
Or so I like to think
The invisible *****
You never saw me coming
Till I cry these three tears
Drop
Drop
Drop
Two from the right
One from the left
Just like the rest
So many to name
That wouldn’t even know my
Hurt
Abandonment
What have you done to me?
Nothing
It is I
Only I
Want so desperately
To touch
To be touched
3 little tears come from
Within this cold hard
Clenched fist
Wetting my palm
Trying to escape
Flung at your calm
Silent face.
I want to be empty
I want to not feel this
Gift.
Emotion.
In the pit of my stomach
Back of my throat
Behind these eyes
Sick
And they fall
One
Two
Three
The time it takes to
Break
Die
Latch
Seek
Destroy
I am on a rampage
To eat each man up
Bone by bone
Flesh and blood
Thoughts and loves
Till I spew it all back out
To every person I meet
I am a ***** of the very worst kind
I’ve been everywhere
Nowhere
Inside everyone
No One
You cannot pay for me.
I’m too cheap.
You do not want me
I am curse
Brought on by
Liars
Abusers
Molesters
I am the product of
A past
Mistakes
And I want you to
Make me better
But I become
Worse
Liken me please
To those on the street
Full of disease
Because I am worth
Nothing
Of your time
Energy
Nothing
And I expect
Nothing more
Than this
Agonizingly
Painful
You
Are just like
Everyone else
That I never wanted you
To be
So much more than
Dead
Ex-lovers
Death from their lips
In long streams of wire
Attached at my wrists
Ankles
Binding me
Cutting deep
Blood
Red
Stains like my shirt
Cutting me
Scarring me
Until I feel so much
Nothing
And uncountable tears
Flood cities
Destroy taverns
Come knocking
Breaking free
Again
And again
And again
And you are
The same
As those
Starry-eyed, wire binding
Dead
Ex-Lovers
So much alive
Reminding me of every
Failure
Each scar on my wrist
In the form of a name
And now you join the rest
In this shallow unmarked grave
You are alone
With them
And I will
Consume this hurt
Like a breakfast
Of nails and tacks
Each bite will puncture
The last remaining composure
Till I am nothing once again
Radar
Radar
Detecting
Latch
Seek
Destroy
All over again
The very worst kind

My brother was twelve years older so
I knew him not so well,
But heard of him in the taverns,
Getting drunk, and raising hell,
My mother said, ‘Keep away from him,’
And I did, for many years,
But blood is blood, and a brother should
Help out, though it ends in tears.

He’d done a spot of embezzling,
He’d picked the pockets of Earls,
You never left him to tend a horse
And he wasn’t safe with girls,
But he was my brother Toby,
And I was his brother Tim,
I’d often find him beneath my bed
When he said, ‘Don’t let them in!’

By ‘them’ he had meant the Runners
Who were active in the Bow,
And some of the old Thief-Takers
With their ruffians in tow,
They roamed the streets with their cudgels
And would lie, just out of sight,
Beyond the doors of the Taverns, when
They turned them adrift at night.

The streets were mean, and were far from clean
Where my brother used to roam,
Despite the pleas of our mother, who
Would beg him to come back home,
But father remained unbending, said
His eldest son was a swine,
‘His endless scrapes, a Jackanapes!
He is no son of mine!’

I heard he’d taken a horse and fled
From a stables in the Strand,
‘There’s little that anyone now can do,
When they catch him, he’ll be hanged!’
My mother, crying a flood of tears
As my father cursed and swore,
‘I’ll call the Runners, or I’ll be ******
If you let him through my door!’

So Toby galloped to Hounslow Heath
Along the Great West Road,
Teamed up with the brute Tom Wilmot,
Lay low in his abode,
They’d venture out on a moonlit night
To wait for the latest Stage,
But Tom was never the gentleman,
Or known to contain his rage.

They stopped the coach on a lonely night
‘Your money or your life!’
Dragged out a country gentleman,
His maid, and his homely wife,
He wanted the ring on the lady’s hand
But her finger held it tight,
So he sawed the finger off as well
With a sharp, serrated knife.

‘It was terrible,’ Toby told me
As they loaded him onto the cart,
‘The screams and the blood, unholy,’
As the horse was about to depart,
They hung him high on the Tyburn Tree
Next to the Wilmot pig,
Not undeserved, but I cried and cursed
As he danced the Tyburn jig.

David Lewis Paget

Dressed in the night the women gather
Riding the wakes across the waves of the sea
Kiss the ghost lips of those who lie lovely
Running their hands along the scalps of their sons

They have come to break worry
Silence an orbiting fear
Seal up the sliver in the sky
Where the nights slips through

See the old men in their taverns still trying to name all the stars
After those who tread dirt in the stillness of a tombstone sea
Trading eulogies with the last ministers of light
In the funereal home of the sun we have come to call sky

And still the women whispers secrets to their sisters
Lay down lullabies on the heads of their sleeping sons
And hang hymns on the hopes that their boys might return
From their pilgrimage into the paths of bullets

Through the blooming fields of mortar shells
And down into the tunnel throat of the dead
To meet the waiting darkness, run their thumbs
Along such casket skin until they cannot tell the difference

Between hells heavy requiems and the faint symphonies
Of their wives across the sea, singing as if it could save them
Singing as if their songs could rewind the hoc spit seconds
Between the open door to heaven and the bullets kicking in back windows

Harmonizing as if it could resurrect these boys as men
And though some may be swallowed
Learned to lie lifeless in swift lessons of lead
Their brothers will one day name stars after them

They’ll sit in those taverns, learn to call creation by a better name
A bastion of light for their buried boys
A crucible into which lives are poured
That burns down to widows and heroes alike

As old men they will trade eulogies in the early hours of light
And cry when they think of their sons in the same fields
As red rose pestles bloom from bullets
As the caskets get delivered home

And the women the wives will continue wait for them
As sea foam along a shore longing for the lights of their ships
As if they shined brighter then the sun
As if they had held back the night

Counting their blessings as the children
Who cling to their skirts like a song to their lips
Too tired to stand but they are waiting, waiting still
Singing out over the water to bear their men home

Another empty bar room
Playing songs for empty chairs
A deaf dog and his blind master
Are in the crowd and no one cares
The singer tells his stories
No one really wants to know
They're trying to watch the tv
No one cares about his show

A break comes and he's sitting
Talking to the tender of the bar
On a torn and worn out bar stool
Eating pickled eggs out of a jar
Complaining of his station
How he is just playing, making rhymes
When a voice out of the corner asks
"Can we talk...if you've time"

I've been around for ever
Since time began for sure
I can help you if you'll let me
I can open up the doors
I'm known by many titles
Silver tongued, though I may be
I can help you if you'll let me
But, my help....is not for free

I've helped singers before you
Wives, and mothers, fathers, sons
I've helped with politics and warfare
I've been at both ends of the gun
In your case, it is simple
I'll talk of music and of muse
And I'll give you some advice boy,
Some advice, I think you'll use

I was there back in the fifties
When Hank Williams died en route
Who'd you think was driving?
I helped him pick his suit
I made deals with Elvis Presley
One too many so it seems
I help many climb the mountain
They deal with me to reach their dreams

I've been around for ever
Since time began for sure
I can help you if you'll let me
I can open up the doors
I'm known by many titles
Silver tongued, though I may be
I can help you if you'll let me
But, my help....is not for free


Talent is a godsend,
****, I hate that word
But, it only gets you started
You don't move on, if you're not heard
I was there with Jimi Hendrix
I sat and watched him die
He was only one of many
Who could look me in the eye

I've crashed cars and downed airplanes
I've watched so many play the fool
I was there back in the sixties
Pushing Brian Jones into his pool
Keith Moon and countless others
Have sought my help to move along
They gave their souls for ever
For the small price of just a song

I've been around for ever
Since time began for sure
I can help you if you'll let me
I can open up the doors
I'm known by many titles
Silver tongued, though I may be
I can help you if you'll let me
But, my help....is not for free




I helped a man named Chapman
Buy a gun and change his time
He wanted to be famous
And I wanted his soul to be mine
I helped Belushi load his needle
I was there with music ******
I remember how Jim Morrison
Shut his eyes, and closed the Doors

I can help you if you'd let me
Take you far from clubs like these
Put you far up on a mountain
Where people come crawling on their knees
The man looked at the stranger
The barkeep couldn't see
Don't worry said the stranger
Right now, it's you and me

I've been around for ever
Since time began for sure
I can help you if you'll let me
I can open up the doors
I'm known by many titles
Silver tongued, though I may be
I can help you if you'll let me
But, my help....is not for free


There's a deal upon the table
It might be vague, but trust me son
No one else in life will help you
I'm the only one
As there's a god in heaven
He doesn't care if you get rich
And face it, aren't these taverns
Just enough to be a *****
I can have you playing big shows
Selling out, folks know your name
You can be the one controlling
Not just playing in the game

A handshake, all I need right now
The contract, I'll work on
Just tell me that you'll do it
And from now on, I'll be gone
I was Allen Klein to many
Colonel Tom to others too
I've been Beelzebub and Faustus
I've been many names to you

I've been around for ever
Since time began for sure
I can help you if you'll let me
I can open up the doors
I'm known by many titles
Silver tongued, though I may be
I can help you if you'll let me
But, my help....is not for free


The offer is a good one
Just look around and make a choice
You came here on a greyhound
You'll leave in a Rolls Royce
Time will be your ally
You will have all the time you need
To reach the music high ground
To have the fame, to succeed

The barkeep broke the silence
The singer went back to the stage
But, somehow he was different
It seemed the singer turned the page
What answer did he give him
Did he take the Devil's deal
Was this just a drunken vision
Or was this devil's offer real

We may never know the answer
For talent only goes so far
And for now the singer's singing
To a deaf dog in this old bar
The silver tongued kibitzer
Disappeared into the night
Did our singer sell his soul or
Did our singer do what's right?

The fat lady came out first,
tearing our roots and moistening drumskins.
The fat lady
who turns dying octopuses inside out.
The fat lady, the moon's antagonist,
was running through the streets and deserted buildings
and leaving tiny skulls of pigeons in the corners
and stirring up the furies of the last centuries' feasts
and summinging the demon of bread through the sky's clean-swept hills
and filtering a longing for light into subterranean tunnels.
The graveyards, yes the graveyards
and the sorrow of the kitchens buried in sand,
and dead, pheasants and apples of another era,
pushing it into our throat.

There were murmurings from the jungle of *****
with the empty women, with hot wax children,
with fermtented trees and tireless waiters
who serve platters of salt beneath harps of saliva.
There's no other way, my son, *****! There's no other way.
It's not the ***** of hussars on the ******* of their ******,
nor the ***** of cats that inadvertently swallowed frogs,
but the dead who scratch with clay hands
on flint gates where clouds and desserts decay.

The fat lady came first
with the crowds from the ships,s taverns, and parks.
***** was delicately shaking its drums
among a few little girls of blood
who were begging the moon for protection.
Who could imagine my sadness?
The look on my face was mine, but now isn't me,
the naked look on my face, trembling for alcohol
and launching incredible ships
through the anemones of the piers.
I protect myself with this look
that flows from waves where no dawn would go.
I, poet without arms, lost
in the vomiting multitude,
with no effusive horse to shear
the thick moss from my temples.

The fat lady went first
and the crowds kept looking for pharmacies
where the bitter tropics could be found.
Only when a flag went up and the first dogs arrived
did the entire city rush to the railings of the boardwalk.

Here hang the wine-sotted troubadours of sadness and clouds,
~Having played serenas to paramours lipping at the cup of an evening bawd~
Like tethered donkeys now with their packsong of pastorela and alba,
No more musical mensurations of the ****** Mary, Cantigas de Santa Maria,
But slung over the railings of dawn-blotted taverns or courts of renown,
Here hang the wine-sotted troubadours of sadness and clouds,
Like drinking gourds, their stringed citherns dangle from their shoulders,
Leaking the strummed honey-wine of sound like the retchings of the nearby sea.

WAGON WHEEL GAP is a place I never saw
And Red Horse Gulch and the chutes of ******* Creek.

Red-shirted miners picking in the sluices,
Gamblers with red neckties in the night streets,
The fly-by-night towns of Bull Frog and Skiddoo,
The night-cool limestone white of Death Valley,
The straight drop of eight hundred feet
From a shelf road in the Hasiampa Valley:
Men and places they are I never saw.

I have seen three White Horse taverns,
One in Illinois, one in Pennsylvania,
One in a timber-hid road of Wisconsin.

I bought cheese and crackers
Between sun showers in a place called White Pigeon
Nestling with a blacksmith shop, a post-office,
And a berry-crate factory, where four roads cross.

On the Pecatonica River near Freeport
I have seen boys run barefoot in the leaves
Throwing clubs at the walnut trees
In the yellow-and-gold of autumn,
And there was a brown mash dry on the inside of their hands.
On the Cedar Fork Creek of Knox County
I know how the fingers of late October
Loosen the hazel nuts.
I know the brown eyes of half-open hulls.
I know boys named Lindquist, Swanson, Hildebrand.
I remember their cries when the nuts were ripe.
And some are in machine shops; some are in the navy;
And some are not on payrolls anywhere.
Their mothers are through waiting for them to come home.

What is a moth if not a butterfly
who's traded in her grace and colour
for pitter-patter sighs
Inked nights
To sift shy in shadows
And forever thirst for light
Soft Laughs in Dim lit taverns
Almost winked out flames
She's the tattered mistress of stars
forgotten partaker
Of a lesser praise




alarm clock set for early morning
wails and peels without fair warning
rub my eyes in an effort to see
surprised to wake up in the state of VT

what is this, where did it go
whats a po’ boy doing far from buff’lo
where be the park, the lake and da’ strip
where are the people with the stiff upper lip
why leave the breeze, the squalls, the kimmelweck
the taverns where gran’pa drank anisette
that sycamore growin’ on Franklin street
the angst that consumed a community beat
the grimy grey skies to summers impossibly
what happened to lead me to the state of VT?

{not right to accuse others of conceit
   why play handball with self deceit?
    far better to accept the things that be
     and apply my emotions, stoically}

for one place is much like the other
careers are for greenbacks, that’s why the bother
of numbers and lawyers, of panels of priests
up north, out west, down south and back east
I am dissolved in a prelude that leads to eternity
with so many points available, might as well be VT

A pounding of gauntlet on iron and oak
Called a stout hearted watchman of local regard
How the rain played a march on his armor and cloak
As he dashed to the gate through the cobblestone yard
And he rattled the thunder itself when he spoke
"Are you friend or foe? Are you bandit or bard?"

A mighty voice spake thusly:

"Tis I, tis I, Sir Hampton Chase,
The worthiest of knights
A foe to all of evil deed
A dragon slain, a damsel freed
Quite often found atop a steed
In armor, helm and tights"

The guard retorted thusly:

"I can't say I've heard tell of you
My good Sir Hampton Chase
Nor can I, in this ghastly storm
Get a good look at your face
Pray, tell me more about yourself
Regale me, your grace"

A somewhat muted voice returned:

"Are you ******* mate?"

A deadpan tone responds:

"Try me"

A noble sigh and then:

"Very well

I marched upon the dreaded spire
Destroyed the evil lord
I cast aside the dragon's fire
And smote it with my sword
I fought the groaning garglebuck
I clove it's head in twain
In taverns all across the land
They call me Bandit Bane..."

A meaningful look towards the closed gate prompted the watchman:

"Please continue, Sir"

The gate received a certain look from the knight:

"Seriously? Huh...

I walked the path of no return
To find the holy grail
I crept up on a unicorn
And grabbed it by the tail
In certain taverns I could name
I'm known for singing shanties
When I'm in town each married dame
Gets locked in metal *******"

Another meaningful look at the gate:

"Go on..."

A stony silence until:

"I sometimes rescue baby birds
And nurse them back to health
I spend my days amongst the strays
Redistributing wealth
I never miss the privvy ***
I always brush my hair
I went to school in Caldecott
My parents come from there

I'm running out of material here mate, can I just come in?"

The guard contemplated this:

"Sorry mate, I've just been killing time. *******"

The sullen clunk of retreating armor was swallowed by the howling tempest as once again, the legendary Sir Hampton Chase trudged into the night...

From across the hall, I watched her double
over Coleridge, sympathizing as she looked
up to the thin curtain filtering the street-light
universe past the pane held in hot glue.
The click-heels, car barks, ceaseless L-Train
turnstiles, tipsy choirs in cracked-door taverns,
hinges, keys on carabiners, bus hydraulics,
the wall clock, and her fingers caressing the page.
She loved a soft wind carrying birdsong
through screen doors and dowel chimes.
She used to leave her shoes lace-tangled
by the key rack until she saw glass pollen
sparkling in a caged tulip blossom.
She raised the book and sullenly whispered
the last stanza of Frost at Midnight
into the spine, wondering how anyone
could live away from impressionist-dandelion
forests, children's plastic toys in the front yard,
and church bells at every hour.

I wondered the same thing.

we are the insects trapped inside homemade fly traps
glued on at the roof of the mouth
underbelly, I run around looking for trouble
trailer park princess, bar-fights in every space between my teeth
I'm a child of a child

I beat my paper wings against the shamelessness
Dance like the cigarette breaks are forever
Swisher blunts for the forget-me-not flowers inside backseats of cars, cabs, stolen automobiles
Revenge, locked jaw police officers like the fathers that never let you hold a gun so you become one

Taste blood, tongues, beauty in chaos
loose lips, stolen drugstore mascara and no more bruised knees
Boys like soft but you're the ******* Armageddon, knuckle-ring gods and all
so the men want to be kings and you grow up a feral cat sleeping in twin sized beds with a mouthful of curse words

Lord of the flies, lot lizards and truck-stop races
gritty bathroom graffiti is the cathedral but prayers never stop
Taverns with your name and the angels that spit
The television static never ends here, cicadas  
Doors with mosquitoes held hostage, home for supper
wasted by dessert

Down in the dirt, grimy bathtub I unearth all the things I couldn't drink away; all the motel fantasies, ***-stained skirts and the neon lights waiting for the swarm

Gliding
through the fresh snowflakes
of my mind;
feeling
warm and sociable
in the taverns
of my contented heart
I embrace this winter's day
as a benevolent gift
chosen from Your inexhaustable
chest of treasures.

I'm looking for an answer
As I move from town to town
I leave a trail of empty bottles
For the voices I must drown

Nothing in each bottle
Not an answer in the glass
But, I'm still looking for an answer
To a question life has asked

Bottle after bottle
In each tavern and each bar
I travel round by greyhound
I long sold off my car

I leave a trail of empties
And of cigarettes and dope
Looking for an answer
Looking for some hope

I'm sure it was a question
And I know I heard it clear
I think I was on my seventh bourbon
Or maybe my ninth beer

I can not quite remember
Where I heard the voices first
Were they asking me a question
Or responding to my thirst
I'm looking for the answer
To a question, that I think
Was asked to me by voices
That I heard once in a drink



The voices are much louder now
They will not quiet down
I have to find the answer
I just have to find the town

Nowhere in my memory bank
Is there space for one more voice
I have to find the answer
Or I have to make a choice

Do I keep on looking for
The answer in the glass
How do I turn the voices off
And put them in the past

I know a million taverns
Like some folks know the stars
They look up to find their answers
I just keep looking for the bars

I leave trail of bottles
And I look in every glass
'cause somewhere there's an answer
To a question I was asked

I can not quite remember
Where I heard the voices first
Were they asking me a question
Or responding to my thirst
I'm looking for the answer
To a question, that I think
Was asked to me by voices
That I heard once in a drink

"To the victor goes the spoils"
This everyone knows.

However, not all spoils are created equally.

Wealth--especially material--is wondrous.
Territory--especially far-off-- is tempting.
Power--especially political--is promising.
Influence--especially cultural--is intoxicating.

Not one, however, can compare
To the greatest spoil of all.

The greatest spoil of all
Is neither tangible nor immediate.

The greatest spoil of all
Is the ablity to control history.

The ability to control history
Is not to be scoffed.

It is but the victor's voice we hear
As accepted history.
The loser's voice is silenced,
Heard at most as a murmur.

The victor's voice is a trumpet,
Sounding loud and clear.
The loser's voice is a wooden flute,
Unheard except by its fellows.

The victor's song is one of rejoicing
Echoing in the cathedrals and palace-halls.
The loser's song is one of mourning
Heard in the taverns and shanty-towns.

We hear what the victor
Sees fit that we hear.
His crimes never see the light of day,
While the sins of the loser are displayed at e'ery chance.

Think for a moment,
The next time you hear a victor's speech.
And remember that he is in control
Of the greatest spoil of all.

I reflect with a projection,
when hearing
melodies of rhythm or
stronger
lower basses like guttural
voice chords, especially
in the dark or being on a waiting room
of a car ride,
whenever I want it or not
/
an endless dance or some
semi-tangible
image that twirls into
hot
red
rose
petals
even though
there’s no dress to whizz,
feet strong like Carmen Amaya’s
had no mercy for Iberian taverns’
dance floors of flamenco
/
watching that spectacle
always
from discarded collage views
/
of that accounting
and how no
voice is needed to direct
the melody a vector,
only let it be sung-thrung
through the heat rising
and orchestra listened to
completely, sharp motions in
the eyes of the crowd
or those who had ever considered
pondering on me like a philosophy...

Maybe such styles and asphyxiations
of rapid ragged jerkings of too sharp
notes in the air cutting
the atmosphere like a blunt knife
have got to me a long time ago,
stay ever more as visions to moves
audacious, and have been
chosen beforehand my vessel
without its decision to be turned
into something greater
in the collaboration with my own other dishes
to fit Passion.

Then - then - I always imagine - then
in all that how
any certain entity
would be looking at that,
taking it in from the outside
and what that painting of me
partly
will be made as
in their sculpted no flesh
eyes.

/
Thank you
Ladies, Gentlemen, Whoever Further
for attending
/

He couldn't
not take off
the backward cap
that hides
his tousled hair
as he pulls back
the high-backed stool
he'll perch himself on
next to
this unfamiliar beauty.
He couldn't
not accept the bourbon
shot, a pert bartender
offers to keep
his pint company
and lend him
extra courage.
He couldn't
not exchange
an inquiring smile
then a glib remark
about the heat
and the sudden
appeal of dank taverns.
He could
watch her
small gestures for hours
and never
lose interest.
The way
alabaster fingers
tease auburn hair,
they pull at his longing
for a moment
they'll land to still
his right hand
nervously tapping
so useless against
the emptied glass.
He couldn't
guess where
it all might lead,
but he couldn't
not take the chance
it might,
somewhere.
Her accent
sounds French,
and it is Bastille Day.
Anything's possible,
n'est-ce pas?

I've lost count of the taverns
Where my face has  kissed the floor
at least twenty down in Texas
Arizona, fourteen more
twenty three in California
In Wyoming, seventeen
You can see there's lots of places I've been drunk
But, haven't seen


Kissed sixteen floors down in Nevada
Twelve in Idaho
Four over  in Hawaii
and  in New Mexico
It's not that I'm a fighter
It isn't that I'm mean
I'm just a drinker with a problem
In the places that I've been

It doesn't matter where I am
I'm not selective, not at all
I drink, I get in trouble
I get hit, and then I fall
I move around the country
Kissing floors in every state
I'm an alcoholic punching bag
Kissing bar floors is my fate

I kissed six in Massachuesetts
Eleven more in Washington
Twice, I ended on a table
So, I just count them as one
New Jersey I kissed plenty
I lost count up in New York
Up there the floors are softer
Some floors are filled with cork

Florida, I kissed the beach
Seven times, at least I think
One time doesn't count though
I kissed the beach and didn't drink
Lousianna, kissed a lot there
There's a lot of floors to kiss
I hit every bar down on Canal Street
There wasn't one I didn't miss

In South Dakota, can't remember
Not too many bars around
But, I did get in trouble once
And yes....I kissed the ground
Virginia, and Ohio
Up in Minnesota too
In Michigan, oh man oh man
I kissed near twenty two

In Illinois I kissed nineteen
In Georgia, I kissed nine
I found six teeth where I last fell
And only two of them were mine
there is not one location
Where my face and floors have kissed
I'm an alcoholic travel guide
And I keep running into fists

It doesn't matter where I am
I'm not selective, not at all
I drink, I get in trouble
I get hit, and then I fall
I move around the country
Kissing floors in every state
I'm an alcoholic punching bag
Kissing bar floors is my fate

There are no ****** Rottweilers tethered to steel poles
outside  basement taverns.

No emaciated men  picking **** mites
on  their  faces or  women staring
blankly into the fog of their day.

Not a bad smell, a dead bird on a lawn,
an old person wearing a sweater too tight
or a poor kid with a cleft palate; not in Euphoria.


Lake Erie Blues

alarm clock set for early morning
wails and peels without fair warning
rub my eyes in an effort to see
surprised to wake up in the state of VT

what is this, where did it go
whats a po’ boy doing far from buff’lo
where be the park, the lake and da’ strip
where are the people with the stiff upper lip
why leave the breeze, the squalls, the kimmelweck
the taverns where gran’pa drank anisette
that sycamore growin’ on Franklin street
the angst that consumed a community beat
the grimy grey skies to summers impossibly
what happened to lead me to the state of VT?

{not right to accuse others of conceit
   why play handball with self deceit?
    far better to accept the things that be
     and apply my emotions, stoically}

for one place is much like the other
careers are for greenbacks, that’s why the bother
of numbers and lawyers, of panels of priests
up north, out west, down south and back east
I am dissolved in a prelude that leads to eternity
with so many points available, might as well be VT

In this room alone, piled with wishbones
Each social high on golden throne
Feel the breeze with shaking knees
Empty space is all I see
Though triggered by the sadness
Each glory yell to madness
Tells tales of the past enough
To incite the desert dreams

While drones buzz by like angry bees
A hornet's nest is waiting
To capture each like saws to trees
A story worth creating
Through the fairy dance I'm singing
Each brazen glance is seeming
A little less like added stress
To describe this desert feeling

Though peacefulness may hide itself
In shadowed, dripping caverns
A stalagmite of good fortune
In the cheers of beers in taverns
Behind each whisper of enchantment
Comes a desire for life enhancement
But not before the felled tree lore
Is recounted by fire-lit lanterns