an american tale

it took my gentle jocko, left me fumbling
standing with our dusty cadillac
black and full of texas heat
staring at a roadmap that might take me
somewhere he'd never been
could it be that houston's just off
around the bend, maybe.
i've gone tired, singing little susie
and driving fast in our american car
he ran up and down the county roads
like a coyote for a deer
howling at the black above
sometimes he'd go whispering,
go aroaming through the town
climb the oak outside my window
just to smile and say hello
give me tales of places made of gold
heroes in a land gone cold
riding jackals big as elephants
bearing swords that cut through stone
sometimes he'd sleep on my bedroom floor
with his bruises and his snores
offering his kind protection
from the demons all around
from the wrong beyond my garden
and the blows i'd nearly found
but they took my little jocko
and this road's no longer clear

for a man should always find his way
and never shed a tear

forever

you've been out running
with the dogs of war
leaving scents
leaving your small sadness
how can i catch you
now?

your were the brother
that saved my fall
you were the friend
that never wavered
and i will follow you
forever

you were the calm
watched through the night
gave guard against
hard madness
at the door
this i can cherish
forever

i love the sunset
you love the dawn
i spent my days
hiding with confusion
but you've a strength
and will live
forever

now you've gone running
with the dogs of war
will never sit
between my walls
among my silences
how many hours
forever?

lovers

the world went sideways
and i lay you down
was i not a gentle lover
ever careful, watchful
sitting with the hours
just beside your bed

i smelled a thief
beyond your window
in a winter
hard with rain
bending in the willow
whispering your name

i heard his tongue
scrape raw the darkly air
heard his hands
make part the leaves
saw the glimmers
and the covet in his stare

i felt a hunger
come a rapping,
making shudders in my heart
knew the fulsome
of his magicks
the breathings from his lair

we wove a spell
that night together
bound by promise
tight with care
so you could sleep forever
our lover fair

coco

coco eats my raspberries, a fistful at a time
for a collector of pillbox hats, she is a fool
sings f.sinatra in her gray reflection,
begs my smokes, one for now, one for later
how can a woman cross her legs, with such
magnificent indiscretion?
prefers her sushi made from burly boys
wears cha-cha heels to breakfast, somewhere
past 3pm

they love her down in soho, or is it noho?
a star of traveling installations,
plastic seems so very useful, creative
conducive to the veers of arts,
and wallets
wrapped and gartered, pasted, plastered
open to the possibilities of buddha's
revelations
advised with soy milk lattes; avec, cher, avec

but silly, naughty, coco eats my raspberries
a fistful at a time

unmade

yester day is all mysteried up
you were on my doorstep, begrudged
newly flavorful, head all full of smiles
who ever told you that i have some charm
worthy of the crosstown shuttle, fare
paid with your old pawned watches
who ever told you that?

i gave your sofa to a silly fool
moving awkward round the seventh floor
no grace, just heavy steps that seem
to have a peculiar rhythm, i fell entranced
no explanations necessary, or stories needed
it gave such little sleep, comfort badly
areek with you and citrus splashes

i relish my closet, nearly empty, heady
with disorder, misarranged, and i never realized
how bare has gone the day, unalphabetized
am i grown near to the man you followed
shaking in the cold, balancing my laundry
such a feat of derring do, you found impressive
but who ever told you that i have charm?

and i never was the man you loved,
where did you find him here?
with my locks and inhibitions,
bow ties from uncle jack,
mirrors turned in due discretion,
but i never failed your passion,
never used your trust,

and i wonder if a backward turn
will keep the bed unmade
i hide my socks in paper boxes,
snug beneath the bed, have never
found the value of an iron,
2 towels in the bathroom
were never quite enough

did you ever understand that
i'm not a dream, that i'm
wholly and awfully substantial,
so please tell me, truthfully,
where did you find him here?

haiku, shmaiku
no title possible, #2

coco eats my raspberries
a fistful at a time
buddha
what have i done?

sad boys

all the sad young boys,
making shuffles
watching old boy fancy steps
counting cars, drinking coffee
getting smooches in the back room
at the annual bazaar
is there ever any drama
in a life gone merely
to the side?

but were they reading hegel
on the corner at 43rd
discussing topics of concern
convolutions that could possibly
leave nietzche quite disturbed
were they purging a superego
catastrophically overurged?
possibilities are not endless
if you're easily misled

oh, these mad young boys
afloat on rusted bicycles
flying like the gulls
hopping through their windows
cadillacs have cash
temptation's fine
it has its benefits
if mothers can keep fathers
in their beds

small feet with arches
command a heady price
jacquard from paris
can't compare
not as soft, not as rare
but a dime can't buy a quarter
except in conditions
quite extreme
what else can be discussed

down on 43rd?

my last rose has gone
stoled
what a poor thief

a little wrong

fizzy wine, minor embarrassments
ill-advised selections
we found the wrong side
of town
the street
grocery aisle 9 has bargains
just the wrong bargains

you can stand in line for hours
beatific
hungry for the next step
never quite the right step
and read the labels
excruciatingly slow
do they still teach phonetics?

you have your mother's eyes
her small determination
your shoulders set
square
sometimes wear that sweet
obsession
sometimes smile with charm

each day i find the sun
less warm
i give the night
embellishments
stand barefoot in the garden
toes wet
smelling my old roses

if you could understand
the dark
if i could understand
you
our mailman knows your mother
where could i go
that would be far enough?

what is enough?

be careful
you may think that i'm beside you
soft is not enough, you were never
enough
and you enjoy promises
of course
surely, like brie and cognac

there was a time, though hardly
once upon a time
something non-magical
something backward, forward
little pitter-patters of missteps
gave us a bed
and a door

and i kept my shoes nearby
watch in my pocket
a few coins on the table
digital alarms are so very quiet
considerate
almost nurturing
you seemed to like brochures

we never went to barcelona
never past the jersey shore
your mother might have seen us
strolling in the City
catch a show seemed always
out of reach
even at half price

and i'd stop to talk to children
sometimes pet a dog
taking time away from you
paying in the end
pouring oil in the old jalopy
seemed fulfilling
gave some peace

yesterday was my birthday
a card or two appeared
sufficient postage for the trip
and now i find
i like my company
i'm cleverer than i know
older than i thought i'd be

i may have kept mementos
somewhere in a drawer
scents do tend to linger
the past seems better than it was
green eyes make me stop
in the middle of the street
and stare

are we, or aren't we

stay
without duplicate keys
it becomes difficult
i prefer a california closet
i need the evening's fog
crossword's are for sleeping
or didn't you know?

i found a list in the microwave
another tucked in my calvins
please go take a walk
i'm washing whites and darks
together
no
stay

those blue things make me tired
though that's not their clear intention
organic peaches, sub-organic pears
the chapter on balsamic reduction
has left me teary eyed
doesn't the store on first
make keys?

your mother called my mother
what's that all about?
the flight out to the island
leaves at seven, on the dot
perhaps eleven other people
in a house built for two
can't wait

if i eat a bagel in the morning
leave the jelly, leave the jam
leave the butter and the trans fat
dawdling on the shelf
can i find a full length mirror
with a willingness to lie
can i?

it's an ordinary morning
on an ordinary day
divided equally, and unfathomably
perniciously
operates with a gravity
with the force of legislated law
here

but
back to the keys
without a duplicate set
are we, or aren't we?

no title possible

go
3 pillows
2 pillows
or none
life has its small progressions

my kiss is full of complications
turn, not turn
you sleep with poor support
my shoulder's narrow in your touch
your hair's confused with gray

finally
dawn
thank god

haiku schmaiku
or, an abbreviation in kind

my tongue's salty
it's been traveling
do you mind
?

oof! admission: i have a secondary blog, elsewhere. myspace. there, i've said it. and my little 2 liner 'haiku abbreviated' is in the midst of a minor firestorm. it seems my gentle readers have a tendency to ascribe to poetic works the life and beliefs of the writer. much more so than with a more straightforward piece of fiction. but it does amply demonstrate that 'there's fire in them there words'.

crossing legs on the avenue

i've got some chase still gone unused
but first i'll move this chair, it's been
memoried, worn across the back
put into the open air for some plain reason
whiskey might restore its charms
explain the hurts that settled heavy

don't go laughing, i can cross my legs
what a fine place to pontificate, maybe
sell my fine ideas, you're certain agents roam
searching for my piece of mind? ready
cash in hand, praise to lips so full and soft
this has a sloppy charm, close to a laundromat

look in my bag, surely there's a beer half-drunk
not too warm, full of scent, maybe shaken
never stirred, surely there are commendations
for a man who's gone to war, read them loud
this is a neighborhood that can appreciate
a stranger with a scar, for they've given me a chair

i may sell cups of lemonade, competition is a gift
i may sell sacks of poker tips, husbands always seem in need
but first i'll read some hemmingway, there's a poodle
with an ear, come seeking sage advice, of that
he's rather clear, but point him to another tree
than the oak that let's poor shade, what a hard day

and don't go laughing, i am full up with charms,
and i can cross my legs

haiku abbreviated

i can slap a woman
don't think i'm not a man

dancing

i'll come following you, for you seem to know
the many tricks and fabulations that i need
my own are deceptions far too subtle for the place
we make shelter gainst these brickey walls
cold, even in the summer shade, even smoked
by cans of fire, wetted with our darked-up sweat

we've made some scaresome tales. you, gone
out from home so overfull of wait, jumping in your
goodwill hip-hops, grinning fierce and silly, you,
nearly talking backwards, thinking jack's old
studebaker might make the road our bed; and me,
spouting rawsome poetries that you can't hear

if we walk far enough, won't we go up to the sea?
won't the salty lathers scrub us bare? you've
been humming that old baptist tune, but will it
get us on our way? they can smell our steps,
when they're out running like the dogs, barking
through the night time, sniffing all the posts

i should never dance with you, i can't lead,
you can't follow, and your hymn's an oddly frolic.
whoever told you it was proper? you hide
your hands in secret pockets, touching monies
put in haste, telling me they're found by walking,
charities, perhaps, from strangers and some fondlings

if i sit here long enough, some newly carved
performance art, giving jokes for quarters, haiku
blabbers for a sack of raisenettes, will i be discovered?
there's a window with a leather chair, and it's cleaned
near every day, like a prostie store in brussels,
rocking near the railroad tracks, neon red and yellow

we'll sleep there in the afternoons, warm our toes
in the pittsburgh sun, make a grimace face, wave
our arms, shake and rhumba for the tourists, arias
to the glitterati, a dollar for a photo, in advance
left by the door, i can wear a hat from paris, you
can skate around the floor, but i will never, ever

dance with you

not far from 4th

dreams make a hard death
old brown shoes that keep no shine
pants that keep no clean
i frighten women from the church
sunday feigns a bitter cheer

but i've a corner not far from 4th
i can hear some whisperings
from my local catholic saint
telling secrets without relief
jagged little words unclear

radios shape lizzie into a samba
she did a chorus, once upon a time
but margaritas give her laughing
and the boys a second chance
there are marvels all through the end

i've found that careful breathing
has a pleasure and reward
coins like drops of manna
fall ajumble at my feet
i must be quite beautiful to behold

is the sudden darkness from the dawn
has sister sun gone on too long?
questions are just lively fleas
small companions, tender touch
or is this longest day gone to a close?

where do i find these musings
they're all ascattered on my street
just waiting for my quicksome hand
and sometimes my gold goes in the air
seeking better pockets, better care

i've dreamed a river black and deep
cold like mother's touch
i've made a name that must be secret
and soon i'll make my drink
be on my way, from my corner

not very far from 4th

the old woman

who is that toughed old woman, wearing leather shoes
and veil? surrounded by these gents i've never seen, old
cloth coats, strings of beads, watching grass beneath

their feet. where are the children, in their run and play?
what an oddsome little gather, shushing whispers, signs
of hex, marigolds in faded clusters, wrapped with ribbons

that surely saw some other day, reeking birthday parties
cakes and icing, candles in the way. yet i feel some darkly
calling, i have gone curious for their chore, what brings them

to this distant place, so far from bed, but more, where
is a kitchen's welcome cup, in this unwholesome air? i've
a fancy to draw near them all, listen to their private pleas,

understand their constant muttering, in a language harsh
and bare, smell their sorrow, smell their fear. and i wonder
if they've noticed me, this stranger in their midst, full of

longing that i can't explain, of a passion gone unclear, who
is this toughed old woman, for i surely know her eyes, know
she sang her lullabies, on late unsettled nights, know she

gossiped with the garden man, placed holly on the door,
mended shirts worn down to a thread, baked sweet biscuits
in the morn. but i've gone traveled, chased a young man's

wilds, looked for riches, looked for love, and have only
made this turning, to this most unlikely place, when i heard
their plaints and falling tears, thought i heard them call my

name. but i've dallied far into the day, there are puzzles
long unsolved, there are lips a man will never kiss, cares
not of his own, paths not meant for roaming, but still

i marvel, i thought i heard them call my name

stories

midnight brings that knocking, that same old rap a tap,
brings my sleep to make its wanderings, looking for some
dollar jug, maybe climb the stairs so i can watch the moon

have a talk long overdue, with the photos i've made hidden
telling stories full of lies, crooked in their words half memoried
black and white, faded colors, dates and names and places

written in a stranger's hand, i've never followed roads that
lead to such unlikely doors, never waited through the night
with an old man's careless tongue, and why has this bride

gone weeping? who's horn plays silent dirge? am i the
fellow on the left, head bowed at grave's dark door? was
i such a fine and dashing lad, bold grin and cruel of eye?

but i've lived a life of careful steps, finding shadows have
their joy, perhaps a jealous neighbor has placed them for
my fall, perhaps a brother long forgot, with envy and dark

deeds, has crept into my quiet rooms, left his anger, left
his needs, for i've lived my life with a solitary hand, never
gone astray, never clamored for the paths that lead so far

from home, why do these pictures tell their tale, steal
my perfect harmony, thief my quiet name? 3am's a liar's
game, with rules i cannot learn, and was i such a dashing

lad, somewhere in the world?

annie fair

hurry, hurry, annie, there are dangers everywhere
dangers in the skies above, and in the earth below
can you run a little faster? must your toes fall to the
ground? can't you see the crows are watching,
memorizing all your turns, there's no time for
thoughts, rememberings, no time for silly care
he can feel your ragged breathings, they feed a
hunger for the end; hurry, hurry, annie, he is
no casted suitor, wringing hands and making wail,
he is no dust worn neighbor man, come to help,
if he but can. no, he brings a silence, and an ending
and a pain you'll never bear. he brings a grief
no woman ever sought, no, annie, no, do not think
to smell the air, for it's full of anger's agonies, it's
full of raw despair, it's tortured by the tastes of
of a life beyond repair, so run, annie, run, he
sees the shimmers of your hair, his hand is but
a reach away

farewell

annie fair

distant photos

where have i been, since 1982, maybe it's time to plant some roses
rake the oak leaves from the yard, tell my sister silly stories, but
she died while i was wandering, left my mother in despair, or i could

wash my buick riviera, shine it for the veterans parade, and my breath
grows short at the fall of sun, when the evening cool comes on, my
daddy's books need dusting, my dreams some slight repair, but

time moves at an oddly pace, hours strike at will, clocks take slumbers
that mystify my day; our footsteps follow echoes, and we haunt this
memoried house, friends who dallied passing, neighbors with their

cares, were there ever children running, instant kodaks for a laugh?
did we make our tents from bedsheets, hide in fortresses of gold,
autumn fires still leave me bent with tears, and i chase fireflies like

a boy, i'd like a butter cake with icing, some vanilla on the top, but
there are times i must go walking, there's a darkness with no face,
am i in a distant photo, smiling on a bedroom wall, tall and young

and handsome, taken with a lover's careful eye? am i starring in
a movie, black and white with scratchy sound? is it time to cut
the lilacs, fix my favorite garden chair, there are goodly times

gone old and dim, sorrows fade at last, are there peaches in the
cupboard, why are my shirts a size too big? am i in a distant
photo, drinking beer and deep in song? i wish that sleep, it would

come easy, bring some solace at the end, but let me find a quiet
corner, and wonder where i've been, since 1982

waitin

i'm waitin for the angels, got some rum to ease the time,
all my loopy singin's left me hard up in the day; sun, why
are you harshin my old head? are you so eager, sister,

to see me on my way?

jumpin java, coffee, and a glean from the web

thank you Glittering Muse for the following:

"This pure poetry blog Peter in Search of Pan, by Bill Piety, offers nearly daily poetic musings. Rich in images, personality and easy rhythm, his poems often sprout from events in his life (I assume), though some have the tone of an Irish or Scottish ballad. Their informal style invites you in, fulfilling the invitation with lots of particular details and mellow philosophical musings. I always come away satisfied, as if I’ve eaten a small but succulent piece of chocolate. Speaking of succulent, the photo of his lips in the about section is a cherry on the sundae treat of his wonderful poems."

old man, part 3

old man, are you troubled so hard, where is that god
you swear by? i can taste your mutters, know their
bitter flavors, how can you find some comforts from

the stones of this old church? you never were a
righteous man, where do you pay for this redemption
that griefs your wasted face, where do you scatter

coins to buy a token for the day, why do you choose
the darkness of this ill-suited place? old man, make
your confessions, close yourself and weep, and whisper.

your ghosts, they don't tread lightly, have got you
captured in a binding that won't be soon unloosed
i have no prayers to make for you, where the sun

has lost its welcome, old man, are you troubled so
hard? sitting here with these latin heresies, washing
down your watered wine, waiting for the raucous bells.

come, let's walk somewhere, chants are for the sailor
lads, drinking beers and whiskey, chants are for our
memories, to gentle paths we stray, for old men

making merry, for old men, on their way

old man, part 2

old man, are you hungry? i've a tune to ease some pain, but
first i need a story, of your travels and your sins, of the glory
gone asquandered, of the fames tossed in the air; did you

love your brother's only girl, give chase to night's desires?
tell me secrets, hoarse with whispers, i can keep your burdens
safe, i'm but a traveler selling magicks, tricks for your delight

cards to bind your fortune, spells of death and life's undoing
but i've an hour to spare for old man tales, watching time betray
us all, whiskeys from the southern mounts, honeys i've

just stole, can you lean a little closer, your breath's all gone
astray, have you a beggar's need for silence, for a seemly
change of shirt? old man, are you hungry? i've some words

you ought to hear, they speak of silly lads gone in the world
howling with a glee, kissing strangers til the dawn, swimming
in the salty sea, gone old with their small tawdries, like

shadows on a wall, so lean a little closer, i've gifts that bear
your name; relief, it is acoming, for a bitter end of game

old man

old man, are you on my side? this road lies unmarked on
all your ancient maps, gives up directions a-twisted, and
i've got my horn, steel that takes my air, i can blast some

tunes to break their hearing; old man, must i carry you,
full with bitters, wracked with devious tears, down to
the river where you can wash away what the waters

may allow, and you've taught this game to idle fellows,
wanting war's old gamble, wanting some simple violences,
now are you on my side? wobbling with your pretension

thinking i will carry your reek, pass it on to the world
we see; wearied though you find me, i'm no blushing boy
making haunts into homely day, and no, i don't give you

mockeries, but give you fate's caprice and, perhaps,
the chance that comes with a day's hard close, but we
still need shelter, for i can not spot true north, no

shadows point our way, are we helpless, old man?
armors rust, swords can go unsharped, at the end
sight will fail, limbs weak in the grasp of memory

old man, are you on my side?

another thursday, morning

we're 20, then 50, then the days begin to slip away. filling with a sadness that can't be defined or understood. and if days are lost, or even years, there's ultimately no importance. the years are interchangeable. this is the latest piece of my 'homely' works. raw pieces about unsophisticated people. these are no operatic works of great love and great loss. they reflect the simple and profound ennui of days lived ordinarily.


making coffee

let's make some coffee, poach an egg, summer makes me
crazy, pollen's in the air, we can sit out in the garden, on
a wobbly little chair, touching toes like school kids at a

corny country fair, and can you still remember, while
we're digging in the past, the day i buried momma, in her
dress from sears on main, gingham full of of flowers, lace

all up and down, bought on time, paid by the month, back
in 1989? how we sat and drank with daddy, til i fell flat
upon my back, had to carry poor ole granny, cause a funeral

is just fine, with its casseroles and cakes, neighbors shuffling
through the house, maybe tears and irish wakes, musics
dark and simple, brass and pipes and horns, but why am i

here daydreaming, what ghost has called my name, why
is the day now darker, than it ever was before? have i
forgotten friends i once held dear, are they faces on a wall?

photos in an album, letters in a chest, and yesterday just
keeps on happening, hours with no end, roses never opening
or is this just my fancy, touched by wishes unfulfilled? but

weren't we making coffee, scrambled eggs, or drinking beer?

thursday, morning

every once in a while i'm going to re-post something that may have passed unnoticed. or i think simply worth another look.

?, #4

these are my strangely times, full-up with twist, hard in
a darkness all your own, and i'm bound by hours that have
no flow, or have i lost the dawn, loving all too well the night

when i can make my secrets, jolly with ole granny's
whiskey, and there is a window, where i can sit, where
i can magick all my famous potions, maybe throw them

at the moon, or will i lose my breathing, for you have
stolen all the airs, so i can not say your name, and can not
keep you close, you are my failing, and at the last, i may be

undone, cast into a tide that will not turn, these are my
strangely times, here at the end, you thought me champion,
upon another day, before you knew my secrets, or am i

simply unremembered
?

if you've been expecting a traditional 'blues' work, you've been kind in your disappointment. today we're making the transition from blues to . . . somewhere else. but some things come too soon in life. our little hero is ready for a place 'where a bedroom's just a bedroom, quiet in its sleep'. i can only hope no reader really understands why this is a dream. but on to

whisper me something

whisper me something, mister, you've been standing here
since dawn, must have seen old sister, walking with her cane,
must have heard a secret, that i could sell for silver dimes

your pockets should be full up, things you've captured in
the wind, baubles made for nightsome trysts, jewels from
mandalay, golden ash spread on the ground for a prince's

silken feet, i've a need for all these riches, as you surely
must have heard, you've watched me at my window,
sliding down the drain, running off to see the world, one block

at a time, but if you've seen me making darkly moves,
with the lads down 23rd, you've surely never said a word, to
daddy or his kin; did you know sweet jenny tried her song

in a wrongly key of g? whisper me something, mister,
you've some kindness left in store, i can bargain with
the best of them, make a trade to bring a smile, for

the day, it is a-coming, when the last block has been seen,
and i'm ready for the wider ways, where the sun sets
in the east, and a bedroom's just a bedroom, quiet

in its sleep, give me something, mister, i've gone tired
with all my moves, with all this sliding sideways, jumping
over cracks, counting stones along the driveway, whistle

something, mister, when you're ready for our trade, and
you'll end the day with no regrets, and i'll be on my way

ah, yes, the blues. it's not about the drama, the 'slappin' and kissin'. it's not the whiskey - we always seem to sober up. or the fights, the breaks. 'beddin' the wrong woman', 'cheatin' on your friend'. at the end of day, it's the life we haven't lived. regrets, soft and lasting. this is not something that can be understood by intellect alone, only by the passage of time. on that note, today's work is about nothing. or everything.

ramblings, cause eternity's got an evil eye

scrambled eggs with hollandaise, might just make my day,
grinding bitter coffee beans gives some fullness to the morn,
old ma sun is unforgiving, been buying lotions from the

fancy corner store, and why are you wearing daddy's old
gray pants, i sold them just last week to the baptist deacon's
boy; giving funerals is tiresome work, or so he says,

singing hymns on thursday afternoons, going to confession
cause you've watched a life to live; can you understand
that i'll not go roving, can't understand the rules of this

sideways game, and you know i can't read music, where's
an opera with a country band, sparkley shoes will leave
me crazy, black and white is too severe, so let's look

at these old photos, kodak made a mean machine, captured
daddy with his women, debonair and full of flair, strangers
smiling in the sun, cooking steaks and drinking beer, and

please understand there are no highways leading where
i've got to go, markers with the miles in steel, exits from
the past, i'm needing potions with some power, need

to justify the lies; have you searched the pockets in those
pants, found a secret gone unused; can you loan me
fifty dollars, mow the grass just one more time, i've

an extra jug of vino, but don't drink it while you drive,
i may be here, when you return, thinking bout 1965

off to omaha

i don't see a sun, grouching in the lower sky, skipping
with a fool's slow two-step; must be on its way to omaha
where they steal some heat for pork ribs, for concrete

streets in circles, and i must be wondering why, if this
is the end of day, i've got the time for yammering, chase
coyotes just for fun, when i should be off to omaha.

heard cowboys there are thirsty, beer is fine for dinner
don't break the fast til 2, say rum is for the foreign lads,
bourbon too old school; so it leaves me sitting in the air

there's something now that's not quite clear, will the
rules i learned in tulsa make the grade here in between
should i learn a silly country song, make me loopy

with some twang, buy a pair of boots for kicking, goodwill
jeans to play my part, is there wisdom in topeka for dilemmas
such as mine? just point me to a squatter's shack, gone

empty in the field, i'll make a bed from things forgotten
sip a jar of honeyed scotch, write my memoirs on a paper
roll, but i don't see the sun, it's abandoned me at last

no, don't even think to kiss these lips, they were never
meant for you, i've got no room for bruises, got marks
aplenty, second hand; i whistle best when solitary,

on this long road from alabam

dance the blues

these are goodbyes i've never faced, i've been lost
down twisted ways, making steps in alleys, mixing
whiskey in a paper cup, and always wondered

if you'd dance the blues, keep these two feet from
another wrong move, i've a weakness come all sudden,
got a tremble made me weary; now i know the face

of darkness, the taste of my day to come, and i'm
full up of reminisces, longing for a yester day gone
dim, so will you dance my blues, hold my head

when light goes stray; i've made my fall from grace,
left my honor somewhere out beyond, in the black
between the trees, sleeping on those summer flowers

made my fall from pride, stealing like some thief
and i never understood the why of love, the how
of love, they mysteried me life long, only knew

the fierce of love, that wrapped me like a strangeness;
there are goodbyes made when i was young, please hold
my head, even if you're hard with anger, for i can

release you

finally

here, at the end

decatur

go on your way, little puppy, i'm heading off down town, got
some blues to make in decatur, some alleys got their tug, i'll
be cooking whiskeys, brown as butter in a pan, shaking tears

with slippy sally, taking down her yellow man; there's some
roaming got no ending, fights that never come to stop, i'll go
wearing my new cemetery suit, special pocket for my piece,

down decatur way

silly benny

silly benny wears his skirts too short, likes the sweet feel of red leather,
doesn't mind domestic caviar, or shake his head to camembert, if it saves
a pretty penny, puts clean sheets upon the bed, and he wants to join

a rock band, cause he understands the glam, knows the power of mascara,
purple passion in the morn, scoops a mean line of his powders, dances
silly on the lawn, and he doesn't mind if he kisses boys, if they'll only

treat him right, maybe take him to the disneys, ride the rides all
through the night, cause he likes his cotton candy with a peck upon
the cheek; little benny runs through life at a deadly pace, shakes

his fist if you talk of fate, spells his karma with a major k, reads fat
buddha in the bathtub, zens from noon til 3 o'clock; he is a man from
those old eighties, surviving as he can, so raise your glass to silly benny

with a charm so rarely seen; toss him quarters, if it happens, that you
see him on the street, leave some soft hurrahs in passing, jelly beans
or golden port, do your goodly deed, kind passengers, on this

his final friday morn

disrepair

fathers leave a house in a rowdy disrepair, windows raised
in dead of night, cracks to open air, dust beneath the marriage
bed, jumbles on the stair, and on the kitchen table rings

from coffee cups, wearied by anxious mothers, careless
in despair; and fathers leave a son for some comfort, for
some fame, though he does so with misgiving, leaves

a question with his name, will he cherish him with honor,
speak to memories with pride, or will he learn the
harshness of a woman, sitting in her corner chair, weaving

cloaks for bitter winters, tracing spells within her lair,
she is full-up with mutters, dark in her confusions, blinded
by the past; yes, fathers leave a house in a state of rowdy

disrepair

once

i once went walking, in the full of day, knew the reason
bach wrote sweet cantatas, why sophie fell from grace,
knew the scores of all our summer ballgames, once,

upon a time