lost in queens

i watched his finger tap a samba beat, listening to vivaldi,
but he whispered e.merman jollies from a corner la-z-boy

and still, the sun will set as he darks the air with shades
and little torments, and still, he breathes his minor key
complaints, warbly rodondos, caprices in a sutra style

why am i lost in queens, besotted by some sweet fandango,
causing gently with my old-man and sillied by the sun

why do i fill him up with my 7-penny stories, buy vanilla
frapaccinos for this malted debonair, in his store front
parlor, in his lounge left discarded by a disco dancing swell

he's drawn with such casual dissidence, a jangly composition
and relishes my lies with a hunger raw and sharpened for a feast

or have we simply been misplaced, and chance would have us
make our waltz, make us giddy with our heady and flamboyant
spins, a doo-wop boy and a barber with a sunday night despair

give me my salty whiskey, if i'm to while away the day, so i can
sing some janis joplin, and listen to vivaldi, and finally go my way

and ordinary man, #3

silkie's drinking claret, waiting for the sailor boys, and the sun
to set, waiting for the dark to make her young, and the tide
to carry all the years to sea, waiting in a shadow full of

rawsome mystery, she is a flavor ripe for late night suppers,
and she'd been a ballerina, sold her whiskey at the fair,
but only when the lads were thirsty, and always gave old granny

her full and justly share, cause silkie knows her right from
left, her way around the block, she understands the meaning
of a rosy blush upon the cheek, but at the last, upon the end

of day, there's always golden claret, perhaps a chocolate
by the bed, there are mirrors and some candlelight, that
understand the life she's led, and in the corner, tightly sleeping

an ordinary man

A call for your input . . . please

You know my favorite series by now, faithful ones. But I don't know yours. Let's disregard ratings and critical reviews. Let's also disregard spousal influence, boyfriends, woman friends and moms. We don't care what talking heads or observers might have to say. Let me know what you consider the best television has to offer.

I'll start the process with a few of my choices: Regenesis, Life on Mars, Heroes, Dexter (yes, there will be a season 2), Torchwood (yes, renewed as well) - just to start the ball rolling. When I get enough suggestions/votes I'll post results.

You can also suggest second-tier work like Eureka (yippee, another season is filming).

So put your usual reticence aside and drop me a note. Everything will be kept confidential if that's your desire. I'm all about desire.

some-times

some times i sing to sea birds, dying on the shore,
some times i wail with otters, when widows flaunt their joy

but when the hermit crabs begin their clacking reveries
and silverwings their birth ballets, i stop to dance my slow

merengue, stop to slow some salty drops into my hair, tasting
tse-tse dreams as they lay their golden eggs upon my neck,

some times

to Sally

Saffron Sally made a hula dance; a swishy ode to her karma bangled angst. She was a clamor, was our Sally. A final testing place for mayhem's inspirations. A taco cheese delight with her girly undulations.

Here's to Sally. May the rest of us rest in peace.

Zensationalism, or the Tao of Garlic Sauce

It could've been UFO's over Bridgeport, or fireworks in August, 4:56am. I've always been distracted by ochre. Especially on garden walls. I've climbed steep streets in Barcelona and meandered through narrow passages in Rome. Led merely by a glimpse of ochre. There's a profound life-observation in this somewhere. Akin, I'm sure, to a cantilevered greenhouse roof. It's not always the fantabulous in life that marks its passage. It's neither agony nor ecstasy that I anticipate, but quiet pleasure.

Not a powerful hormonal scent, but a subtle melange from wine. Not the hard lights of studio, but the quieting reflection from a book's page. Entranced, rather than enraptured.

Walking the steep paths of Ydra with no digital enhancement. Listening to pine whistles, but not through a cell. Remembering Paris without an lcd. My bag is filled with cheese and ouzo, not a laptop.

I take trains, simply because I can. Because they're filled with lovers and children. Arguments and sleep. They flow and jerk and stop and start. They speak Hegel and Nora Roberts. They sing folk songs and downbeat. Dance, mope, pontificate. I rarely remember planes. I rarely forget trains. And I think I'm learning to smile.

I'm going out today hoping to find a green caterpillar on a hibiscus petal. I think this will help understand Bach's cantatas. All of them, hopefully. This revelation came over sweet and sour scallops, followed by plum wine. As revelations go, it was a gentle nudge. Not with the pungency of garlic sauce on meatloaf - but that's another meal, isn't it? The hope of finding. Going from here to there and back again.

I like my mangoes straight from the tree. My salsa full of lime juice and hot peppers. Horseradish-sour cream on onion mums. Fresh tomato and parmesan on hot bread. Flour up to my elbows making pasta. The hope of finding. I'm going out today hoping to smell bacon.

a lessening of zen

there fell in
to the sea
one yester morning
a moon unkempt
and readily discarded

^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^

neo-taoism corrupted

and my breath is fading, falling into crusty sand flats
where little devourers lie in wait, come hungry to the feast,
wearing their salacious smirks as they make their rows in

audience

^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^

waiting

i watched a laddy dying, laughing as the gulls began their mourning
wail, wrapped my toes in sea salt as the tide formed its hungry prowl,
and waited for the angels

^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^

The Pastor's Tale

He sniffed; sighed. Where am I aloopin tonight, he wondered. Tasting the young night moth. Just aborn this very evenin, by the sweetness of it. Listening forward, then by the side, he slow walked to the pastor's lane. I am stiller'n the serpent egg, I am. All awrapped and makin shadows. He sniffed - Ah, there's the pastor's breath, close and warm. I'm fat swimmin now, I am. Hungry for the sermon's tongue. Save me, pastor, sang the pale shape of desire. I am the lord's chariot, come down to take you home.

I am the resurrected, he sighed. I am your doubt, I am your black howl. And over the poor and pebbled paths he walked, neither turnin nor rustlin rock, leaf. Til pon the pastor's door he cast his longing. I am angelus come to make my mark. Then sitting down before the servant's door, he tasted lock and knob and frail sad secrets.

I am salvation, he moaned. Come to me and bring your godliness. I would come in, pastor-man. I would come in.

And so it was through window sealed and brick amortared, past crucefix silver, n past wood apolished with fingers' oil, he came upon the man envirtued. Came upon the old god's faithful. Came ensorceled, all a-magicked. And when our pastor's eyes alit upon this most unwelcome, he saw the son. He saw heaven's light.

I bring you eternal life, man of mortal dust. I am the hope, I am the way and the return. Rise up and seek your golden shores here, in me. Rise up and give yourself freely to me, for I am redemption. So it was that night, when darkness came a-stalkin, the pastor was cast down. And the old house heard the boy a-laughin, heard the words all ancient, felt the hot and soured breathin. Then without memory all quiet came again.

He sniffed; sighed. Where am I aloopin this summered night?

the old man

he looped an old man's dance, swigging margaritas of a most
peculiar hue, and tipped and toed in an old man's soft ballet,
with a cincinnati shuffle cause he had a fondness for gardenias
and knew a thing or two why katy does what katy did

and he loved his whiskey sweet with sugar, full of wake-songs,
darked by shady boys come weaving sour and salacious webs,
and he loved his rhumba all aglamoured, twisty, valentino'd,
maybe floozied by a 2am carouse

but lordy, he was taken by an old man's strange desire,
lost within some santeria, all awhispered and full-up in magicks,
and he looped an old man's dance, tossing baubles to the gawkers
making n.sinatra la-la's in his fancy key of c

for he had his cremes and clever potions, mirrors mystical and fey,
confabulations that could turn the dark with footlights, bring
a roar to any crowd, and he would star again with bette in the wings
bring the house up to their feet

oh, how he loved gardenias

?, no. 5

there is a man, sitting on my kitchen floor, tucked into a
corner, tossing flour up on the air, making words that float
and make a chatter that i can not understand, and his face

is hidden by this ghostey clamor, so i can not judge his eyes,
or have his lips been kissing mother, has he brought some
solace to her days, for he must know she's buried deep in

secrets, locks her windows with the failing of her charms, she
has a craft that comes from rare and special creams, she
has an art that speaks to wayward husbands, suitors with

unseemly dreams, or does he make some pact, here in my
kitchen, will he take my coffee for his own, and have his
supper at my table, sing some ditties to blush my mother's

cheek, there is a man, sitting on my kitchen floor, or am i

simply lost
?

outside of g

silky's lying by the devil's gate, strumming
harmony outside of g, and i can't sing along

there's a time, you betcha fella, there's a
circumstantial case that can be made, for

sitting at the end where deeds must pass
some muster, get some weight for the hefty

book, when a soul gone dark and muddy
might be a'tempted to prance with flair

but i gotta believe in something more
substantial, than a hard luck kiss

or a twisty two-step round the parish floor
so bring a chair to the winner's circle

where we can spin a bottle, maybe
spell out nooky on a scrabble board

i've been looking for a bonus combination
that might take me far from where

the lads are hasty, and the lasses rare
where summer howls like the dogs

chased out of heaven, and silky's lying
where the road has ended, somewhere

outside of g

untitled #3

come sleep with me, i have my way with nightful dances, and
know your bluesy corners, hours full-up with tossing sambas,
running from the jazzman and doing scat all stringy in the smoke

i can still snap doo-wop beats, and i'll leave martinis at the door
to keep the boogey boys from dallying in your dark, come sleep
with me, i have some secrets and chocolate cherries we can share

It's mostly sunny, 47F, by the Bay. The old F line streetcar's calling me for a roll down Market. Pondering. I'm about to enter inner space - Life on Mars. There's a second season marathon awaiting. Anything you'd like to advise, warn, encourage? In the meantime . . .

pastor jones

old pastor jones sat upon the railroad tracks, listening for sweet
heaven's call, he'd been singing blues with jocko and his daddy,
making syncopation with the devil's band, oh what a sunday

this has come to be, and he'd brought his homely sermons, a little
eucharistic wine, taken crackers from the catholic place on grand,
now the sun was setting, the jays were strutting with their dance,

and pastor jones was wondering if jesus would come down
and take his hand, maybe put him in a chariot of gold, would
wipe his brow all free of earthly sweat, would he take him

from the demon's clutch, but if he'd pawned his absolution, sold
his promise by the pound, could he yet purchase some forgiveness,
find sleep with the ending of the day, or would the train he felt

acoming, simply take his breath away

waiting

he sat behind a mirror, drinking bourbon sweet and sassy
waiting for the sun to rise, waiting for the dawn to warm his
toes, laying riffs upon the window sill, in that same ol' same ol'

and he dreamed, and he tasted old and salty wounds, and he
sang, chasing katydids, waking up the sugar apple trees, and he
laughed, cause days are short and sleeping's lost its way

so he rocked, with his daddy's slow and easy, wrapped in
d.ellington's aharmony in g, waiting for his lies to lose their
joyful ways, and the sun to rise, and the bourbon turn to scotch

?, #3

and who will hold me, when all my days are pawned away
careless lived, careless given with a rush of whim, when
my hours have been jealoused up, and leave me used and hungered

who will make me whispers, sliding through my loopy days
may be i'm hoarse with all my mutters, sitting through these
nights with paper cups of scotch and coca-cola, may be i'm

dancing in my old and twisty steps, sitting by my window,
singing like a romeo beside your bed, and who will remember
when i've forgotten why you love me, and you've forgotten

how to stay
?

untitled #x

and if i sit all loopy, may be sillied, in my banyan tree, joyfulled up
with scotch and fizzle, singing bawdies from sweet granny's music box,
and if i run with jocko, making clamors, waking all the neighbor lads

will i still lose you
?

sammy

are you sleeping, silly sammy, here by highway 95, lying
on the daisies, warm beneath the august sun, are you dreaming,
little fella, miles from all the city's ash, getting comforts

where you may, but i never took you for a country lad, never
knew you found some pleasures far from boylston by the bay,
or has your daddy sent you roaming, off to chase your troubles

far away, have you finished with your poker, poured your
whiskey in the fields, taken solace where the toughs may
let you hide, but are you sleeping softly, sammy, and i can not

see the rising of your pride, or hear your wildsome mutters,
what are these curious bruises, why do they steal the laughter
from your lips, so perhaps i'll keep you company, here on 95

but just until you wake, and we'll go jolly into town, one more time

Thinking of the Bridge of Sighs, here in cloudy San Francisco. Playing poker on the Pont des Arts with tourists from Sienna. Watching the sun set over cold beer at Ydronetta. Or . . .

counting cars

counting cars from iowa, somewhere
round 2am
my next sunset is wracking clamors
gone in me full of shakes
round 3am
sun, go take that other man
leave me some shadow, anywhere
you get so caught in laughing
making up your twisty games
you and i, we've finished
with all our conversations

enough spying, hiding upside down
counting cars from alabam
cadillacs and lincolns
weary me
leather and cubanos
tired sinatra tunes
round 4am
aren't i fierce
and beautiful?
worth the effort
change to spare
do you fancy this endeavor
capital is always welcome
round 5am

the recipe

porcini and truffles, now let me get this straight
heavy cream and butter, you've joined a group for est
garlic must be simmered, isn't that for hippies
take care it doesn't burn, and their designer drugs
add salt to boiling water, but i thought you rather happy
not too much, oh do take care
made the pasta just this morning, organic eggs
flour chosen carefully from warm italian hills
you sleep up in the western wing
feng shui has been consulted
i leave my shoes by the southern door
instructions were included
solar panels, herbal gardens
what more can i do?
you're not
leaving
?

perfect

it was a perfect strike, or am i
playing, and how am i bruised

when i am mesmerized, moisturized
the perfect choice for any one

whose hopes have drifted, edged
toward the idolized, incautious and

reveled in the aisles of safeway
cavorting with a paper sack of

delectables, comestibles, imported
portions of curry, ecstasy with a bit of

fantasy, cause i'll be dressed in black
fitted and labeled, priced and maxed

with a visa once gold, but platinum
is shinier, costlier, embossed with your

name

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