WHISKEY AND CIGARETTES

              WHISKEY and CIGARETTES
somewhere at a rusty table
a poet sits,
shaking her hands at what she sees.
a bottle of cheap whisky is open,
with ashes on her lap
listening to gypsy jazz.
it has got cold inside
so she lights up another.
a turtle moves slowly
towards the heat.  Tomorrow
she will write all day, and then
go dancing, but tonite
she translates bad poetry
and it  makes her cry.
the ashes notice and smoulder.
the turtle doesn't care.
she pours herself more whiskey
and thinks of the mountains
where coyotes come down at night
to gobble the turtles.
she doesn't hear sounds of help
so ignores them.  she flings
the bottle at the floor,
turns  the jukebox up, closes
her eyes and lights up another.

POET'S LIFE

I sit here in my studio
the room of my life
sitting in complete blindness
with blank verse and forgotten words
where dust clings to yesterday

unable to give up my innocent past
or the dreams wearing new costumes
suffering with eyeballs that never open
like wall sockets without power
beating  to the beats of my soul

compelled to listen to yesterday forgotten
where nothing is what it seemed to be
offering windows of light and laughter
without conversations with my thoughts
never fearing death only endless nights

exhausted with the exertion of a poet
where words sit alone in prison
tumbling towards an empty page
I remain invisible to the world
opening the gates to another poem

EYE OF A POET

her eye cannot see the color of sound
or the times lost and found
can she see the face of the hawk
echoing the ticking of the clock

can she see the words behind the time
spoken incantations that never rhyme
spinning sounds ear to ear
can she see things only the poet can hear

can she see  the dark sky becoming blue
or write blank verse for you
can she see the smells always hidden
or poems to be forbidden

because everything is in the mind's eye
where unseen memories hide

her eye closes behind the scenes
look closely my friend

FRIDA'S CHAIR.......(Frida Khalo)

this is how it ended-
me sitting in my chair
while the windows shatter,
my body shining with amnion,
flashes of lightning.

and the glass keeps on breaking
as I slip out of my body.

my life  prances  on the rough surface
where plaster cracks.

the sky opens
and I fly out on fire.

rain enters me like nails.  I have a vapour scarf.

I sit erect as the moon's beams hold me.

ice,  you are a frozen wedding-dress
I slide over my head, welcoming  my death.

I wear you dearly as I ignite-
       don't let me come back.

........having just returned from Mexico City and spening time at Frida Khalo's house/studio...inspired by her and Diego Rivera

FLYING COLOURS

every day she stood in her coloured studio
looking at  the colors coming down
and the plane she couldn't reach
leaving it with the presence of absence

with despair in every unused color
green fading to green then green
black to black then black
and the plane waiting for Van Gogh yellow

seeing the dreams she wanted to paint
she plucked the colors from the air
with the shadows on their enigma
falling to the blue painters flesh

slowly twirling to the eternal cracks and space
towards some slow chamber below
her skin feeling the sensations of  falling pigment
flying to a new colour field

CITY LIGHTS

on a hot summer night in North Beach
where street cars dance with gypsies
to the beat of jazz notes blown
with Kerouac and other misfits
dreaming towards another stream of consciousness
baked on heat and apple pie
approaching poems with reckless abandon
reading hot salvages with blemished eyes
puzzled by the shadows of the dancers
and their confident movements of nothingness
with relentless expressions of beauty
wondering what dream brought me to this place
beat poets at City Lights

MANTEL CLOCK

on the mantelpiece counting down the minutes
before another death
ticking on its face of denial
entrapped within its antiqued mind
unable to turn a blind eye
to the shadows of the big room
while the seconds tick away
it grinds away in deadly charm
remembering the momentous death
of the aloof spinster
and the detached life she lived
while watching the handsome dogs
eat the dead parrot
in silence

the ticking stops

GARDEN SCULPTURE

below our welcoming garden
it sits
on a chunk of bleached wood
silent

once it was a root
under soil and moss
fertilizing obsessions of the tree
leaving the limbs high in the sky
for the hungry vultures
waiting for the dead body
and another burial

summer fires had run through its veins
autumn hurled oak burrs
winter icicles fell from above
spring opened up its breath

after the dark storm had roared
I carried it home
dripping with sweat
and ancient drops of light
it was more than a chunk of wood

at home I sat it down
I spoke
it listened
I carved and sanded
it remained silent
alert

lines started to form
around sand-flecked hollows
I sanded
I carved
it smiled
forming into a spirit head
coming back to where it once was

below our welcoming garden
it sits silent
a spirit head

       
                                                                      BLIND DOG

I bought a porcelain dog
at a second hand store
Blind Willie  stands and stares at me
with perpendicular eyes

he needs food
and a water bowl
I need  love
and his bark

we stand frustrated

EIGHT BAR STOOLS

almost every night at ten
they held court at the Cedar Street Tavern
a landscape of rebel poets and painters
defying rules that might be formalized
talking jazz and baseball
guzzling eight oz jugs of beer
drunk

Kerouac was always at stool one
trying to find the next word
another ashtray to piss in
and the road ahead
never sorry

Pollack would sit next to him
dripping paint dropping spills
before kicking in the men's room door
pissing on the unstreched canvas
never missing

Corso sat at stool three
knowing he had been saved
after kicking in cafe window
finding words in prison
never graduating

de Kooning sits at stool four
feeling the desperation in himself
trembling on the bar stool
throwing his melodrama of paint
before falling

Creely sits between the two painters
sitting so patiently
no knowing who he is
presuming he is a poet
never regrettable

Rothko sits in stool six
never being moved by colors
searching for their emotions
and expressing his non-self
always intimate

O'Hara sits on the next stool
waiting for his next catastrophe
eyes vague looking away
being sick to his stomach
too much vodka

Kline always sits at stool eight
looking familiar in his blueness
with images of his emotions
painting in black and white
eight bar stools

POET'S EPITAPH

words of the soul
slowly running thru
the worst and best of me
forever
like my blood
the creek flows
with fear
unafraid of critics
to the forgiving ocean

YESTERDAY'S SLEEP

releasing the dust storm from her eyes
and the broken memories of the past
beneath the dark sky where stars sleep
she arises from her dreaming mind

seeking the truth by starlight
with the mysterious music of Persia
strangled by expectations
she feels the breeze of yesterday

ascending from the bed of rumours
and the thousand years of madness
beneath the dark sky where willows weep
she shivers with yesterday's voices

feeling the aches of broken postures
inflicted upon sleepless nights
high from her addictions
she fears the applause for falling asleep

having lost the imagination of death
with the blurred vision of falling
standing alone at the window

dreaming of yesterday's sleep

GROWING

growing peacefully
rain drops on the fern's shoulders
wetness of July
soil gets ready for more growth
before leaving with winter

SUNDAY HAIKU ....for Mag121

went to the barn this morning
looking for Hank Williams

forgotten memories

     credit Jean Francois de la Motte for photo

WIRED FACE

looking in the mirror he sees
no one else is wired like him

no one will ever know
the depression he feels
his lonliness
the fear he faces

he sees madness all over
psychopaths killing
cheats lying
hurting souls

he is the keeper
of twisted wire
and all the anger around
the guardian of solitude

looking in the mirror he sees
his lonely face wired

NAKED CLOWN

the old clown strips down
a fool stripping to the raw
the audience sits staring
amazed
not even makeup
covers what he shows
his humorous sadness
they came to see

separating the audience and the clown
there trembles silence
and shivering with nakedness
he dances around it
reaching out to touch them
they yell and scream
ladies grab their men
running towards the locked doors

                      credit Marc Chagall with photo

SPIRIT OF A POET

with the rising sun
in the dawning of a new day
a poet's work starts

I sit in a dark attic
awaiting the developing light of day
into the late hours of the night
when tears fall from my eyes

this vigil I must hold
and repel wrongdoings
to nod off and sleep

I know the voice will be heard
before the silence of darkness
receive the sounds with grace

whatever words comes to me
I accept with gratitude
a poem's heart in love

EASTER FEAST

when they sat at the bare table
the tyrants stood watching
knowing it was OK to see the hungry sit
with their empty plates
like beggars with open mouths
abused hungry hookers
and tired thieves

the poor at the table stared
at the quota of cracked shells
they were hungry for dinner
they were surrounded by birds
but had no turkey only water
they drank through rotten teeth
before it lost its taste

after the darkness of hunger
the endless hours of no turkey
the old poet gives up his words
picks up his spoon and knife
puts his plate of poems on the table
carving them up in protest
as the tyrants crack eggs eating turkey

April 5 poem

huge spring snowfall
cloud gods crying
searching for crocus

POETRY MONTH...

April 1

a harsh spring morning
and drunk poets drink
before they write

April 2

thunder in the clouds
cold steel
of her mothers fist

April 3

April how cool
the drunken words
poet's can't find

April 4

as hot water in hell
on a cold dirty road
whores' footprints

STANDING

I was standing inside her nest
in the hole where poets rest
without shoes where birds can't soar
listening to Ginsberg howl and roar

with no courage I watched in awe
an old poet perform without flaw
having words he wouldn't share
his beat poems beyond compare

teaching birds the spoken word
without lessons not to be heard
he would emanate if he chose
or disappear if your mouth would close

a tired poet with wizard's powers
knowing I was watching he gave flowers
my soul embraced such a word guru
who freely gave his poems too

THREE FACES OF ANN

Ann is looking at herself
fogged in a master of disguise
hiding from her broken past
DEPRESSED

beneath the cracks in the mirror
glamoured by nighttime makeup
her eyes emerge within the paint
SEDUCTIVE

looking without cuckoo illusions
cleared of yesterday dreams
Ann sees beyond the mirror
SERENE

BURMA SHAVE

somewhere South of Seattle
four deaf old poets
cruise down highway 99
in their rusted '52 Mercury
searching for new words
god and Charlie Darwin

off the beaten track towards the beatnik path
they eject their unwanted poems
against the smashed dashboard
hearing nothing but rejections
broken by monotony
seeing nothing but the signs along the way

SPECIAL SEATS

RESERVED IN HELL

FOR WHISKERED POETS

WHO SCRATCH

THEIR LADIES

BURMA-SHAVE


.....an explanation for you youngsters under 55....back in the 40s and 50s driving down the 2 lane highways across America...there were signs at different points spaced approx 100 ft apart advertising a shaving cream.....BURMA-SHAVE

CITY LIGHTS

her world was a black hole of emptiness
a hollow home where the sun never shines
raining dust between the storms
where fingertips search beyond despair
and walk towards a new neighborhood
searching for City Lights

she wondered why she was still alive
in a world of forgotten nothingness
pouring darkness from the storm
unable to see the path to remember
and read her unspoken words
to the dead poets at City Lights

uncomfortable with midnight at high noon
she discarded old thoughts and decided to leave
finding the door that was unlocked
she discovered the truth about herself
and walked with her dark poems
to read at City Lights

HUNGER PAINS

Walking on the hungry sidewalk, I met a homeless lady who
took me to her shelter. The shelter had nothing, just
two wet tarpaulins. She invited me to stay and sleep, though
I hadn't had a meal in a week.

"When we awake we shall find food," she muttered, and stroked
my beard to comfort me.

I dreamt of chickens roasting, grease dripping like gravy
from their beaks. There was a hole in my stomach when I awoke,
in which I could see the emptiness.


chickens munching
on grain - hungry
beaks side by side

AT THE CREEK

by her creek of solitude the ravens are calling
and over the smooth rocks water is falling
flowing from the mountains where moss and sedge
caress with softness the roots and ledge
beneath branches of cedar and birch bower
shine the light towards the forest flower
more quiet than dreams and softer than ringing
the birds with their zen notes are singing

the high-voiced chickadees feeding at day time
they whistle summer songs of winter-time
when the raven's shadow lurks and branches hurtle
the chickadees fly for cover under branches of myrtle
when rain and rays of sun grow together
they sing with Buddha not to worry about weather
and below the rainbow of feathers unfolden
there is yellow and green like golden

she sits by the creek remembering childhood
listening to the sounds and colors of the wildwood
holding the silence of youth without fashion
words of the beats mixed with heartbeats of passion
rock and blues strung together with laughter
like the chickadees above in the forest rafter
far from the city and that black alley
here in the moment above the mountain valley
not caring or being sore of any losses
sitting at the creek staring at the mosses


credit photo Wayne Pitchko

SUPERMARKET ART

he was strolling down aisle four
a solitary street towards frozen foods
fatigued by plenty of breathing
and too much Kerouac
searching for his canned whore

walking all day without shopping
a death march of overstocked shelves
rushed by the deadline of failure
and too many uppers
running towards more pill popping

he stopped at the congregation of boredom
a self-conscious row of soup cans
touched by visions of pop art
and to many Camel cigs
Andy Warhol silk screened some

DEAD LOVER

I started out as a fallen seed
some offspring of a mature cedar
growing up next to a pine
stranded beside the creek
like two parallel soldiers standing guard

seizing the warmth of the sun
never talking
sometimes whispering in the breeze
we grew together
branch by branch we started holding hands

as the years went by we became closer
entangled in each others branches
we fed our friendly woodpeckers
shared our space with a squirrel family
listened to the advice of the raven

surviving another forest fire
thinking we would die together
cuddled in each others arms
always saluting the sky
life started to change

being attacked by the pine beetles
Jack started to change color
green..yellow..rusty red
turning blue with grey spot
slowly I watched him die
in my arms

DESERT PHONE BOOTH

fifty miles from the interstate
in the middle of Black Rock Desert
riding on a rented bicycle
bound for Burning Man
stopping at the last phone booth
when the phone rings

within the absence of my shadow
and my lost soul
I let it ring five hundred times
before answering the calling cactus
from the motherboard of Burning Man
lighting up the booth one more time

after three hours of waiting
and trapped by the miseries of mystics
I heard her pause
then cough five hundred times
before turning off the lights
for the last time

NO FINGERS

he wrote his last poem drunk
a man in pain that couldn't write
an unemployed wino who couldn't work
or light his cigarette

he lived in a small room of madness
living lessons never learned
an east end preacher who couldn't preach
or turn the pages

he died in a skid road hotel lost
with his sleeping bag beside him
an old poet who couldn't read
or tie his laces

CHECKMATE

like a ghost that hasn't made peace
with the black rooks
she lies with them
inundated by the shadows below her
one move at a time
a white queen surrenders to the rooks

when one move was not good as another
remembering the knights last move
that plumbs deep into her soul
she made a gracious bow to the audience
with abstractions without smoke or flame
moving without pawns to protect her

forgiven forgotten and unfulfilled
Plath headed for emergency exit
towards the darker intensities
and sunless depths of the sea
looking for that distant flame
she turned on the gas

WALKING IN HIS MOCCASINS

we should all walk in his moccasins
a wide path beginning in the plains
walking up snow covered mountains
along rivers towards the oceans
across the lonely deserts
battling the dark nights
where the stars lead the way
towards that full moon

where the buffalo flies in the sky
with visions sent by the Great Spirit
and day and night dwell together
respecting the sacred web of life
preserving the land that is sacred to all
like the silent footsteps of spring
and the changing prints of autumn
the earth is part of us

where the ravens swim in the ocean
with powers of the medicine man
and colors live in harmony
remembering the wisdom of elders
knowing the stones are wiser than you
like the warm footsteps of summer
and cold truth of winter
we are part of the earth

if we walked in his moccasins
we would see the width of his plains
feel the warmth of her mountains
look after the rivers and oceans
sleep in their deserts
share the darkness of the night
with the brightness of the stars
circling the full moon together

HOLDING HIS DREAM

he didn't see the days of freedom
only imprisonment for subversive political activities
troubled by critics
disappointed in love
always holding that Bolshevik dream

from the vantage point of Novodevichy Cemetery
he reached out for himself
beyond his rose covered bed
with two hands of rejection
holding his red dream

indulging in fantasy and suffering
frustrated by thoughtless lies
alienated from soviet reality
Mayakovsky the revolutionary poet shot himself
with his gun holding his dream

ISADORA GOING DOWNHILL

she danced with fire and terror
beside the October Revolution
and Bolshevik poet who committed suicide

a free thinking woman
a pioneer of modern dance
changing people's ideas of ballet
with attitudes on free love and lifestyle

like a Hellenic nymph
creating with her SILVER soul
and voluptuous values of working class
celebrating beauty and female body

bare foot and loose hair
always attacking the system
with her unconventional movements
living with her own rules

she died of a FREAK accident
strangled when her flowing scarf tangled
in the real wheel of her automobile
Isadora going DOWNHILL

BOHEMIAN POETRY CIRCLE

a loose group of literary beats
sit in some basement bar
lights out
curtains down
smoking
unable to see their whiskey
or another blue sky glimpse

old poets growing old
unable to write anymore
no longer wanting to be disturbed
or shaped by conductors of words
or publish another BRUTAL poem
they sit in darkness staying drunk
fighting their SULLEN fate

forgotten bohemian poets
with uneasy reflections of yesterday
and their dead perfume
disputing their agonies and fears
with the whiskey of their silence
they no longer know the TRUTH
or how to lie

GRAND LADY

she stands alone
somewhere between intimacy
and chaotic Times Square
sometimes loud sometimes soft
remembering days that used to be

the fading cracks on her face
reminds us of acts of yesterday
Fanny and Gypsy Rose Lee
a pre-eminent vaudeville act
standing tall

inside she remains gorgeous
hanging with the crystal chandeliers
and the ghost of some acrobat
falling to his death on the mezzanine
while laughing at Burns and Allen

outside she still stands tall
looking over the statue of Father Duffy
and the madness of the Square
needing repair but not shattered
The Palace... our Grand Lady

FROZEN FEET

she stands knee deep in snow
unable to take another step
or follow the path of life
frozen in time
my rusty lady with frozen feet

how long has she stood here?
with her rusted Sufi thoughts
riveted with naughty memories
only her welded mouth could tell

with her glacier conscience
without any zenith of desire
unable to bleed in the crippling snow
she listens to the frozen field

her tactic and strategy is to wait
for her Sufi friend to melt the snow
with the summer of his mind
and thaw the veins of winter
so she can walk to the pond

THAT RIVER

at our creek this morning
I simply watch
feeling the magic
of this special place
whose source is hidden
just let it go and let it run
the small stream will grow

letting it flow beyond boundaries
over the pebbles of life
in touch with roots and moss
accumulating images from beyond
demanding freedom from underground
where everything emerges into one
and a small stream will grow

moving on with absolute trust
before another storm arrives
awash with another day of dreams
flowing towards the sea of possibilities
where memories drown beneath yesterday
and fly above above the mysteries of god
the small stream will grow

bound and determined
without concern for the dead birch
preparing for the conditions ahead
and the firmness in its commitment
with self trust and wisdom
the small stream will grow
and become that river