Form the Dough


'Gonna go to the Louvre Museum and hurl myself against the wall.
Cuz it aint that pretty at all.'
Warren Zevon

If you could throw your humanity on the canvas
what would it look like?
Would it be a Jackson Pollack
or just spaghetti on the wall?
And would you have the courage not to look away?
And what's the difference anyway?

And nothingness is the hardest to express--
for language just gets in the way.
just a clever invention to obstruct communication
and broken english is better
but still not as good as a grunt.
Sometimes the most futile gesture is best.

And skating on the surface is so much easier
and most of us call that life.

For it's awful cold down in the well
and one is not sure just what lurks there
And the gatekeeper is a demanding old hag
and some of us just turn to stone.
Or lose an ear and a few idols in the process.
and if we could push past Freud
and get down with Jung
would we just find lead?
Even my best friends, they don't know.

And Bukowski whispers:
'It takes a whole lot of
desperation, dissatisfaction
and disillusion to write a few good poems
it's not for everybody either to
write it or read it.'

And what is beauty--
but leaves blowing in the wind.
or seaweed on a Cranian tide?
Or that which seems to make Time cease?
Or just the shadows of
our wasted humanity
hidden even from ourselves?

And i skate on the surface
but her arms are so long
and her hair is the seaweed
and she knows just how to call
and how to take me down.
And it may be drowning.
but we're not alone.

And the one with the loudest voice
called us all together
and we gathered around
and we called it a movement
and there's safety in numbers
but the only thing that moved was his bank account.
And he forgot all about how he'd gotten there.
and we stare at our navels
and try to fill in the holes
but only hear echoes
of Narcissus's ironic laugh
And like parasites
we feed off each other--
but as imperfect as we are that must be love.
And it's not at all what makes the world go round.
Or any other Hallmark beer commercial.
It's the hope of which that makes us go on.
Here and beyond.

And Derrida and the Masters of Industry
are a clever bunch
like vultures they strip away
whatever gets in their way.
and feast on the crumbs
of a dying culture.
And this we call success and progress.

And we stare at our navels
and try to fill in the holes.
and forget all along--
that it's just play dough.

And they are right about one thing--
we do need to strip
And let our sighs and grunts
be a new beginning.
And form the dough we were given.

Democracy is Coming


'Democracy is coming to the USA' Leonard Cohen

It's coming from the prairie states
it's coming from the fruit in the ground
it's coming from the sand
it's coming from the hoods
it's coming from the dead
it's coming from the victims
it's coming from the heartland
and the ghost of the family
it's coming from the disconnect
that we all feel

it's coming from the workers
it's coming from the little tube
it's coming from the cubicles
it's coming from the youth
killing and dying for some kind of soul
it's coming from the hood
it's coming from Charlton Heston
it's coming from Spengler
it's coming from the ghosts
it's coming from the disconnect
that we all feel

It's coming from those
dying for a little healthcare
it's coming from those needing a little heat
it's coming from the factories
it's coming from the glowing rivers
and the road rage in the streets
it's coming from the Amazon
wheezing and winding along
it's coming from the god of the Ozone
it's coming from the farmer that bulldozed McDonald's
it's coming from the disconnect
we all feel

it's coming from the Vets
it's coming from the golf courses
it's coming from the banks
it's coming from Reagan's head
it's coming from Johnson's chest
it's coming from Kennedy's side
it's coming from the final hubris
it's coming from Bill's pubis
it's coming from Monica
who said Close but no cigar
And from Bush's mouth
just turn down the sound
and his talking heads too
and there subliminally, he says:
His name is Robert Paulson
His name is Robert Paulson
It's coming from the disconnect
we all feel

It's coming from Chile and all around
and the ghost of Allende
it's coming from the streets of Colombia
it's coming from our secret little groups
it's coming from all that collateral damage
it's coming from the circus halls of justice
it's coming from the farmer that bulldozed McDonald's
it's coming from Pat Robertson
and all that canned laughter
And Slim Pickens, too
holding on for dear life with a smile at the end
It's coming from the disconnect
from that which we do and that which we feel
from that which we are and that which we could be

It's coming from Howlin' Wolf and Mr. Ed
and W.B. Yeats, too
the best are gathering up their convictions
hope it's not too late
It's coming from our cynicism--
time to change its face.
Time to take ourselves back.

And sing along with Laughing Lenny:


Oh yes democracy is coming
to the usa.
oh yeah.
baby.
it's coming.

Just a drop


'Just a little spoonful of your precious love
satisfy my soul.' Howlin' Wolf

From the exile of some cold tile
so far away from a home
that never was.
that may never be.
all i can do is dream.
and yet in her absence
i dont even know what that's about.
and i can't remember if
the tears finally broke free
or if the neighbors heard.
or if the pillows stopped muffling.
and i can't remember if i called her up
or she me.

Or if it was her blood or mine
I could've sworn she called it gold, once.
on these sheets
in these wounds.
and i thought the healing might come
this time.
or at least begin.
but i can't begin a damn thing
and i need something to hold.
sometimes her ghost will do.
sometimes it won't.
and the barn is filled with echoes.
and the animals seem to wince.
and there on the carpet once
she called me out
and i down on my knees
called it love
and if not i said pretend
and she said she pretended not
and it was but a drop
and aint it all but a drop here?

and i gave her a mirror
and we called that love
and she broke it over my head
and i called her a friend
but i pounded on her door
in the freezing rain
I called her my nymph
she called me a prick and a cab
i said you can't go
you're my Anima
and she said you're an ass

and i don't know why
we continue to stab ourselves
over and over
and our best parts too
and why we keep replaying
the same old
reel to reel
busted 8 track reeling
is prozac the best we can do?

and clone this, motherfucker
where is the technology
inside ourselves?
market this, motherfucker
and still we call it love.
and still we long for more.
and it's just a drop
aint it just a drop down here?

A Bag from Portugal

"Still out here in the wind and rain
I look a little older, but i feel no pain
And it stands to reason, i'm still lookin' for love'
Warren Zevon, 'Lord Byron's Luggage'

When I was in Portugal
my love gave me a bag
filled with ancient arts--
sometimes heavy, sometimes light
A bag so ugly,
I just had to smile.

When I was in New York City
a dead man lay on the ground
everyone stepped over him,
with neither pause nor sound.

And it was then that I lost my sight.

I stumbled down dark, twisted alleyways
until I heard the tinkling of coins
falling through broken cups,
disenfranchised angels
inhaling holy clay
blowing out goddust
like water bubbles
through cracked vessels
trying to hold onto
what they were blowing for

And that's when I heard Coltrane play
and I felt the first crispness of fall--
and the light just behind the light in fall.

And for a moment I forgot all about the hole.

When I was in Spain
I saw the great cathedrals
and wept--
my tears flooded the streets,
mixing with the blood of fallen bulls.
I wept and tasted the wine.

When I was in Saudi
I deeply inhaled the betrayal
from the open bag--
and walked out onto the ledge,
ready to jump.

But our dog, Elmo, appeared--
a formation in the clouds,
jumping in an ecstasy
so ephemeral and yet profound.
And he stayed in that Fool's pose
just long enough to let me know--
that this is how it sometimes goes.

And now I squat in this abandoned shack
listening to the polluted river flow
flowing with more floating Wilsons
than even Hanks Williams could know.

And I wait--
for the crispness
to come back around
for the silence that waits
just behind the sound.

And I know it's just an ugly old bag--
but I carry it with me wherever I go.