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Veterans Day

He was drafted

a hot prospect

by the Giants in ‘67

infantryman

by the Army in ‘68

Somewhere north

of the Mekong Delta

pitching for Charlie Company

My Lai

with the bases loaded

he blew out his

mind.

Today

no dugouts or bullpens

in this ward of word slobber

He stands bent

starring home

through Eastwood eyes

waiting for a sign.

Dust dancing

in the sunlight

like confetti

from the world series

L’amoureux

Fortune teller

layered in loose

Roma silk

Long fingers turn

“The Lovers”

up

on black

satin.

Glass beads

dangle down

breasts tattooed

the color of age.

Dance your

gypsy prism

of circling

red silk

caressing

the curves.

Cast your

gypsy eyes

slowly

seeking

sacred seduction.

Myth of

candle light

your

spell

plays

out.

Emma

barn-wood face

faded print dress

over a hunched frame

knee-hose rolled

watches tourists

tying down

genuine Amish buggy wheels.

“Now they’ll go stick ‘em

in the ground,” she tells me.

“Somedays it’s better than

a picture show.”

Hilton Translations

Your palace last

night in vodka

dreams

pretending I was

The King of Prussia.

You

the virgin princess

dark hair spilling

over the edge,

translating sonnets

on satin sheets.

In old darkness

I leave you

hating hotel rooms

while spending your lifetime

trying

to get the words

right.

Hamburger Cemetery

HAMBURGER CEMETERY

So the wind won’t blow it all away

--Richard Brautigan

Richard,

do you know

that Please Plant This Book

Goes for $1500 on

Amazon…

You

gave it away for free.

Critics said someday everyone

would be writing Brautigans

that Brautigan is good for you.

You should be trout fishing

in America

casting broken

marriages

in Rembrandt Creek

still tying wet flies

& dry flies

together with metaphors

similes.

You should have bought

a hamburger from Baudelaire

at Big Sur

that day

versus

the .44 shells and bottle

of Jack Black left

in dead

darkness.

I wish you had been

hungry instead

for a hamburger

in that October god-damn

god-damn.

SLEEPING DOGS

Back when T. V. was black and
white. Test patterns--
still frame westerns of
Tonto profiled on a target.
Back when Ol' Yeller died
every time, never changed.
Saturday afternoons,
Lassie came home to
lick Timmy's face,
it didn't matter.

Saturday afternoons
young boys cried...
Before Nam when Combat
made us backyard
soldiers,
killing krauts.
Red-faced boys
behind evergreens,
ratatat-tat.
"You're dead".
am not.

Back when Aunt Bea
made cherry cobbler
and Pa took Opie
fishin' at Miller's
Lake; skipping
rocks that rippled
out to sleeping
dogs on Saturday
afternoons
when young boys
cried,
wiped tears before
Dads could see.

JAMAICA FAREWELL

You forced me to use words I didn't
want. Repeated in structured form
like women taking off their clothes.
It could have been the moon
or Jamaican nights caught naked
by the beams through the thatch.

I know you tried but you weren't
the first to walk this sand
forgetting the reason you came.
Lizards watch, slip through
the floor, scratch Sestinas
on the beach.

Outside, blowfish die waiting
for the tide.