The Lonely Accordion

With all his strength,
He pushes the bellows together
And deftly articulates the sound
With his nimble fingers.

He plays old French songs,
Rarely heard since his youth;
Rarely heard in America.

The sweet waltz fills his dusty apartment,
And a breeze comes through the open window,
Carrying the volatile sounds of the city.

At the last of his strength,
He sets his soul down
And whispers:
"No one reads me like you."

"L.H.O.O.Q.," or, "Leo, Mona, Marcel, and Me"

Mona!
Mona! 
Mona!

What has Dada done?
He spits on your face;
Taunts! Mocks!
Your glory... undone!

But Mona,
What's that you say?
It cannot possibly be true!
That vulgar phrase--
L.H.O.O.Q.

Mad White Horses

You can smell it
Before it begins.
Upon deep inhalation,
The cold penetrates,
Seeping into the brain,
Triggering over-awareness.
Now you realize how quiet it is.
And the altitude;
Imminent...
Imposing...

Rolling in the distance
Growing louder
Like thunder!
Like horses accelerating
From a trot
To a gallop!

Fallen on the train tracks.
There is no way out
Of the path of inevitable danger.

Frantically scale down!
They say do not look down
Or else vertigo ensues.
But nothing could strike more fear
Than looking up
And seeing that wall
Of mad white horses
Frantically charging
Full speed ahead!

O, to be enveloped
In that blanket!
That icy small-pox blanket!
Slow, painful death,
Without a friend
To whisper comforting words.
To whisper, to murmur, to talk
To yell, to scream!
It is screaming above you!
Horses!  Laughing!
Screaming with ecstasy!

All there is to see
Is purgatorial white.
But Saint Peter does not
Whisper comforting words,
Or extend his hand.
No one does.

In this backwards place
There is no up or down
Or right or left.
Only cold and white.
Perhaps by chance,
A foot is sticking out
Of the vast whiteness.
Perhaps while you are still alive,
Someone sees it,
And rescues you.
Perhaps, after you die,
Someone sees it,
And gives you a proper funeral.

But then again,
Is a cold, lonely funeral,
Not appropriate for such a
Cold, lonely man?

Why were you on this mountain
By yourself to begin with?
You knew when you began your ascent
That you would not survive the avalanche;
You can smell it before it begins.

Some Sort of Sense of Companionship

Look:
It's a simple procedure,
Really.
I don't see what all the fuss is about.
It's just like when you get it checked out.

You don't even have to pay for it!
I'll pay for it.

I love you.

The Army From The North

Standing at the banks of the river
I can hear their citizens cheer their heroes.
Always victorious,
They make boys out of the strongest,
Fiercest men we have.

Sometimes, in my most desperate moments,
I consider treason...
But I could never!

Why do I stand here,
On the banks of the river?
It is a tempting river to cross,
And so very,
Very
Shallow.

Some may find it easier to break such young loyalties.
But although these loyalties are young,
They are not untested.

I stand on the southern bank
Because my father stood here,
23 years ago,
When we were victorious.
When, for a fleeting moment,
The Queen bested the King.

O, how I wish I could celebrate--
Not in cheering their beloved army
But in cheering my own.
Just as my father did.

The Girl From Salamanca

She talks to me in the night
Whispering in my ear
Telling me stories

During the day, when she is in the bakery
I am free to daydream about her
Such a wispy beauty!
Her curved spine is but another curve in her figure
Like an old tree
Hugging me with its branches
Fingers like branches--
Long; delicate.

In the evening we meet
Dine on wine and cheese
She makes me laugh.
But not my usual cackle...
An unfamiliar sound escapes me,
Richer than the wine or the cheese.
A deep, hearty laugh.

We retire,
The girl from Salamanca, and I.
The phonograph skips
And she whispers in my ear,
Maybe talking, maybe singing, maybe telling me stories
I cannot tell as I sail off to sleep.
I dream not of her, but with her,
Falling asleep in eachother's arms

The Objects Of Freedom

It is my firmly held belief
That only boring people
Have the capacity to lead a boring life.
Cut from a different mold than I,
I should think.

I will be as free as an airplane!
Or a subway car!
Or as an actor.

Free!  Free!  Free to live where I please
And think what I please.
These things are very important to me.
As are my books
And hats and scarves
And mittens and boots and coats.
Clothes for the summer months too.
For when I return.
Like an airplane,
Or a subway car.

Or a goose,
Coming home to find a quick fix.
Before he leaves again,
When autumn blows in,
This time, for good.

I Remember

Je me souviens
The Rocket
Flying.  A streak of
Dancing Bleu, Blanc, et Rouge

Je me souviens
When the Anglos told
The Rocket
It could not fly

Je me souviens
How the people revolted
The passion of hundreds of years
Of poverty ...Je me souviens

Requiem For An Aging Shoe

I felt so new
So crisp and fully saturated

Now I am worn
Weary
Faded

A year is not a long time
Relatively, for a human
But it is for a shoe

I remember running
Dancing
Being untied

I don’t even look good anymore

Take me to the gallows!
To the electric chair!
To both;
To the telephone wire!
I would rather hang, singed hourly by electricity
Like a leather Prometheus
Than be neglected
Unnoticed
Any longer

An Ode To My Beloved Assistant

The ‘F’ provides the perfect beginning
Like bellows for the fireplace
The lip is pushed into the teeth
Pushing out the hot, suspenseful, stinky breath of profanity
Ffffffffffffffffff…
Like a light fuse of dynamite
Ffffffffffffffffff...
Eyes watch in horror as the spark slides closer to the inevitable
Eyes watch in horror as the mouth forms the first sounds
“He’s not going to say it!”

The ‘U’ is hesitant.
Uhhhhhh…
Suddenly, he remembers hours of childhood punishment
Stool in corner
Soap in mouth
Triggering a million pervasive, frantic thoughts
In his perverse little mind
“Do I dare utter the unholiest of unholies?”
"Do I dare make this pact with satan?"

Finally, with a deafening choke; like a clap of thunder
CK!!!!!!!!!!
It has been done. The deed has been done.
The dynamite explodes, leaving behind only ringing ears, dropped jaws, and rubble
Never has a word, so evil, yet so satisfying, been spoken