In the War they don’t ask questions.
That’s the thing about War.
It’s not what you ask that gets you killed.
It’s the answer you don’t like.
So, someday when you aren’t rich
you’ll say, terrible shit about the War.
Politicians. They know the
War. I know the back room at
the Palace… Run away? No.
Vietnam ended decades back.
No chance of a repeat.
Old soldiers are buried.
Resting under sod and dreaming
of the next millennium.

Patton thought he was reincarnated
and fought the Persians.
I’m not sure I fought Wars.
I don’t think I would have, but then
I’m not Patton.

Ignore the fissure under Yellowstone,
Ignore the lights over Erie,
Ignore the bees aloft over I-80 West,
Ignore the sigh in the North Woods,
Ignore Denver, laughing in the cold,
Ignore Miami giving birth,
Ignore the smokers in the back booth,
Ignore the raccoon in the trash,
Ignore the wolf in the pale yellow cardigan,
Ignore the trucker in the gown,
Ignore the painter draped in red,
Ignore Mercury rising in the east,
Ignore Big Sur pulling his pants on,
Ignore Kansas City turning off the lights.
Ignore the flash, there’s more to come,
Ignore the hooker, she’s turning pale,
Ignore the cop, he’s in on the take,
Ignore the American Consulate in Rome.
Ignore the skylights and the sad planets,
Ignore Bass Lake, and Keno and Reno.
Ignore the ride—focus on the politicians.
Ignore the best steakhouse in St. Louis.
Ignore the diagnosis, focus on the game.

Did you sense fear in her eyes?
Elaine’s eyes? Could it be the audit?
Did you witness the pre-tsunami calm,
In Norman’s response? The allegations
Stand on their own, don’t they?
Was there sudden purpose in Cal’s
Wing-tips as he approached the stairway?
Was his medication left conveniently
In his car? Was something approaching
A prayer, uttered by an unbeknown as
The door closed softly behind us?
Could funds have been mishandled?
Could funds have been misappropriated?
Toxic questions abound and rise like the acidic
Odor from a green marker on a board room
White board. Like the soft glow and well
Balanced and expertly timed, Blame.
Recall Ashford. Pale and insistent, to the
End. How he lingered, near the exit.
Chest heaving like a winded sled dog.
And poor, ever dry, Elizabeth!
Her reading glasses resting upon the mahogany
Table. I so recall her inappropriate laugh, and
Her most distracting cough.

The gallery is closed my dear.
Not for a private showing,
and not for the season.
The gallery is closed forever!
The off-white walls are stripped
and the nail holes patched.
In Asclepius’ pastel alcove
you’ll find now, a darkened
gaping hole—the bust swept
away on a pushcart by a man
in grey coveralls.
To storage, is the recent rumor.

To the young man who worshiped
J. Pollack: his best effort has
been drip dried and refrozen and
analyzed by at least a dozen would-be
scholars before being loaded onto the
bed of a trailer bound for the coast.

It’s over now!

The hushed voices that once
whispered in verbose discourse,
have run out of snoot nosed drivel.
A renown University Professor has
driven back to Milwaukee—
undaunted and unchallenged.
The Great Corridor — Where once
the occasional raised eyebrow
or stem of horn rimmed eyeglasses
pointed toward a piece of overly fluffed
importance is empty and currently
filled with pale, un-circulated
mid-September air.

The chamber where champagne
flute glasses often touched,
and the hierarchy once circulated,
is now devoid of geometric structure
or even a mention in the local
weekly.

How sad, you say.
As the ventilation system
was once the envy
of the Upper Midwest.
So important for preservation.
The one eyed cat sits at the threshold.
An old man on his cane awaits
the next bus. Unaware.

It’s over now! Drab still. Forsaken.  
Think of that young man from Toledo,
who worshipped Bortero.
His paintings have been taken away,
no cause worth suffering twice.

Come sit with me now
on this beach
2 thousand miles
from Sin City &
twelve hundred miles
from the Verrazano.
Join me in the rebellion.
Choose your gear
wisely, bring your
Chaise lounge circa 1979,
and your lime green bikini.
Sit near the water.
Sit so close you can hear
the muddled masses
crying out from
across the water.
They whisper sweet,
in timeless incognito
voices,
that rebound off the
sunken pillars of great stones
of the lost Atlantis…

Be still — it’s nearly high tide
and dinner is in the slow cooker.
The red wine is cold and waiting.
Come sit with me now before
the ages take us too.

Is this our refuge?
Or is this our fate?
She asks me this as
we lie upon the
white unbroken
sands of
Miami Beach.
Only hours
before –
we drank
white wine
and toasted the
snowbirds
down from
the Cape
and New Jersey
and
Grosse Point.

There’s no
bad weather
for us she
says,
I can put it
all behind me.

Not me
said I.
I have
no time
to be idle.
I’ll spend my
days writing
poetry
and volunteering
for
beach cleanup.

Then I’ll read Nietzsche,
she says:
It’s all happened before,
and will happen again.

Then I go:
Let’s order a bottle of
absinthe and we
can drink easily
in the long shadows
of late evening.
We can press Old Man Time’s
patience to the limit.

She says:
Tic toc, let the old fool
unwind like the Seth Thomas
clock on your Grandma Pearl’s
mantle.

Bring your easel, I say,
you can paint evening
better than anyone.

I tried meditation once,
as they told me,
‘it will clear your mind’
Why clear it,
 I said back
to them.

 I’ll just have
to re-load it
won’t I?

But you will be
at peace
they said,
and I returned
fire and said
screw Peace
give me
low-level conflict
and
 a quiet place to sleep
at night.

It will restore your soul
 they said
but I told them
souls are
deeply personal
matters.
If they can be restored
the cost might
be prohibitive.

But don’t you want to
resonate with the Universe
they said.
And I told them
that I had given
up on that.

Don’t turn around
there’s nothing to see.

Even if you want to look
don’t do it, remember,
it’s an archive
on the big Guy’s
celestial hard drive.

Ahead are the stars –
elusive little pin-pricks
aren’t they?
Sitting out there,
some close,
others
a quintillion miles
away.

Look too long at the
nearest one you’ll
go blind.

Look for furthest one,
you’ll die before you find it.

Pick Logical Star.

It’s the one you could pick off with
one of those amusement park
.22 rifles.
Give it a name.

Call her Harry.

It’s your star now.
Do it before the late night
fog
rolls in from the bay.
Above all,
don’t look back.