the blog has

the blog has become a wall to confront
some is italy and some is me
i wake up swimming in it
sea to si'

which poetic voice to use
something old or something new
what do you want?
what to do?

a friend wants to know a good place to eat
and all of roma pops up in front of me
i’ll come up with an answer when I see him
but for now it’s business as usual

meri and i went to lunch at Pasquali’s
sat the common table for the locals,
the citizens of roma, the head count.
how good can lunch at a family hole in the wall be?

saturday and the cook knows us
red pasta and a half liter of red
as good as it gets
then an electric bus home

presto, that's italian
that sounds like it means

i entered

i entered the windowless garage;
then gave attention to a sun-fraction
that gleamed on my eye as i stood
stolen from a somewhere frozen january dream

falling attentive to the intense stream
that poured into this darkened space,
my mind made mention to air dust
rising liquid white-tinted in the beam

from an up-high hole in the wall
came the length of light shooting,
blowing across my winter illusion
smokey air that swirled like snows

i took a prism from lying around
to hold the glass in the white falling
this caught-broken beam, interrupter of dream,
sans sound, played a colorful serenade scene.

since man's

since man’s meager time on earth
a period quite concise
we’ve sought to find our collective worth
and never are precise

it seems that none who’ve suffered birth
have been able to entice
knowledge to enter at full girth
or, to take one’s own advice

cell phones

leaping to a fast first
the italians took off with cell phones
use and abuse
they were hooked
everyone had one

and used them all the time
everywhere they’d go
in restaurants, stores, on the buses, in their cars
wandering in trances on foot up and down the street

crowding in groups of three or five or six
they’re all on the phone
or stopping one at a time on the sidewalk
waving hands and explaining something
it looked crazy, a mania

and for all the talking
all the talking
everyone talking
you’d think the world would change

and perhaps it has
italians have achieved the highest cell phone rates
in europe

realizing it
as suddenly as it began
they are now talking less

the buffalo

some rainy, foggy, chilly midweek
when secretaries call in sick
and postmen wear goulashes
go to the zoo and take in what’s left

splash along the water-covered concrete
past occasional trees bent, looking away
from the wind’s lick

see the muddy, mucky, peanut-shelled patch
where there stands the buffalo
knee-deep, with dirty, unkempt, matted hair
his eyelids closing out the drizzle
shoulders that held up america

clothed the indians in a montana mountain snow
fed starving wagoneers not quite to the promised land
mark of the plains
symbol of an era

it is fitting that he be visited
for his eyelids are closing now, america

lost him in the sun

he wrote the songs
played and sang them
with incredible american spirit

I’m grateful for
brief contact and
hold longstanding admiration
for all this great artist of our time has given

thank you, john stewart

i had the good fortune to speak briefly with john in ’65
at the north hollywood’s palomino in ’77
and the in the early 90’s in mill valley
where i didn’t know, but she told me,
it was buffy’s mom I gave a ride home in my ‘52 chevy truck

john, it was influential to have heard
your songs calling out to me

the lonesome picker has died
long live his memory
where the chilly winds don't blow
for every daydream believer