***

With every poem

I bare new skin,

More my own.

At the daybreak,

When night’s slow breath

Still fogs the valley,

A silent tree

Against the gray sky

Speaks to me.

***

  Jack and Jill

(or Scarlet Rose)

Jack and Jill

Went up the hill

To fetch a pail of water . . .

Jack was a poor

Blind boy who,

When he was little,

Soon after his father’s death

And his mother’s re-marriage,

Fell on his mother’s brooch

And poked his eyes out,

By chance.

Jill was a poor

Lame girl who,

When her father went to a war

And her mother took a new husband,

Fell into a trapdoor

Her mother left open,

By chance,

And broke her leg.

On top of the hill

The view was lovely

But neither Jack nor Jill

Saw it.

Jack also could not see

How lovely Jill was

For — remember? — poor boy,

He was blinded

When he was only three.

Jill also could not see

How beautiful Jack was

For — remember? — poor girl,

Her broken leg still hurt.

But she felt his strong arms

Holding the handle of the pail,

And remembered something

She could not tell what,

But it felt nice.

And Jack touches her hand too,

Small and slender.

Something stirred in his breast

He knew not what,

But it felt nice.

So they thought,

Poor little devils,

That they were in love.

They stayed up on the hill,

Playing so,

Until Jack’s mother

Who waited for her pail of water,

In vain,

Came up and found Jack and Jill

Playing so.

She was angry with Jack

For wasting his time,

And she told Jill’s mother

That Jack and Jill

Played on the hill,

Naughtily,

With each other.

Jill’s mother was very angry,

For some strange reason,

And she called Jill “a whore,”

And a dirty little girl

Who was lost forever

To God’s grace.

(For Jill’s mother was

A pious and virtuous woman.)

When Jack and Jill grew up,

They got married, like all people do,

Sooner or later.

They were happy,

For a while,

For they remembered

How they held each others’ hands

On top of the hill,

Many months ago.

Jill did not want

To have children

Of her own

For maybe she was afraid

That one day

She would leave the trapdoor open,

By chance,

And her poor child

Would break her leg.

But she got pregnant,

Anyway,

And had a daughter,

And she called her Jill,

For some reason.

Jack was still blind

And could not see

How beautiful his two Jills

Were.

His world was so dark,

He started drinking.

When he was drunk,

He would flail his arms about,

So fearfully, or in a blind rage,

He knew not which.

He was afraid that

He could hit one of his Jills,

By mistake.

Finally, they parted.

Jill was very unhappy

Having a blind drunk husband

Forever angry, or scared

At something one could not see,

Or touch.

Jack was afraid that one day

He would hit one of his Jills

By mistake.

Jack went into a nearby desert

For he thought that if he

Meditated in the desert

Long enough

He would see inner light

At least.

Jill, when her daughter grew up,

Became a psychiatric nurse.

She had so much love to give

To these poor little devils

Who at times called her “an angel.”

As her love flowed

Free,

She started praying

First to her father in heaven

And later to Virgin Mary.

In the meantime,

Jack became very good

At meditation

And saw flashes of light

Sometimes.

Finally, he went back to the world

And started teaching.

He said that light and love and peace

Were really one and the same thing,

Funny fellow.

Some people thought

That he was nuts,

Bubbling so.

When war broke out

His talk of peace within

Upset them.

So they sent him

To a mental home

Out of harm’s way.

But he kept talking

Even there

Of inner light and peace

So they thought

It would be better

For everyone

If the light

Went out.

That night, Jill

Stayed for a second shift

And heard someone cry,

Faintly, calling

His father’s name

In a strangled voice.

She rushed in and stopped

The terrible crime.

Jack and Jill were old now

But they recognized each other,

Nonetheless.

For scales fell

Off Jack’s eyes

When he called his

Father’s name

In the darkest hour.

He asked Jill if her leg hurt

And she said she forgot her

Broken leg

When mending

Broken hearts.

And they cried

In each other’s arms

A very long time

For they saw

How beautiful they were

For the first time.

And Jill gave Jack

A scarlet rose

As a token of her love.

And they knew that the hill

They went to fetch a pail

Of water from, long ago,

Was called Penence Hill.

Everything would have been

Much simpler

If only the trapdoor was shut

And the brooch blunt.

But then, they would never have fetched

A pail of water

And learnt what love really meant...

Aaaahhhh . . .

go back

***

Chernobyl

Black grass sways over Chernobyl.

The heart of Russia,

The heart of the world.

Smudged with sooty tears,

Russia weeps, silent.

Chernobyl is the sick heart of Russia.

Each throb — a memory

Of the past, and future:

The wild Khazars roam

The darkened steppe, howling

Like homeless spirits;

Hasidic bones

Melt down

In your new inferno.

Bewildered pilgrims,

Smooth-shaven by mute terror,

Walk the wasteland

Pointing their peeling fingers

Back, towards the unseen.

Survivors of a camp,

The likes of which

You haven’t seen, yet.

I run my fingers along the swaying grass,

Listen to the dusty wind,

Look into the waves of the Dnieper.

I see Oleg sail

To vanquish proud Greeks,

Himself vanquished

By a mere snake.

I see Igor slaughter pagans,

And pagans split his white loins

Like a roast pig.

I hear the young Svyatoslav

Repeat the old refrain:

“Attack against one,

Defend against two,

Hold out against three,

Run away from four.”

Now

Your enemy

Is legion,

Russia.

Unseen,

Like your past deeds,

And the souls

Of your dead ancestors.

Ah, you listened to them again,

Clever talkers,

With brand new words:

Containment, not contentment,

Attainment, not atonement,

Power, not prudence.

They’ve talked you

Into a bargain

That may break your back

And your bank.

Black grass sways over Chernobyl.

The mass graves lie,

Quiet, pensive.

Old women hide from rescue

In quiet corners.

Dogs piss on pedestals,

Unmolested.

Linen flaps in the wind,

The blackest wash

In Europe.

Are you chosen,

Russia,

To atone

For man’s hubris?

Dnieper, the quiet Dnieper,

Your heart’s carotid,

Carries its silent cargo

Through the land, once fertile,

The metastases

Of your unspoken anguish,

Washing your dark bones

On the way to the sea.

Will you awaken,

Russia,

From your dream

Of man’s ruthless glory?

Can’t you see?

Is the omen not clear?

Your enemy

Is inside.

Don’t paint his face,

In strange colors.

Like a shadow,

He’ll haunt you

For жons to come,

Until you meet him,

Past and future,

Unafraid,

Without guile.

go back

***

A Small Step for Humankind . . .

Some people dance with stars

Some — with starfish.

Some explode

Into the weightless womb

Of the sky

At the tip

Of Apollo’s phallus,

Some — crawl into a pie

Of their submarine

Pressed deep into the ocean’s

Coral-lipped vagina

By water’s immense hug.

Some are the break-out types:

Jail-breakers, dancers,

Adventurers, astronauts,

Flamers, pilots, tax evaders,

Singers, skydivers, geologists,

Tightrope walkers, astronomers.

Some are the break-in types:

Burglars, scientists,

Rapists, tax auditors,

Spies, Peeping Toms,

Psychiatrists, demolition experts,

Ventriloquists.

Can you see a Cousteau

Making a small step on the Moon?

Or John Glenn boarding a Calypso?

A Flashing Tom?

An underwater astronaut?

An operatic ventriloquist?

What is the mystery

That scatters us so?

Is there a womb

In everyone’s heart

Where earth and sky meet

And each ventricle is

A window

To cosmos?

Yes my friend,

But the smallest step within

Is a giant leap of faith . . .

go back

***

The Prodigal Cosmonaut

Man is a seed,

First safe and anonymous,

Then bursting into the finite

Uniqueness of a flower;

Then the homeward journey,

The second childhood,

Of another seed.

He leaves the garden

In the gullet

Of a strange bird,

Exiled from paradise,

To fall, perchance,

On a rocky cliff

Or a verdant green.

His bird

Is a spaceship.

He — an adolescent

Leaving the Mother-Earth

For the big cosmic smoke.

The hurts

And the unfinished labors

Are left behind.

Pack your best clothes

Youngster,

Into your own

Suitcase

Bought with mother’s pension.

Eager, impatient,

Expectant.

He leaves,

Barely saying good-bye.

We know,

He’ll come back.

Chastised,

More loving,

His homeward journey

A flowering

Into wisdom.

The mother will greet him.

They’ll embrace,

Silent,

His battered suitcase,

Unopened,

Full of old toys

At the door.

go back

***

To Pushkin

They killed you,

The curly-haired cherub,

They called a monkey.

Your wife,

Russia’s first beauty,

Fit for Czar’s royal prick,

Embraced by a half-Moor

Half-ape —

That was unbearable!

Your thick-lipped mouth

Spouting sublime verse

Was worse than the talking apes

Of today.

It scared both the nun

And the countess

Out of their frilly pants.

True, the rabble and the rebels

Loved you.

But not enough to save you.

They loved you even more

Through the pure flower

Of your death,

Untainted for once

By debts, and scorn,

And the turbid

Delights of your

Untamed flesh.

Your own sweet wife

Was your Judas.

Your executioner,

As foretold,

Was a Weissermensch —

The blondest beast

Of the Hussar guard.

You knew your time,

And wrote your last poem

The red tapestry

On a pure white canvass

Laid for you

By your beloved winter.

Instead of thorns

They gave you enemas

Into your bleeding guts.

Sweet blackberry jam

Fed by the Judas’s own feline hand

Into your mouth,

Twisted by the vinegar of pain.

Then, like a dog

In a sack,

Into the frozen earth

So your ashes would not speak.

Later, a new Weissermensch

Scattered them

To the four winds

With a ton of TNT.

But in vain!

You are alive,

Your poet’s soul,

Ripened by eternity,

Still sings.

Your time has come.

Mozart and Salieri,

Pushkin and D’Anthes

Abel and Cain —

The lines are drawn

For the last duel.

That final glow of serenity

Foretold you the resurrection.

Will the rebels and the rabble

Help you now?

Or will they

Again

Purchase their

Faked immortality

With your blood?

I hear your soft voice

Through the lisp of acid rain

Falling on this funereal city.

Can you see from above

The rabbit-holes of bunkers

Built by the cunning Cains?

Or the fresh graves

Of Abel’s children,

The final mural

On upturned walls

Of their cities?

Hear it, Pushkin?

The Earth is crying already.

Hit in her pregnant belly

With every stamp

Of their goose-step,

Moaning softly

With her poisoned springs,

Peering, half-blind,

Through the sooty sky,

Sapped by the evil weeds

Of Cain’s anger and fear —

She is afraid of miscarriage.

Arise, prophet!

Your voice,

Unfettered by time and tongue,

Will awaken us.

The time has come,

The world’s soul

Has ripened for eternity.

Arise!

go back

***

Fighters for Peace

War is the herpes

Of mankind.

Now it festers

In the camps of Lebanon,

Now it erupts

In El Salvador

With the fragmented blisters

Of fratricide.

I am a herpetologist

Of war.

I see its virus

Flare

Through the pus

Of the ghettos

And the diamond cyst

At Sak’s.

I see it blanch

The hollow cheeks

Of the workers

And the hollow hearts

Of workers’ children.

It breaks through

In a rush of refugees

In Cambodia

And the welts of torture

In Chile.

War is the herpes

Of mankind.

It never stops

It just festers.

Fighters for peace,

I greet you!

Armed with the bandaids

Of hope,

The incantations

Of simple faith,

And the litany

Of complex delusions,

You delight me.

Fighters for peace

Where is your Salk?

Do you really want to end war

Or just find

An expensive cure

With you

Ministering to the world?

We are all carriers.

Look into the base

Of your serpentine spine.

Do you see the bug

Lurk there

In the lymph

Of your anger?

Do you see

Your pain

Blinker your vision

Into a tunnel

Of callousness?

You, the white-gloved

Christian Barnards

Of disarmament!

Will you cauterize

The blistered vagina

Of Laos?

You won’t get

A nod from Nobel

For that.

Herpes is a congenital

Disease of mankind.

Fighters for peace!

You need a Salk

Of the spirit

To find the vaccine

Against war.

It grows

In the culture

Of forgiveness.

It is distilled

By trust.

It is matured

In the vats of loving.

This vaccine

Will cure our children

And the children

Will cure us.

Fighters for peace

Where is your Salk?

go back

***

Escape from Alcatraz

To my father, who didn’t live to tell it.

They say

No one escaped

From Alcatraz

And lived to tell it.

Do you believe it?

Alcatraz

Is a prison

For evil thoughts.

Al Capone was

J. Edgar Hoover’s

Evil thought

Escaped from the solitary

Of his mind.

These thoughts

Come to us

From the deep

And raw past

Loving us

Like a tenderly

Crushed bone

Is loved

By a hungry dog.

They swoop on us

Stopping our breaths

With a prowler’s

Razor.

Hitting us

In the ribs

With the mailed

Fist of fear.

They are

The delinquents

From our stained

Childhood

Prying the iron grill

On our facades

With their portable crowbars.

Alcatraz

Is a prison

For evil thoughts.

Bob Stroud

The Birdman

Was your evil thought.

He loved

The grog

And the birds

And the little boys

And the blood

Of the little boys.

George Kelly

Was my evil thought.

Sleek and clever,

Lover of juicy steaks

And lithe girls

Prodding the tied guards

With the muzzle

Of his machine gun.

Alcatraz

Is an almond-shaped island

Inside your head

That hides the time bomb

Planted by your ancestors

To explode

In your deepest slumber.

Alcatraz

Is a prison

For the living dead,

The sleepwalkers

Who read the Sanskrit

Of your dark past —

And live it.

Alcatraz

Is a prison

For evil thoughts.

They surface

In the twilight

Of your porno shops

And your brothels

And your army barracks

And the Mardi Gras

Of your Wall Streets

Where pin-striped

Robber barons parade,

Prodding waitresses

With the barrel of their

Steely eyes.

J. Edgar Hoover

Was Al Capone’s

Evil thought.

Feared and respected

Protector of orphans

And widows

Strangling the world

With a phone wire net

Feared by the Mob

And the bankers alike

Loved by the prostitutes

On the Hill.

J. Edgar Hoover

Lived on Alcatraz

An evil dream

In the brain

Of Al Capone.

They say

No one has swum

From Alcatraz

And lived to tell it.

I have swum

From Alcatraz.

Russia

Is the Alcatraz

Of the world.

I was Stalin’s

Evil thought.

Russia is power

Afraid of power

Hoarding power

Like an old man

Who hoards money

Dreaming of things

That money can’t buy.

Russia wears a veil

Of barbed wire

On its scarred face