Bring In The Coffin

bring in the coffin
for i may never see home 
my adopted land, Taiwan
cannot to me bring peace

bring in the giggly girls
who flirt disguised as women
reckless and virginal 
no compassion for my wasted years

dig the hole, deep and empty
so i never see light
hanged from the end of a limb
with nothing to show for the fight

final settlement into obscurity
emotional constipation, frustration
feelings that mock me running wild
silently screaming into night

let the death mask come falling
a lesson to unwanted souls
one unridden trick pony
fat, cigarettes, and old

From "Miss Brooklyn"
Taipei, May 1, 1989
revised August 2016 

Every Stormy Ship-Wrecked Sea

every stormy ship-wrecked sea
breeds a mermaid guidingly
blows an anchor gently on
leaves no deck to walk upon

a mermaid graces tumultuous hulls
stops the rain, calls the gulls
shines rays of hope through darkened skies
perspective to the high and dry

go deep down, sailor, to your grave
for there the graceful lady lays
then moves like phoenix toward the stars
all mermaids take you just as far

fear not the vortex or the void
nor unmapped seas still to be buoyed
be happy, mate, and stand up straight
mermaids know it is never too late

so petrified you cannot move
the undersea garden calls to you
her love is free, wet, and warm
take heart in this, boy, not the storm

From "Miss Brooklyn"
Taipei, May 28, 1989
revised August 2016 

Impossibly Inevitably Love

impossibly inevitably

acceptably encouraging

lightly dreaming

adorably amusing

she must mean love

uncannily connecting

warm feelings

care and empathy

trying understanding

i must be loved

coolly compassionate 

mother of invention

slowly inviting

mood lightening

it feels like love

captivatingly motivated 

sincere and idealizing 

youthful and cheerful

deeply endearing

it rings like love

actualizing fantasy

lithingly touching 

moist and yearning

i am burning

for mutual passionate love 

From "Miss Brooklyn"

Taipei, June 10, 1989

revised August 2016 

Taiwan Siren Song

the songs will be sung
lost material will be replaced
i will always love and be loved
but i cannot do it here

freedom will present itself in laughter
skills and knacks will find outlets
i will always do the best i can
but i cannot do it here

we will warm each other's bodies
help the children down the road
learn all there is to know
but i cannot do it here

life will be lived with love in mind
the innocent will be protected
no one's ass will be kissed
from here it starts, but not here 

no revenge or 'what might have been' 
when the kids are off the block
no more clocks ticking down
but it cannot happen here

From "Miss Brooklyn"
Taipei, November 25, 1989
revised August 2016 

The Ballad of Davy Temple

Davy,
Davy Temple,
king of the wild frontier.

his gramps came over to New York town,
the poor conditions brought him down.
he met his rose on one fine day,
and now the people have to say,

Davy,
Davy Temple,
king of the wild frontier.

the Zekes would raise a family,
in darling Brooklyn by the sea.
Mir met Jules who fixed plane wings,
when Dave was born Elvis was king. 

Davy,
Davy Temple,
king of the wild frontier.

in Borough Park he was loved and grew,
conquered demons two by two.
with Tim and Abb and Mao Tse-Tung,
he mastered fate and learned the tongue.

Davy,
Davy Temple,
king of the wild frontier.

he broke away in college days,
to San Fran bay and purple haze.
linked hearts with Buddha, Hari-bow,
to heal his broken-hearted soul.

Davy,
Davy Temple,
king of the wild frontier.

in Chinatown he made his fate,
with Chak and crabs to Taiwan, mate.
he made a name, he took a chance,
made home and wealth and sweet romance.

Davy,
Davy Temple,
king of the wild frontier.

he fought with Christians at their schools,
made them all look just like fools.
on his own, he made his mark,
shedding light upon the dark.

Davy,
Davy Temple,
king of the wild frontier.

in Taipei, Taiwan R.O.C.,
his school the finest that could be.
kids with futures in the west,
because their English is the best.

Davy,
Davy Temple,
king of the wild frontier.

From "Miss Brooklyn"
Taipei, April 9,1989
revised August 2016

Leona, Leona

Leona, Leona,

nothing she does not know,

i miss her, 

i miss her so.

think i will phone her,

but it is not enough.

sweet child of mine,

bringing tears to my eyes.

i love you so dearly,

sweet Leona.

i want to kiss you,

all over your body.

i want to hold you,

close to my side.

my love for you, Leona baby,

makes me sing

and dance and fly,

makes me come alive,

and gives me new strength,

in the dead of night.

guardian angel, Leona.

brave and compassionate, Leona.

cute and wild, Leona.

clear-headed,

balanced,

reasonable Leona.

i miss you, girl.

i have peace with you, woman.

stay well,

be happy,

dear Leona. 

from "Miss Brooklyn"

Brooklyn

December 20, 1989

revised Aug. 2016

Joe Hill Continued

(Sung to the melody of "Joe Hill" by Phil Ochs)

Joe Hill was shot by a firing squad,
seventy-three years ago this day,
amongst those soldiers that done him in,
was one that thought Joe ought to stay,
was one that thought Joe ought to stay.

he was there on duty when they cleaned him up,
rode from Utah on a train tenderly,
stood around the pyre in the Chicago fire,
burning until his ashes blew off free,
burning until his ashes blew off free.

in the dead of night in the Illinois light,
he left the barracks for the field,
and there he knelt collecting Joe Hill's dust,
600 envelopes that held it was concealed,
600 envelopes that held it was concealed.

for fifty years and two world wars,
Joe Hill was kept somewhere,
when the soldier died Joe was archived,
Joe's spirit was kept alive in there,
Joe's spirit was kept alive in there.

the bags were found without a sound, 
where the ashes of Joe were gray,
they were mailed to Industrial Workers of the World,
who put him in their dusty vaults away,
who put him in their dusty vaults away.

until one day when the critical mass,
has the power to strike back fast,
ashes of Joe will be put in each worker's fist,
and the power of the union will last,
the power of the union will last.

From "Miss Brooklyn"
Taipei, November 19, 1988
Revised 2016

Gay Riot

the crowd chants 'no more violence' as windows shatter

broken glass, the gates are crashed

police are absent, media not

red on white reads 'stop the attacks'

a young woman cries 'we want Milk'

the others agree, 'unite or be weak'

microphones, from where did they come

another young woman caresses a bullhorn

she shouts to the people

people who heave at the city doors

popping glass spills like hail

bullhorn mouth brings reaction

another window breaks

artificial mouth shouting

lights in City Hall burn

who is inside?

seven hundred raised fists

as Diane grabs hold of the horn

Feinstein without audio

'let her speak' but she isn't heard

"'i don't want my death to be avenged,' he said"

someone on the Hall balcony holds a lit match

there's standing atop of cars, pouncing

'he got away with murder,' they sing

the jury has decided

the atmosphere is festive

pot is in the air

people smiling

a girl rubs on lipstick

a dozen people on the cars

Diane is gone, police haven't come

the crowd gets louder

'standing on a car, no matter,' says a young man 

fondling two candles in the air

'Dan White ate a Twinkie,

now lets bring the candy'

memories of Stonewall

the speaker is real and captures the crowd

talking of gay five-year-olds

i hear a guitar, more pot in the sky

'fight back, fight back, fight back,' they chant

'we are queer and we should be together' is the battle cry

a drunk asks me for a dime

asleep in the park when the noise began

the crowd is now one thousand

there's talk of D.C., Diane's house, the prison grounds

the car that i lean on is trampled by feet

'fuck you, Feinstein,' now it's her fault

slang and cursing, kissing and smoking

'the D.A. said this is how the system works'

'fuck the system, fuck the system,' the echo grows

this place has lost its little organization

the heart on the steps has lost its definition

suggestions wanton, laughing, shouting, glass breaking

'let's get White, let's get White,' say party-goers around the piano

like the New York blackout, it is just for kicks now

violence is building, things are being thrown

the crowd now two thousand

the police are here wearing crash helmets 

surrounding City Hall under siege 

'White was a cop, White was a cop,' say voices in the chaos

a newspaper box is thrown to the ground

the crowd makes its noise part of their own

a fire is set, the police back off

more windows crash, the crowd in a frenzy

thirty lock-armed cops move in slowly like heavy honey

 they ebb backwards to the edge of the building

an area of truce formed upon the steps

more windows crash

i stand in a muddy puddle watching

whistles are blown, trash cans are ablaze

'i got one of the windows,' a girl boasts loudly

they'd like to burn down City Hall

as the man on the balcony smokes a leisurely cigarette

missiles are thrown

 pigeons are flying confused from under the terrace

they must wonder what they have done to deserve this

this is fun

the people are angry but they are smiling

if the police rushed them, there would be bloodshed

no one has been injured yet

nobody is leaving, nobody walks away

this is national news

almost every window in City Hall is busted 

yet only two dozen people are dragging it down

while two thousand people chat and party

there must be plenty cops inside the Hall

the police have acted in the safest way possible

but if the people enter the Hall, there will be blood for sure

i hope nobody tries to enter

middle class white gay minority

the man on the balcony has gone

a TV camera, a microphone appears

this is a spectacle, everyone knows it 

more slap-happy than angry

as a tree goes up in flames and smoke

i smell burning leaves

a parking meter ripped from the ground

used as a battering ram

an hour and a half has passed

on the corner of Polk and Grove

the police have blocked off the side streets

the action contained to the front of the Hall

'let them break the windows,' says a cop with stripes

'contain them and let them burn themselves out' 

this is the strategy

the media is protected behind police lines

they tell me to move back though i hold a pen, not a rock

i don't have a badge so i have been branded

i move across the street away from shielded loveless eyes

they tell me 'go home'

tear gas pops

the police are here in force

an ambulance waits near the library

a dozen motorcycle police have come

the crowd has dispersed but for some heaving stones

'if you don't want to be involved, step back,' says a sargent

the riot is cracked into two, lookers and doers

the lookers shout from their place across the street

the rioters at the Hall entrance have a park behind them

but the police are surrounding the park

a car is ablaze by City Hall

the air smells of burning rubber

a dozen police car sirens wail and burn across the street

people are running

police are chasing

i sit on the library steps

\but now the library is under attack

'not the library,' i hear one stray voice say

the people are running

the police are chasing, not looking, not caring

the boom of gas tanks exploding

tanks exploding gas boom boom rubber gas

smell scream run away, they run away

fire here, bottles thrown there, here and there

running crazy away running police clubs fire fire

into the night the fires expand, the people spread out

cancer fire cancer crash boom boom boom

blowing blowing

off into the night

smiles and whistles off into the night

San Francisco

May 21, 1979

Revised August, 2016

To Shimon or Simone

my heart cries out, but you cannot hear it,
to know the pains your mom and i bore,
the silent wars,
the dreams we adored,
and the rivers ahead we are going to ford,
like a salmon's uphill run,
blissful be the transmigration,
swimming out to freedom's ocean, us three.

i hope you will like your name,
it belonged to your great grandfather;
your mother knows how much i loved him.
there is not a more special name,
even if it is your middle initial.
i fell in love with your mom the day he died.
she loved me, and wiped my eyes,
three years hence, 
you will have arrived.

certainly, you will discover yourself,
your mother and i can only point to maps;
the road to Lao-Tze, Moses, the stars...
kinds of faces you will not find in any old places,
ones you cannot buy,
blueprints you hold inside your heart,
routes that began in our minds,
that lead your own road onward,
when you have gotten the language,
you will know.

be happy, sweet baby to be.
cry if you dare, laugh and learn. 
accept your freedom.
be cool,
or burn with memory
of what you alone may feel and see,
make it real, see it through,
because G-d will give you days,
as with us, you on the way.

have peace and happiness in your life,
make it so yourself if the land is right.
create a rich surrounding,
or move if that land be bitterly blighted.
hold no stones in your heart,
throw no stones from glass houses,
make a strong and loving home,
let no weeds around you grow.

my heart cries out, Shimon or Simone,
though you are not yet here,
we bear such sweet pains of your growth.
to tell the truth,
our dreams are adorning our days with you,
although you will soil your diapers in the night,
messes to overcome and make right,
we welcome and go with you,
climb along the rocks with you,
so after you are on your own,
not alone. 

From "Poems for My Children"
July 31, 1982, Brooklyn
Revised August 16, 2016 

long tails swish red labels of night

long tails swish red labels of night,

ascending sweetness, 

through candy overdose heaven,

leaving snakes of city mansions,

cleaving to distant forests,

leading proctors of brain weeds, 

over the planet,

where echos shatter in a child's crib;

a harvest of clover and tender feelings

dribbling through the labyrinth, 

into a slow, soft, underground stream,

motherless tadpoles, 

flowing to still-waters afterbirth, 

mirth and green slime,

on vessels un-anchored,

stung by its feelers' fiery ends,

burnt reaching endless falls,

down mountain tributaries into cauldrons,

lending power to future volcanoes, 

burning angels' halos into a sinister bath brew,

dragon-smoke of melting cave rock intervention, 

call of wild wolves' fallen trees and stars,   

entering the exit of precious possession,

mud and ringworm root fingers,

savage coming together in snow white side streets,

down to town,

minerals transmuted into columns

of uneven gum-black.

she sits for a second in nature,

until taunting causes fevered grabbing,

of hard cock cure-all,

over evergreen plains.  

steely moss trees of mock-you-see,

dragons' emissions controlled,

by how much she can take inside at once.

a second passes,

and the animals continue fornicating,

unsuspectingly.

San Francisco 

circa 1977

edited Taichung

2016 

so hard sailing smoothly

so hard sailing smoothly,

on wide and choppy seas,

never learned to read the stars,

no maps for guiding me.

not so easy hiking our mountain,

with baggage on my back,

cannot see a forest or the trees,

or landmarks to mark a track.

nothing i am doing i have done before,

the familiar is just a ruse,

try i will to take for granted,

a family is just no use.

cars need gas, trains need coal,

this chassis wants to move,

keep that engine warm and wet,

get in to a nice groove.

at least i have a destination,

to plant what i have grown,

through twists and turns i am getting there,

soon i will get home. 

From "Practicing My Chops"

June 4, 1992

Brooklyn 
Edited August 11,2016
Taichung

Sweet Gail's Castle

a Greyhound waltzes along the Pacific Coast,
on steaming black squid-inked tar, settling easily
besides static pulse-death ocean crests.
the morning sun pungent with burning smells,
is reclined behind Big Sur standing away at dawn,
jogging loose sand with its disturbing motor.

roads are not stern in my squatting rickshaw,
nor does exhaust infection burn 
before it floats off shore.
feelings are thick like crushed velvet;
eyes in heads and arms of chairs.
Gail wants her thrills away from the office,
my radio mind tuned into her highness coughing.

the way is the way around every turn.
the tank is disturbed as the road leads on.
this wayfarer's red loin torn by middling
gamblers in games of pinkie-cross casinos,
besides themselves in games of duel losers; 
me and my lady at pinball machines of the mind,
flipping.

with Gail blows you drop your woes
and touch her glittering eyelids.
Gail warns she will be man-less, 
but loving nevertheless.
like jade touchstones seen in occasional foggy dreams,
in darkness is all she will caress, 
transitive nightfall cracking illusions,
causing tape-mouth three a.m. loneliness
between two of the same address.

terminals now lost as the bus runs to all old stations.
a man from the castle set a ball rolling, and vanished. 
Greyhound walks gingerly, knowingly, 
travelling rickshaw boy, paid, moves to first thoughts,
but his jewel box stays in safe deposit,
in the night, the search becomes frantic,
so i whisper in her ear:

"sweet Gail, the feeling comes, 
and i must write of your love,
you, like the doves of a half-time show,
in geometric dances let to fly out of eyes go
to shadowed distant corner of surprise.
you, who came to me through fossil caves,
dark like bats, with marks on neck forgotten.

your tiny beads, scattering everywhere,
rolling off your string.
i am bound to discover new globes
at three a.m. glimpses of silhouette
that pass through my mind in the day, transparently.
you are the four letter of love;
the mother earth to whom i will return. 
under your spell, weeds shall grow. 

you are Krishna on the shoreline playing a lute.
you like Cleopatra's seven jewels shining,
telling us separately you love each the most...
i believe you can do,
i felt you coming,
how could you slip from my caress?
i see it now, in the early morning,
the new day dawning
without a clue of how it will rise again."

"stay on board," Gail says, 
"for the route to the castle is set.
how many luxuriant rooms are on the hill?
this place has coordinates you must forget.
this place has styles from many long agos;
medieval, renaissance, English and French, 
and Spanish monks of inquisition.
be like Hurst to use your likes,
gather love for mother, 
before the picnic turns into the castle,
and a thing impossible to destroy." 

    










San Francisco, May 6,1978
& San Simeon, December 29, 1978
edited August 9, 2016