Tonight will be Christmas

I am here, today, in the land of Hermann the Cherusker
a few days before Christmas, a few thousand airmiles from my home
exactly where I want to be

It is better that the dead.....

I can no longer see them in my conscious mind
gone t o wherever it is they go
they have passed beyond my visual limits

I can hear them
remembering exactly the punctuation and the explication
I can hear them
and fell the stilletoes of criticism
and the razors of unintended consequence

ah, language, you are cruel,
insisting on precision where there is none,
in a world where a closet may hold clothing or dark secrets,
in a world where every German word holds ten english probabilities,
where context is invisible
and the dead cannot be seen

gnossis and vorostratis find a lichen to their liking

it was in Paris when we last met
an hour or two
a short weekend for me
a long one for you
you were off to the country
and I to the work
it was pleasant to see you
and more so to know
that neither of us is dead

I am still astounded by the coincidence
of frequency and amplitude we have regurgitated as friends
and the indecent alacrity of our chance meeting in the Phyrst
it is not so bad to be a Polish poet or linguist
and not so bad to be loved by many women
I could never love in return
only sad to remember their pain

I have done it again with my Armageddon love
with my stories and the inevitable depression
with my lust for life and the inevitable need for solitude
it is not so bad for me
I am alive and can walk for miles
drinking beer and reading old Ezra's rants on beauty
thinking I could have been him
had I not been this semblance of me
had I not been taxed with marriage and fatherhood
had I not been subject to the inheritance tax of Catholicism
guilt, the sine qua non of the Church of Rome

and I am guilty again, although not yet charged
with crimes against the heart and the mind
I object! and yet plead guilty.
I know this self
this hollow sphere of grey matter
which quivers and pulses at the smell of woman new

I am a vacuum and brown dwarf
creating my own solar system
of ineffective planets
and stars which will not burn

I am the Houdini of the soul
escaping my own prison
without a key
without a clue
to my boring audience

Giovanni, once a discoman

he once had a disco in Bad Salzuflen
with music and dancers and beer
the heat was expensive
and unreliable
he now has a kneipe in Herford
where older people fill their evenings
and others the wee hours of the morning

he once had a disco in Bad Salzuflen
a great shock of thick black hair
he now has a kneipe in Herford
a white moustache
and a shiny head

She is Depressed

not enough money
not enough time
nothing certain
a man in love
but not in reality

I wish I could reassure her
I wish I could reassure me
I wish I had
the smallest of answers
rather than the vastest of uncertainty

On the Way to Bad Salzuflen

I have met a thousand bicyclists
a thousand birds
a thousand flowers trees and bushes
I have heard a thousand stories
on the way to Bad Salzuflen

sitting in the square
drinking my beer
feeling like a teenager
in the sea of older people
seeking a cure

I have met a thousand people
on the way to Bad Salzuflen
all of them were me
and I them
and we the Buddha
on the way to Bad Salzuflen

Another Morning, in Spring

Spring, birdsong, an amorous cat,
the sounds and smells are pleasing
to the senses

the early morning preparation
for the rest of the day
after half a night of sleep
is much easier
when the weather's good
and the promise sweeter

I will shower, shave, and do the other things
that I must do
before I go to work
and none of them will bother me
today

Should I Think, or Should I Feel?

Should I think, or should I feel?
Should I love, or contemplate it?
Should I die, I hope you'll think
I was worth the waiting,
worth the pain.

But if I think, or if I feel,
you will still remember me,
though not the same, as I remember you.

There is an image,
somewhere behind the eye that disquises my mind
which captures you in profile,
eyes dancing in the Sun

It is a Morning, Almost Spring

it is a morning, almost Spring,
with singing birds
and a cold wind
blowing across the balcony

the little white flowers
carpet the grass
and hold me back
from cursing the winter
which is almost gone
and which I will remember fondly

there were walks in the snow
and in the rain
an unexpected meeting
at the airport
and unexpected blizzards
in a parking garage

unexpected mood swings
and unexpected deaths
unexpected espionage
and unexpected warmth

she says
"I must not expect"
and I say hmmm,
it is the unexpected that haunts me,
I must agree

how is your evening?

four words,
only one not monosyllabic
and my life
has changed
as my mind
and my soul have changed

how is your evening?
how is you life?
sensing my discomfort
and discontent
right to the core
she thrust the arrow
and found the reality
of needs
and wants
and unattended soul

if only this once I have indulged
that soul
if only this once
I have fed it
then it is too much
too much for the zenman
too much for the priest
too much for the father
and the husband

and only a beginning
for the man

there is a saying amongst the Bhuddists

namaste
i can say that gladly
to you
my beloved
namaste
i can say that freely
to you
my enemy

i wish you all joy
and freedom
from the torture
of the artist's mind
that my wife is living
and i
am emulating

To my cousin

should I feel sad for you
dear cousin?
or mad?
your son has killed his brother
and then himself
your girlfriend
severed her throat
with a circular saw
you married a child
to spite her
and that was before she died

is it sorrow
is it pity
is it anger
that you and I
share DNA?

I do not know
my cousin
if your black clothes
are an anthem
or an elegy

i sing this song, unnoticed

you will not hear the words
perhaps the melody will catch your soul
will catch your mind
will bring you back to me
a boring memory at best
a gagging sensation at worst

i was not good for you
although you chose to pursue me
i knew the end
before the beginning
and you
a deer
caught in the headlights
of experience
had found the dream
of every european woman
a new man
never before conquered
on this continent

and so i bow to your prowess
you are Diana
the huntress
and i
your wounded prey
look up at you
with the eyes of a dying animal
complacent
and unrepentant

distance, time, and memory

you are not so far from me
as the crow flies
nor are you far from me
in time
it is only memory
that make you seem
so far away
so long lost
so well loved
so unfulfilled
so unfullfilling

i did not love you
for a lifetime
nor have i spent a lifetime
loving

i move
from mind to mind
from dream to dream
the way a snowstorm moves
unrelenting
passionate
until some gentle breeze
warms my soul
and settles me again
in solitude

Was it the Muse, or the Artist?

my muse did not die
on the contrary
she has awakened the poet
who was sleeping
in a sodden haze
dreaming
of a maudlin maze
wearing an ersatz mind
in the dullness
of a winter's day

and she has taken me
to a stream
deep within a forest
which has given me
new strength
to face the quotidian realities
of a business life

one last poem before the muse is dead

too late to change my mind
you're deep within it
too late to change my heart
it's in too many pieces
to rearrange
I will pass on this reality
and take it with me
to my grave
a thing to be remembered
as potential
never given life
because the muse is dead
and I have buried her
within my dying heart
within my lying mind

if she had a beret....

if she had a beret
a scarf of silk
a pair of high-heeled boots
if she had an accent
i could smile about
i might take her in my arms
and act
as if
i loved her
if she had a beret

Am Südwall 13, 14 Februar, 2005

from "When I Fall in Love"

in a restless world like this is
love is ended before it's begun

sat over spaghetti and beer
and watched women and men
act moonstruck in the magic
of the rose petals and candles
the restaurant provided
to make them think they're in love

if some of them last
to the end of the month
they've done good
if some of them last
to the end of this night
they've done better

when I fall in love
it will be completely
or I'll never fall
in love........

it is a nice song

love,
Jack

happy fucking valentine's day

Don't you just love the way
The idea of love
Can be commercialized?
Can be disembowled to make a not so honest buck?
What the hell, love sucks anyway.

more about frank

not too many people
knew frankie prokop

he was my brother's friend
and painted roogie doo
on the inside of the trunk
of every '52 Chevy he restored

he shot me once
because of my sun glasses
and my German skis
as I was going up the mountain
to find god

it was his cattle ranch,
you see,
that I was traversing,
and it was posted well,
with signs that said just that,
"cattle ranch, no trespassing"

not used to cattle
in the pennsylvania snow
i kept on skiing
until he shot me in the shoulder
and knocked me down

it was a glancing blow,
a graze, as they say in the John Wayne movies
but it scared me enough
to raise my own rifle in defense
until I saw it was Frank
then I raised my hands in surrender
and yelled, "it's Zavacki"

hey, Zavacki, he said,
how's your brother?

ah, Mercutio, I miss you

doesn't make a difference,
does it,
if they're driving Mercuries
or gondolas

Mercutio always dies
Juliette's always under aged
and Romeo's a bloody ass
who doesn't understand
that when you're dead
you're dead for a long time
(with an appreciation for Frankie Prokop, his bicycle,
his plastic hat, and his dog, forever young)

i have never loved a woman named lizzie

i have never loved a woman named lizzie
but i must, and i hope she's not dizzie
i hope she's not fat
and pimpled and blonde
but if it must be
it's still up to me
to love
a woman named lizzie

a short note to all the girls i've loved

hello, and welcome to our show
it's nice to have you here
but please, don't love me
adulation is acceptable
worship is preferred
but love won't be tolerated
i am not your father's oldsmobile
not even my own volkwagen
needs love
we are apart
although you'll always be a part
(thank you, Willie)

a day in the life

with apologies to the Beatles

i am alive tonight
i can feel pain
in my back
in my gut
in my mind

can you say the same?

Kelly, Bruno, and the little guy with the sideways hat

Bruno lived out West
Pittsburgh
it's where he got the cowboy hat

Kelly was Kelly,
not a Polish name
but he was Polish
all the same

bullshit alec
was the other one
with two tone shoes
and a baseball hat
looking for
the beer he lost
on the wrong side of the street
because the light
was better

a short note on Manja Rembiscz

she would stand on the porch
her enourmous slavic breasts
hidden only by a rain coat
which she would open
when a machine made its way
down the hill
until one of them crashed
into Bednash's rock
and the police had
to take over

at least, they died in order

my family consisted of a father, mother, brother, and sister
my father was oldest
and therofore died first
(nice of him, don't you think?)

my mother (considerably younger)
waited until i had my second child
(perhaps a thought of replacement, replenishment?)
before she gave it up

my brother
didn't think
it was over
he had a young Beagle

and my sister
one year
into retirement
just disappeared

i will continue
until i cease
the last one standing
in perfect order
of age
in perfect order
of incompetence

egregious

Conspicuously and outrageously bad or reprehensible
that's what egregious means
conspicuous
outrageous
and reprehensible
that is who i've been
and who i will continue to be
and egregious saint
wanting too much
to please the clients
of my egregious consultancy
willing to love them
for the price
of my simple soul
only to lose them
as they begin
to understand

she was a dream

she was a dream
soft
and ephemeral
a dream
in which i loved
the way demented nuns
love god

she was a dream
and i
a dreamer
it was the perfect
dream
from which
i would not wake

and yet i sit
writing of Gertrude Stein
and Hemingway
unable to sleep
unable to dream

she was a dream
and i cannot sleep
to see her

en los trigales

a piece of music
a peace of music
in which the wheat flows
llike mysticism
along the stings
or a guitar
more beloved
than any woman

en los trigales
the wheatfields
in this glass
of dark
rich
German
beer
i see your face
your lovely breasts
i see your smile
and i add the salt
of my unapologetic tears
to the taste
of your lips
to my beer
to my wandering
mind

I think she was a Jewess

she was young
pretty
smart

she played the flute

we made duets
and love

there was a night of olympian proportion
which i remember well

she was young
and Jewish

and I
well,
I remember
well

Gertrude

i am jealous
Gertrude Stein
that you coul sit
with Hemingway
and Scott and Ezra
that you could listen
to their private
minds

i am jealous
Gertrude Stein
that you are dead
and you are famous
and i am neither dead
nor the other

there is a need
to write
a need to love
a need to make my fellow man
unencumbered
by this day

and yet
i am jealous
Gertrude Stein
that your pathetic name
is synonymous
with rose

A Quiet Time

you need to rest
I need to disappear
you need quiet
I need nonexistence

I cannot explain
the sensory maddness
the inability to settle for less
than totality

I cannot explain
the need for perfection
and its antithesis

I am a mirror
which lies

Gesundheit

i know you didn't sneeze
but the word means heatlh
a thing that's made me nervous
these past few weeks

feeling a pain in the upper right quatrant
of my gut
i finally found a doctor
who immediately thought liver
and sent me away for testing
after draining me of blood

evertyhing clean
everything in order
it passes
that my back
is not stong enough
to hold up my gut
which actually
only hurts
when I laugh

There is no word for you

no word for you
but paragraphs
and novellas

no word for you
not wife not lover not friend
you are all of those
and none of them
and I
stand quietly
in a corner of my mind
starting through it's heavily curatined windows
at the world you live in
wondering if you will ever wear
a grey beret
or speak French to me
over coffee

In Bed, Alone, with Coffee

it is a Sunday morning,
grey sky,
thin snow

and i
with thin grey hair
lie alone
thinking about the meaning
of poetry

i write
to speak my mind
to tell the truths
i cannot speak to others

there is little enough
to say
when mind and body
are neither here nor there
little enough to communicate
i work
i walk
i dream

thinking is inevitable
a word heard
creates an interior vignette
and that begets a poem
and that
another thought
to think
another window to look through
another morning to live
and smile
at the way the world
sees me

i am neither mad
nor sane
somewhere in between
as i am in culture
neither fully American
nor fully European
i stand between
looking right and left
for a clue to completion

wanting the whole world
i settle for a piece of bread
with butter and marmalade

let the day begin!

Too Much, Too Fast

mind
swimming upstream
in a river gorged with snowmelt
and broken ice

dodging
almost exhausted
i stop
to rest
inside myself
only to swim again
to avoid the danger
of being alone

Enigma

the life i live
between the european mind
and the north american rememberance
is more ambiguous
than schizophrenic

the subtleties of language
and the vagaries of women
combine
in a bilingual silver storm
and i am left
cold
immobile
weak

i cross my legs
drink some green tea
and thaw

no more krupnik, no more Maryanka

On January 5th, 2005, my sister died
after Christmas without her brother
after New Years without her family
after a life without adventure
but full of love and giving

I am flying out of here
to the little mountains around the Lackawanna
to take care of her
my first attempt
at putting a shoe
on the other foot