Tuesday, May 24, 2011

A Note on Bob Dylan's Birthday





Bob Dylan's brother, David Zimmerman, taught the children in my neighborhood how to sing! He was the music teacher at Sunny Hollow Elementary in New Hope, Minnesota. It is well known now that David Zimmerman contributed to the re-recording of Blood on the Tracks in Minneapolis (Christmas of 74).

Bob apparently spent some time with his brother at the grade school. After David Zimmerman worked with Bob on the album he decided to leave teaching. With Bob in tow, Mr Zimmerman visited all his students, all of the classes. During a question & answer session, my brother Rob (age 7) asked this unknown visitor if he knew of the poet Billy L (my middle name is James). Bob said no but that he would have to check this "poet" out. I did not know about this conversation until later (my brother, after all, was 7 & really had no idea how famous Bob was; I was 17). When I heard the story a few weeks later, I was thrilled.

At 19, I studied for a semester in Rome, Italy on the University of Dallas campus. There was a copy of Blood on the Tracks where I stayed. I listened to that album every day, over & over again. What an education: The Confessions of Saint Augustine, The Sistine Chapel, Agamemnon's tomb in Greece, the Louvre in Paris (Leonardo, Botticelli, Giotto), Sophocles & Bob Dylan.

Happy birthday Bob!




For Bob Dylan
He sang a tune or two in a one man band
then hopped a train to a distant and nameless land.
And in a boxcar he heard someone say,
'You can't take back what you never gave away'.
There are rumors of war; there are holes in the sky.
The dead line the roads but no one hears them cry.
The living are throwing stones into an empty well.
Their houses are bare; they have nothing left to sell.
I hum along to a song that I know and understand
as I trudge toward that distant and nameless land.
And in the darkness I hear someone say,
'You can't take back what you never gave away'.






Tuesday, May 10, 2011

THE BURIAL OF OSAMA BIN LADEN AT SEA


Wrapped in a shroud, his eyes blotted out,
he can no longer 
read from the book of war.
His mouth opens to an ocean of darkness 
but makes no sound. 

His hands are empty. They hold no stars. 
The heavens have been effaced.
There is no way to chart a course.
There is no moon to push in the tides,
no wind to carry him home.




Saturday, May 7, 2011

A MASKED MAN




On top a white stallion the Lone Ranger descends;
a masked man, debilitated and unrehearsed.

What is it that I want to say but ultimately cannot say?
I have become nothing,

a ghost deprogrammed and on parole.
I walk out into the shadows of televised snow,

televised desolation, blue trauma by a descending sky,
man of blankness, man of sighs.




Friday, May 6, 2011

He Took the Head Shot that Killed JFK


He wasn't like the other boys;
he played with ICBMs instead of tinker toys.
But no one made too much of a fuss.
No, no one made too much of a fuss.
After all, he was one of us.
After all, he was one of us.


When he peddled an unwinnable war 
amongst the Joint Chiefs and the Marine Corps,
no one made too much of a fuss.
No, no one made too much of a fuss.
After all, he was one of us.
After all, he was one of us.


When some were heard to say
that he took the head shot that killed JFK,
no one made too much of a fuss.
No, no one made too much of a fuss.
After all, he was one of us. 
After all, he was one of us. 



The painting showing the arrival of JFK at Parkland hospital, Pietà, was done by Mark Balma (an old & dear friend).

Thursday, May 5, 2011

THERE ARE NO HEROES HERE


(for Cindy Sheehan)

We are going nowhere now
in a house that has no doors or windows.

It is just a place to sleep.
There are no heroes here only mothers

and fathers calling out to children
who will never come home again.

But why try to speak of this?
It is like throwing ashes into the wind.

We are going nowhere now
in a house that has no doors or windows.


The Facebook Song


I saw your photo on facebook the other day.
I had to take a look what can I say?
By now, I thought we would be flying in cars

with nothing left to do but follow the stars.
Yes I thought of you the other day.

If I saw you what would I say?
By now, I thought we would be flying in cars

with nothing left to do but play our guitars.
I sent you a instant message the other day.

No response. I guess you were away.
Funny by now, I thought we would be flying in cars

with nothing left to do but follow the stars.
Funny, I thought we would be flying in cars

but our maps are out of date and we've lost the stars...


I COULD FLY A PLANE



She only spoke when we were alone;
and like a statue on a pedestal of stone,
she held a secret and would not let go.

One night I dreamt I saw her cloaked in a purple hood,
her hands clutching a cross made of wood.
I heard her whimper. I heard her sigh,

and then I heard her say goodbye.
I could sail the ocean.
I could ride the waves and the foam

(head in hand and with my eyes wide open).
I could wander the planet. I could fly a plane.
But I will never find my way back to her again.




CHAMPS ELYSEES

I watch as a man in a wheelchair 
faces the grand
and towering arch and takes a photo of his family,


a boy and a girl 
and his beautiful wife.
So grateful and so happy, 
the man begins to cry.




Tuesday, May 3, 2011

Black Coat & Tails




Like a magician, he's up to his old tricks,
another show, another fix.
His heart's in a box
bound by a thousand and one locks.
His world is whirling and about to tilt.
The knives are in all the way to the hilt.
He'd let them go but he doesn't know how.
If looks could kill, he'd be a ghost by now...


From the shadows, he calls out your name.
Just one shot and you're back in the game.
Your heart's in a box
bound by a thousand and one locks.
Your world is whirling and about to tilt.
The knives are in all the way to the hilt.
You'd let them go but you don't know how.
If looks could kill, you'd be a ghost by now...

Sunday, May 1, 2011

2 poems from September 11, 2001

9/11

and now, a second and improbable plane,
a blip on FAA radar, United Flight 175,

approaches and then plunges into the south tower
of the World Trade Center, igniting into orange and red flames

while bodies fall and then tumble like stunt doubles
into the empty but televised air.




THE MISSING

An egret whirls into the wind,
and then turns and folds in upon itself and lands
beneath a cloud of water;
while in the distance,
airplanes at the edge of thunder
murmur and echo

like the thin mirrors of the ego,
glittering and lost, and I shudder
in the dark and consider
the dead (and all of their voices),
an unwavering remembrance,
a delicate descent.