Don't Let Things Get Out Of Hand

The milk cow’s gone dry
The dog’s howlin’ at the moon
The paint is peelin’ off the walls
There you are standing in the hall
Things got to change here pretty soon
There’s not a single tear in your eye

I’m not tryin’ to draw any lines in the sand
But Baby, don’t let things get out of hand

Yesterday the car broke down
I saw the baker goin’ out our back door
Was he just deliverin’ bread?
Mechanic says my engine is dead
I’m loadin’ up my forty-four
Thinkin’ about headin’ to town

I really don’t have any kind of a plan
So Baby, don’t let things get out of hand

Things are lookin’ better now that you’re gone
Too bad you didn’t leave sooner than this
Takin’ all of your sorrow along
Don’t know, don’t care who’s right or wrong
Didn’t even need one last kiss
It seems like a brand new dawn

Don’t take it so hard you made your last stand
Baby, you shouldn’t have let things get out of hand

Le Peintre Perdu

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

Somebody told him to take up painting
He thought that would be good
So friends brought him paint, easel, canvas, brushes

The red splashed on the canvas
Spilling onto the green of the painted grass
Brilliant yellow and bright orange
Lit up the gray-blue sky
Black shapes hovered above the brackish bluewater rice paddy
Brown bodies cowered in a corner of the painting
Two flesh colored hands reached up from the bottom margin
Holding a white surrender flag

He thanked them and began culling the paint colors
No crimson red or brilliant yellow
He continued sorting
Handing the tubes to them one at a time
No black, blue, gray or brown
The colors of war flashed back to him
No bright orange
He looked at green for a moment
Then tossed it away, too
He took up the brush and pointed it at the white canvas
Then set it down and leaned back in his chair.

Down On The Beach

Every day he went to the beach
Sat on the same park bench
People would notice him writing
Possibly a novel or poems?
He hated seagulls
Hated them
Gave them weird things to eat
Kicked at them and threw things at them
He always brought a half of a watermelon
And would eat it as he read Richard Brautigan poems
This caused some to fear for his mental health
So they would ask him what he was doing
He would reply something like,
“Well I bought this deodorant called Ocean Breeze,
And I come down here to see if that is what it smells like.”
Then he would laugh and point out the rotting fishes
The trash and hypodermic needles and the stinking trash can.
One day, sitting on the park bench, he died.
They knew he was dead because a seagull perched atop his head
In his hand was his notebook
With page after page
Filled with the words
"Deliver us from wolves"

I Met The Buddha On The Road

On the road between Cu Chi and Long Binh
The military convoy stopped
There was something going on up ahead
A dead VC with a little bamboo ladder
A sapper headed for Cu Chi
To liberate his country from the invaders
Now he was liberated
Clad only in short black pants
No shirt no shoes
Only the satchel charge
And his personal pack containing his book of poetry
Pictures of his family
A picture of Uncle Ho
Through the opium haze I saw the shell of his body
A thin whisp of smoke rose from the middle of his head
A yellow luminous orb attached to the smoke
Hovered above the body that was riddled and burned
The orb detached from the body
Floated in the air for a few moments
Then alighted near a burned out Lambretta
Things began to materialize
First a yellow saffron robe
Then a begging bowl
Sandals
A young monk with shaved head,
He walked over to me
In perfect English he asked me, “Where are you going?”
“I don’t know,” I replied, “But hop in, I’ll take you there.”
At this he laughed and climbed in the deuce-and-a-half
The convoy proceeded toward Long Binh
But stopped again just outside the city
My rider friend pointed out the window
“There is where you are headed,” he said.
I looked at the gold covered Buddhist pagoda
Then at him, he beckoned me to go with him
So, leaving my truck, I followed him
Wearing my flak jacket and carrying my M-16
When we got to the pagoda he turned to me
“You do not need these,” he said.
My rifle and jacket were gone and I was dressed as he was
“There are 49 steps to climb,” He pointed to the first one
When I stepped on it, I turned to look at him but he was gone.

Shaking in Las Vegas

Pure mayhem on The Strip
With the pavement at 130 degrees
But, no sweat, you can get what you want
Even if it ain’t what you need
Elvis left the building all right
He hit the road, Jack
Ain’t comin’ back no more, no more
All of a sudden here comes a guy
All dressed up just like the Union Jack
But there’s no cloud for him to get off
Just heat, pure heat
A hundred and thirty in the shade
Sippin’ on a mango marmalade
Tryin’ to be cool
You know Elvis, he ain’t no fool
He just wanted to know where Joe was
But Joe’s not around, his bags are down
So Joe ain’t feelin’ too cool
The deal is, you can work in the heat
Or you can go broke
At the Bellagio, Mandalay Bay, Planet Hollywood
All of them casinos will be glad to make you broke
Unless you respect them
R-E-S-P-E-C-T, just a little bit
Hey baby, put your money down
On the Don’t Pass line
Put your money down
On the Roulette Wheel
Put your money down
On the Craps Table, Little Joe the hard way
This is what built Las Vegas baby
The Meadows where water surfaced in the desert
An oasis, a wadi now dried up and gone
And in its place a concrete and neon flower in the desert
A place where people leave their issues at home
But create new ones to take back with them
Broke down, busted, disgusted
Nobody can be trusted
Oh for the days of Bobby Darin and Mack the Knife
Oh for the days of Sammy and Dean and Joey and Peter and Frank
Luck be a lady tonight
But don’t be blowin’ on another man’s dice
You can crap out any time here
It’s just a short walk from the penthouse to the outhouse
Where Jimmy the Greek was electrocuted by the Mob
The Mob who blew up The Sands, The El Rancho,
The Desert Inn where Howard Hughes became
The epitome of the permanent Las Vegan
Demented, broke in every way
Watching horse operas over and over again
Swatting flys and thinking of ways to blow up the Hoover Dam
But every time the terrorists blow up The Strip
It just comes back bigger and with a vengeance
Unwilling to give up its money or its fame
A place where men are mauled by lions
Where people willingly subject themselves to Wayne Newton
Where plebes consult the oracle before going to Caesar’s Palace
Then get sacrificed on the altar of the Deck of 51
Where women can be delivered to your door in twenty minutes
Where seven is the number and zero is the answer
Where jackpots are won at the expense of the gamblers
Where the ones who get “comped” are the biggest losers
Where fools rush in and angels fear to tread
Where are the wise men of Las Vegas who know all the odds
Odds Bodkins, man, where are they?