A thimble of liquor at the top of the hill,
My band had marched the whole day through.
The smile of the monk who served us booze,
Grand Castle, if she had seen you now…


Power, a vignette


The old king grows weak.
Meanwhile, his wife
Is raising the children that will depose him.
Nobody dies.

Thirty miles outside Marseille we stopped.
Our young potentate had led us to this,
His first moment of pure defeat. Slivers of music
Accompanying his deliberations, ‘Go on,’ he said.

I used to think you could play the percentages in life,
But you can’t. Today is the only chance we get,
Tomorrow is unborn and perhaps the end of it all;
The sentence of love must be said today.



This time Susan Sontag pressed me in her arms,
And I expressed to her my concerns.
She said they seemed most natural thoughts,
But we couldn’t answer them, this side, at all.



And it was fear was fear was love
Was hope, was alive, was in us,
Was a moment shared. Was beyond these words,
Is represented by them. It was deep life.

4 DCR @ 44


El Doc, the man, l’homme en plein,
Philosopher, amateur, the Bolton chieftain,
My friend – ah, my happy, happy friend!
Your soul survive us, and joy your heart send.

More tragic than remembered, trapped in his womanless world
Withnail and I are both losing youth. The future seems
either mad or mediocre, and yet…
There’s always our film, perfect, to watch along the way.

Clown poem


Sadness, that clown, hauntedly pallored
Wishes he were female, wishes he were free,
Wishes he were infinite and sometimes not at all,
Wishes he re-grew, like the fruit the spring recalls.



Slowly, slowly life passes,
Like grass wearing out on the garden lawn.
Each day the joy, the pain greater
That that which we love goes on.