It’s a New Day

On draining into the this 

porcelain commode from the

1860’s, my host told me it’s customary for 

Swiss men to sit on the toilet 

when peeing, out of respect

to Swiss women.

This is American women who

clean the dribble spots on

toilet seats from American

men each day

 ~ ~ ~

This a culture where men

sit in honor of women,

who are not under but

over things that are intangible,

things that are not meant to 

be understood by lower animals,

men from other cultures may

think Swiss men too soft

to sit on the seat every time,

so it may be the Swiss women

who also sit down every time

they make love out of respect to the men.

 ~ ~ ~

What does it say about the

men who sit when they pee

out of respect to women.

What does it say of men who

don’t sit when they pee.

This is what life is when people

are living with real people.

To when people are not living.

This is what the clouds rain

when it falls, it just falls 

where it may on Earth.

This man

This woman

are not clouds that make rain,

but the Earth, and dampened moss

that absorbs water, land masses,

people, rainwater and wet 

cobblestones, where a man sits for

a woman.

 ~ ~ ~


After 20 years I will never truly

understand the Swiss men, who sit

when peeing out of respect, maybe

it is I who does not understand myself

standing, spraying the toilet seat and

expect women to wet themselves

in my honor. It is women who are

always being sprayed by man,

left with nothing to rinse, these women

stand naked before us, pleading to have

warmth, but are left without, only

a wet toilet seat left by each

man who came before.

 ~ ~ ~

Restaurant Schongrun 

9/18/10 – Zentrum Paul Klee

Inside this gourmet restaurant

glass encased, the husband and wife,

rich American women, and Swiss-French,

never said a word the entire lunch,

5 courses, until it was necessary to

comment on the other couple that

was talking the entire meal,

to make fun that she was black, and

he was white. She was poor, he was educated.

                       He was lonely in love and moneyed,

she in need of something better.

Then they regressed back into

their silent dinner, empty marriage,

as the other desperate couple, talked,

talked of love, and each other.

 ~ ~ 

Requiem for Estherina

There was once was an inkeeper

at Ronco, where she drank

her guests asleep each night,

life was as easy as living could be on the Alps.

As flowers grow and wilt each

season, then death could come

when it waits.

When death visits when it wants,

comes same as living when we want.

Life is quiet here in the Alps, 

and death comes quiet the same,

without speaking, with a soft

touch, it takes you when 

you are ready, whether ready or not.

Estherina was ready at 90, she served

beer, wine and grappa until age

86, then retired to a world of friendship.

Those she served, now served her

until her service to life slept quietly

into the night.

With a smile death came in February,

so as she smiled back in soft return

to give back the life she lived so well.

That sun that smiled on her face

still shines on another now, and 

each day that death never came,

was on her face.

 ~ ~ ~

Morte sul L’Alpe di Chiera

When you die on the Alps,

you die a death where your

life boils down to one last

mistake, and each mis-step 

along the way seems just as 

that, another mis-step.

All those safe exits that

always came, only to die

one last aspire to the mountains,

flora that beckoned you, kisses

you one last time.

 ~ ~ ~

With the sun, and cold mountain breeze

74-year Santino Ghilardi dies

on Alpe di Chiera.

There was nothing to think about

except death, morte, perche, and

death should come, so it comes

now on the Alpe di Chiera..

This women, a mountain of easy 

climbing, then the last breath

inside, to exhale life back to the Alps.

The mushrooms he never found, that 

dinner the next day – never was,

only death on the mountain.

This lonely life turned into a perfect death.

 ~ ~ ~

When this small butterfly, lives

one day on the Alps, life

spills each second, one day,

same as the 74-year man that died

searching for mushrooms on Alpe Di Chiera.

This speckled butterfly was born

today, and dies today – each flavor of color,

teeming with life, who says 1 day

is not worth 74 years?


 ~ ~ ~

To live the perfect death

when a butterfly dies each day

on the Alps.

To die the perfect life,

where each mountain is a perfect

breast of life whose nipple

trickles alpine water toward lakes.

This man with 2 prosethetic legs

bent over as the man people

forgot, teems with the same-day

only life a butterfly riding 

some invisible air.

 ~ ~ ~


Someone said I like to skip

flat stones on Lago Spillato,

this small butterfly that dies today

when the sun goes down to drink beer,

and the 74-year-old man found dead

on L’Alpe di Chiera, from the

mirrored lake where the butterfly

dies, where my mind flattens as water,

a hiker with two missing legs pushed

past me, angled prosthetic, marching

on 4 walking sticks,

and the butterfly died on the Alp.

 ~ ~ ~


Who says life is not for the living

Rosario 1/2-arm moves his tractor,

in a drunken sweat, he pours the

vino of life, then this alpine hiker

missing 2 legs, jambles up the 

mountain to take this

breast that never fed him

from centuries ago only a crevasse

to fall, now we ride the 

death breeze, same as the butterfly

 ~ ~ ~


I am the farafly

this stone skipping 3 times on the lake

These cats finding sun in the borders

that hide space,

this farafly that lives one day only.

For a lifetime of torment inbetween,

sometimes the flat stone

skips only 3 times before sinking

bottom of the lake forever.

 ~ ~ ~


In with the sun’s early rays

flies the farafly, dragon fly and I

meshing into each other, we became

alpine stream of living things,

where the world up high is finally

one, with each other, symbiotic balance

only understood by nature.

Below in the valley machines grind

rocks into gravel every day, all year to 

make the ‘strata’, as only mankind


So to this ‘strata aria’ is only for 

the farafly and my absent soul.

 ~ ~ ~

Morte di Alpi Di Chiera

The world ends for the last man.”

So in the sunlight as it faded

in the poor eyes of one last man

on the earth, the eyes shuttered

light away, same as a camera 

shutter meters light, one final time,

a man bows out to the terra,


in search of mushrooms.

To die with a sense of 

order, today, on the Alpes,

same as a camera shutter

when the 74-year heart cuts

out, this is the life of one’s death.

The death of a life forever,

last man dying,

always the last man dying.

 ~ ~ ~

The Bells

Always been that way in Switzerland

Same invisible group of rich barons,

burgermeisters, and capo’s unknown

controlling the poor to keep working

the fields, the cows until they 

say so, and they ring the bells

to spot each movement from sun rise to after dinner.

These bells clang and push

everyone into place, where

the rich stand above, pull

the short cord of life. A damsel

sits in a castle captive, her

long black hair, ebony eyes caste

out toward the valley calling

for love, a savior, but there is


   They are all controlled by the bells,

pushed aside for more of this animal life

 ~ ~ ~

“Meine a Katze

Solothurn 9/ 25/10

After the decision for the best absinthe

in Switzerland, we all made a decision

to drink as many absinthes as life

will allow, and the women made

decision to love and never love,

the men made a decision to live, and life

made a decision to make people

who make absinthe to find some 

answer to life, and love, laughter.

That’s all there is and ever will be




Someone made a drunken decision

to throw someone’s bicycle into a fountain.

Peering inside fountain, absinthed,

I did not see the black pipes,

seat, washed my hands, found the bike, pulled it out for 

the lost bicycle to be found on a drunken

Solothurn morning.

 ~ ~ ~

Sequence of Nature Alpi Di Cruina 9/24/10

There is a magnet called time,

which never really moves, 

just presses people along, 

marks space. How could I meet again

the 80-year-old Swiss-French couple hiking

Passo Novena exactly six hours later all because

I rushed down the Alps from Capanna

Piansecco to a imaginary Poste bus

that came to All’ Acqua

exact second I stepped down

on the strata, as if someone

painted me downstrokes,

whisper colors flowing down,

pushed me along to meet

these people again

at Alpe di Cruina,

sequenced script of life in Val Bedretto.

 ~ ~ ~

The imaginary Poste Bus driver that carried me

to Alpe Di Cruina merrily

read aloud his stops and times,

as he recorded his logue.

“Statistica,” he sighed.

He whipped the bus up around Passo Novena unconscious.

We talked in Italian about LA, and America that 

he’s never seen, and will probably never,

being the Ralph Cramden of the Alps, means

you don’t get to New York, and find out what

bus driving ain’t. He dropped me off at Alpe Di Cruina,

we waved goodbye.

Back at All’ Acqua, he saw me in the lot, and slowed

giving me the hands up to see if I needed another imaginary bus,

I waved him off for a beer, and never saw that imaginary bus driver again.


 ~ ~ ~


Das Phantom du Biel 

is real, he shoots police 

in the head and disappears, 67 years,

so now he is a phantom, living up in secret alone cabin – twidling

time away as a ghost. Could be a crime of the century.

Das Phantom du Biel

Lives among us, he lurks,

he hides, he kills for his hause.

He is not a mause,

up above the alps so high

he sees down below so well.

The problem is he thinks he is William Tell.

You will never find him or his body.

It lies at the bottom of a crevasse

below les Diablerets.

 ~ ~ ~

Pas De Cheval, Anziendaz

At the Pas de Cheval

I fell asleep on a rock.

This sleep pulled me into the rock until I became

the stone, where rain smatter fell,

I became the rain on the rock,

the seeped into the earth below

where the maramut sleeps, a hole

below the ground I filled until

there was no more of me, only

rock, rain, earthen dampness

where crickets jump over. I slept as

long as the earth needed sleep.

Then I became a sleeping maramut

who awakened into the mossy

earth, through the rocks, stone,

then, I meshed with the rain

smatter until I was me


 ~ ~ ~

Gruyere (9/14/10)

Why man and women need each other

This is not why a tree starts as a

sapling, slowly stretching to the

sun each year, dropping seeds each

season into nothingness, a bottomless

depth this tree will never know. Just

reach upwards to infinity and time-ending

death. Does man and women walk sideways

in front, behind and away, once crossing

paths only. Inside this kernel of nature

a consciousness looks 360 and see’s,

has nothing, same as the tree, only sun, rain, 

a spreading out and giving. Women,

barren as the ocean that floats all life

it never really gave, only supports – looks

to something to fill and carry on the wind,

same as an acorn, lonely, forgotten on

the ground. This magnetism, skin to soul,

breathes something a tree will never have.

Connected to the earth, its roots grow

never letting go, underneath this earth

above air and living things that tangle

its hair.

     And man and women hold hands

in the skylight draining each second

away as vapor. Touch and hold each,

same as the tree’s roots spreading in


 ~ ~ 

Gruyere (9/14/10)

Sometimes the cackling of women

is mistakable from bird’s screeching.

Flying by fast up above.

Laughter, a crows squawk is all

the same hierarchy of reason.

Schoolchildren laugh that high-pitch of uncertainty.

Each animal has a reason to screech,

laugh or cry. It’s the sun,

the moon, rain and mud that

we slip on, track inside our lives,

where nothing but laughter or invisible

moans echo behind each person for

someone to hear, and leave some echo

for someone behind.

 ~ ~ ~

Dimanche dans Soleure

If ever was my last day on earth,

would be spent Sunday in Soleure,

movement and my non-movement

makes time and consciousness one.

Families with children, peaceful

people, inside a nut shell deeper

in life’s kernel.

   If it ever was my last day on

Earth, I wold spend it Sunday

in Solothurn, each second ticking, 

each reminder from the bells every half-hour

remembers inanimate iron bells that

life lives and iron only reverberates

in the living’s eardrum.

Each second I approach death

on this perfect last Sunday in Soleure.

 ~ ~ ~

Dimanche dans Soluere (4)

One way to fall asleep while 

awake is to allow people of Solothurn

to tickle your ears asleep,

each noise, children pretending to be 

cats, men pretending to be children,

drunken women laughter, a beer laugh.

Zwei Cappacino, the world waits

for no one, but sleep comes

easy with street noise tickling

feathery the wisp of life as it

pulses away down the cobblestones

 ~ ~ ~

Dimanche dans Soleuere (5)

If ever I could give you more

flowers, it would be many more

beauty for the remainder of your

beautiful life, and along with that I

would give you, and be the sun that

warms the flowers, the rain that waters

this love, and be the man that nurtures

a flower to a beautiful life,

    That you are, and will

   always be.

 ~ ~ ~

Saillon 9-14-10

To reflect on the sadness of

one’s life is to understand the normalcy of

life. Why the mountains seem never to

change, yet the valley’s below move

in rockslides, avalanches from above.

A place where all of is still hovering

down comes a hawk, to touch a mouse,

as man builds castles, ramparts and moats,

what of sad nature that makes the 

unloved, this throbbing pulse look past

for something that is always fleeting

to be alive is forever, time is

consciousness. Asking for movement

life moves. Just ask the person

lying under the cemetery if you could.

Instead just ask to chase whatever

needs to be chased.

 ~ ~ ~

Anziendaz 9-15-10

2 Wild Boars tore my dreams to shreads

From the woods coming opposite

Les Diablerets I dreamed last night

2 Svingelli, wild boars saw me from

above, charged down the mountain

at me. In an instant, I ran

full speed down the mountain, falling,

running, falling, looking back, they were

in full pursuit. Knowing death coming,

I looked for a tree to climb or vines. 

I looked back again awake,

knowing I was married, and the 2 

wild boars were my wife and death,

hand-in-hand chasing me down

the mountain of life that I tried

so hard to climb my way back up.


 ~ ~ ~

La Lago – Di Gandria

The fish keep coming for the 

fisherman on Lago Lugano.

There must be 300 small

fish below the surface,

must be sunlight or boats

that brings the vapor of fish

to relent, give up,

give up their lives to a invisible

thing that

these men, fishermen. There is no better 

pleasure than to pick the pockets

of Earth like a thief to

feed each other again and

again and again.

 ~ ~ ~

…and the fish keep coming,

like from a chocolate factory, a fisherman on a lake can wait

for months this vein to come

like this September, next

month they troll, then go home

like flowers who never find

each other or anything.

 ~ ~ ~


Gandria – Wind & Nature

The Wild boar, the farafly all mate with’

each other and nature never goes

without the air that carries

things not understood, the 

white bird flies in center of

the lake into infinity. The dragonfly

knows no time only temporal trouble.

The bird flies into infinity, only a

second that keeps lasting forever.

This wind that carries things that

cannot carry me is why each second

is not infinity.

 ~ ~ ~

The dialogue among fishermen in front

Hotel Mooseman is this theory of

where man must prove its

intelligence above fish that

only understand food, vapor and life.

Death is life, is as the same

each day, as only when a fish 

lands in the basket does it

know anything but before.

This argument in life, as man and

fish win alike, the same breathing,

ending that finishes each day.

The smart fisherman said to the 

less intelligent fisherman that the lake is

mine today.

 “Noi abbastanza logico.”

               The fisherman said to the other as the skiff reversed.

And all be damned except the fish,

who have no logic, and do not understand to be damned.

 ~ ~ ~

If a poet watches three fishermen

on skiffs catch 84 fish on 

Lago Lugano, one can see how

nature gives itself up. Does not really

matter of what the fish or the fishermen

want, on the lake even the 

fishermen become more tired than

the fish and have to go home.

 ~ ~ ~

The second fisherman caught so 

many fish, it was a joke to throw

fish into the 1st skiff’s ice chest.

The end was never near, the fish

would win, they would keep coming

until we died of exhaustion pulling and

unhooking fish. These little fish

win at the end, make the lonely fishermen

go home and leave pool alone again.

That’s all the hunted life wants after

awhile, to be left alone after being killed.

 ~ ~ ~

The last fishermen remains

shaking his aching elbow as

he worked one line to the next.

Someday, when no fish could ever

be caught, a different, unseen line

will catch him, reel him up

to fisherman heaven, and he will

never know this, what an ending 

is, until it ends.

 ~ ~ ~

Pink Sunrise on Lake Lugano

When this light comes each morning

old Roman soldiers roll their bones

quietly in th earth underneath Lago

Lugano, the dance some old half-step

march laughing at the little fish

that jumped into the skiffs yesterday.

That’s because light is the alarm bell

that wakes fish and myself, ghosts

from their watery grave looking up

at bottom skin the lake offers, never

does this light not attract life,

gulls scratch a song on

the light each morning, like a memory of

some person who lived a long time ago.

 ~ ~ ~

Lago Lugano, Grandria, and Byron’s servants (This is a poet’s death).


That lake where Shelley drowned, 

something about Byron when he received the 

news, went out riding with his bodyguards.

That Italian lake gave up a poet’s life,

same as the fish thrown from boat-to-boat

in jest, since that’s all life is, a little

jest, one final joke on Shelley.

They used to ride together in Italy and

shoot pistols. Byron’s saddle was laden

with more pistols, ammunition than 

a poet needed. He never blamed the lake

for taking is friend, he always knew it

was the Carboni Family that killed

love when his servant shot the Turk

 ~ ~ ~ 

Spiral & light, Lago Lugano


Sometimes in the spider web

There is no one home, season over,

just spiral and light which nothing

see’s through the lake.

 ~ ~ ~

This spider web of homeless light

transparent echo morning mildew

is nothing that nature can left to be forgotten.

Some trace of life in this giant spider web.

We weave on earth, leaves just 

the same look of forgettable construction.

This is why a spider moves with this wind


Is why we look at things and can only

hope to understand each moment by


 ~ ~ ~


Saledurn Drunken Orgy

In the Solothurn drunken orgy

Heso Festival strange things happen

when a city becomes drunk.

A lone sneaker sits on the cobblestone,

someone half-stepped home,

the bicycle that someone deposited

in the baroque fountain was rode 

home, some wet jalopy, some wet

shoe, some yelling all

night in German dialect speaks to

a time when the Celts served

Pan this large vat of wine until

he passed out, sprawled on the terra

hooves misprinted, dangling some teenage

drunken youth 21 centuries later.

 ~ ~ ~

Dimanche dans Soleuere

The bells ring, and there are no people

anywhere, festival last night left

broken glass everywhere that was

magically picked up by a secret

fairy that came through the night,

keeping Sunday in Soleure, the Sunday

found no where else, soon the clap of

women’s shoes, children asking 

mama questions, and with quite

reflection the mother always answers,

just as this bell rings some

truth, some far away response,

that answers my childhood questions.

 ~ ~ ~

Perfect Moment Soledurn

“Das Regenbogen uber St. Ursen Kathdrele”

This day after 20 years of waiting

the perfect moment arrives in Solothurn.

Over St. Ursen Kathedrale, a Regenbogen.

Teenagers laugh at me for my

salvation over life and the perfect

moment. This Regenbogen, pink, red, yellow

maroon stetched in a arc perfectly over

St. Ursen Kathderale, as if G-d’s hand

took a paint brush, and said, ‘Ecco,’

Io dai la perfecto naturale per voi.”

        And the people lamented, and the older Swiss

German agreed with me and called it a

“mountain,” and the teenagers giggled at

my language barrier, and the Regenbogen spilled.

The saints and statues wept at

having their backs turned, and missed

what they have waited centuries for.

 ~ ~ ~


Dimanche dans Soluere (6) Fin

Sometimes a star is just a light.

Then could a light really be a star.

In some opiate created from the air,

there is a place where life is

something of a plant growing wild,

everywhere moving to a rythm

that exists magnetically beneath earth.

This giggle of life that keeps

laughing, like River Aarhe,

bells toll at 12:45 a.m.,

And all should go to sleep.

 ~ ~ ~

The Women From Speiz (9/26/10)

There was once was a women from Speiz,

who sweet kisses where very nice,

she was not like Lugano,

where kisses are like red wine,

nor like the tango dance from Lucerne

whose legs I kicked three times,

not like the women of Bern, who

broke my spirit with those heavenly bodies,

astral delight from a faraway land,

nor the laugh of the Solothurn women,

who mock me with every look, or

Zurich women that never kiss at all,

so the women from Speiz was very nice,

as if the world kissed me all at once,

then rivers flooded from such a beauty from Spiez.

 ~ ~ ~

S.P.Q.S.     (10-5-10)

The Gurten Bear collapsed drunk

on the Heso Business Festival floor.

Old men, women, children gathered,

smothered crowd around the big bear. 

His long black hair covered his face,

you could only see he was a giant from

some faraway fairy tale, dead or dying

in the isles next to a chocolate, and a credit

card company. I felt his pulse, big black 

dirty hands of a mechanic or a drunk.

The paramedic came, so we cleared away.

    Next night, there he is:

Gurten bear, big wavy long hair and beard,

again, I can’t really see his face,

covered by long hair and beard. 

He was stepping gingerly drunk into 

makeshift Gasthause Enge tent. I

Idled up to the bar.

   Eh du, OK?” I asked.

He seemed to growl at me quitely

   Sprechen English, Francese, Italianisch.

    “Deutch!” He blurted.

    His friend with a steady, curled moustache

to sop up his bear responded: “Nein, Deutch.”

     I motioned to the bear’s friend

that he slammed to the ground Samedi

tag, by making the international

right hand at 90-degrees clapping

fast on my flat left hand.

A long monent passed.

Ya,” The Gurten bear’s friend explained

In broken English:

 “Today is a new day!”

 ~ ~ ~

Au repose


As if someone painted me inside a

Laurent Louis Midart painting, a procession

in Soleuere, minstrals, children, dogs,

princes and barons, and their liasons

all walking by, until I stand still, stuck

in final repose. My sillouette never to

move in time except within your eye.

 ~ ~ ~